I want her to lie to me. I want to walk into that torn up red-rimmed rummy of a piss stained North Beach titty bar and put down a twenty and tell her to tell me she loves me. Another twenty if she tells me she’s mine. And then I want to give her everything and drive into the cat-like squall of her thighs and scream fingernails into her tattooed skin and let her drape her vanilla-cookie smelling flesh all over me again so I can pretend for a song that I don’t have the word HATE tattooed under my tongue.
I keep pretending nothing hurts, but it does. I looked at myself in the blog mirror from last year, and wish I could drown. I have lost so much. I have gained seven large scars I haven’t told you about. They don’t look so bad buried in the maze of my ink.
Last saturday Hacker Boy and I went on a wander. He is still my breath, nearly a year later. When the pain was bad, he took the miles and miles of violet blue rope I have in a box and tied me up tight, like a gift-wrapped neat little Shibari bruise. Naked, I waited for him to hurt me. Immobile. He slowly, gently covered me in kisses from head to toe and back again. Nuzzled against my bonds. Held me restrained in his arms, I could not escape, and was held down and loved. He always tells me he loves me. He fucks me, and his cock is more profound in its steel-hard sweetness than the violence of my street-hard heart.
You’ll read in the Chron/SF Gate this week about where we went on saturday and what we did. This is the rest of the story. I feel like writing unedited, so indulge me. This feels good.
When we walked into the hungry i it was the last stop, not even an intentional visit. We felt like our expectations for “man’s ruin” were giddily met with the smelly fog machine, and laughed at the $8 beers — we’ll take two, thanks. Not surprisingly, I was the only woman in the room not “on the clock”; the rest of the torn and trashed red seats and chairs around the stage were pockmarked with men. We sat directly opposite the stage and took in the two brass poles, mirrored background… and then it hit us. The loud, pulsing music was the song, Dark Entries. Onstage was a girl; pale, tattooed calves, biceps and chest. Small breasts pinned under a tight tube top. A neat faux-mohawk capped her off. She could easily have been a Fatal Beauty, or more. Hacker Boy and I gleefully nearly fought over who would tip her. He won, and she danced over to him with a huge smile and provided a panty-strap for him to deposit the fiver, while he complimented her choice in music.
Next up was another astonishingly pale, tattooed beauty, with handfuls of natural breasts, a Louise Brooks hairstyle and a red flower pinned in her black bob. We hadn’t known we were out for blood that night, but then — it seemed, we were.
This was a first for us, individually and together. When we fuck, we tear each other’s skin off; cannibalizing him in salt and sweat and semen (and sometimes blood) is a violent ballet of tenderness and going home. We feed on each other. We feed each other. Tonight, we would taste something new. I looked at the stripper with the mohawk and the angel eyes sitting by herself at the bar, and motioned her over.
The music blared and I was flying high on a day of cheap alcohol, the slamming assault of music and lights and criminal lust. Her name was Johnny. I spoke, and leveled my gaze on both of them, “Three dances. The first one, you do him and I watch. Like I’m not even there. The next one, you dance for me, like it’s just us. The last dance, is both of us.” Grinning, she agreed to my terms and said — “This is great. Usually guys make their girlfriends do it and they hate it. Not this time.”
We all went to a couch in the side hall, where the patrons could watch if they wanted to. And they did. To my right, Johnny and Hacker Boy, looking like the sexiest writhing sandwich ever. She curled and arched over him, straddled and ground slowly. He focused on her and only her, and I could see what this is like — this heat and intensity, from him, and him only. Is mine. I pulled my stripey, combat-booted legs up and watched her muscles work against the black backdrop of his Ben Davis’ and t-shirt, his eyes closed in surrender under every inch of her tats and skin (and smiles) as she palpitated and pressed in the dark and shadows. Serpentine. Like cruelty. Very good.
There was no hesitation when it was my turn, and she sunk into me like opiate into bloodstream, though whose spike was an open question. Hands pulled my hips and pressed the small of my back forward until the heat of my cunt met hers, and she smelled like vanilla and girl and hallucinations. I didn’t know if I wanted to fuck her or eat her. That she might want to consume me too made me wish she would lie to me, for at least another twenty bucks. Johnny tracked my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, my hips with skin so soft it felt like one long, burning fuck every time she lingered and pressed. I didn’t need to taste her; her residue was all over my skin and tattooed there in transparent scratches and smells. I haven’t been touched by a girl in a very long time. Johnny mainlined my dread and desire in the mirror of her cunt, and didn’t bother to climb off me when the third song started.
Long limbed and hot, she tore at both of us and we were, for a moment, all perfect and wrecked in all the right ways; scars and tattoos, money for pleasure and draining her for a song; the mechanism of our desire. She was an altchick of sinuous perfection, sitting on Hacker Boy and holding my head to her neck. She locked her gazelle-like legs around me and rose up high, taking us in, before straddling us both. All the ridiculous gender theatrics were gone, if they had ever been there, and I did not long to touch her. I longed to pay her to do more of what I said, because she did it so very well.
To ask for more would have been a miscalculation.
We careened out into the shriek and violence of North Beach at night, sidestepping around the sidewalks filled with the ugly genetic pastiche of American male posturing, saluted the Pyramid, and hailed home. Coming down my hall, a minute behind my Hacker Boy, and I could only follow the trail of black clothing, deliberately placed, that led to my bed.
The next day, we walked around the city and laughed and wondered, Johnny, are you queer?
