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Some New Kind of Kick by Clint Catalyst

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The X begins to hit me, tingle in my groin, inner thighs.

Ten after eleven and I’m leaning against the sheetrock of my usual Saturday night spot, the righthand wall of Lillith’s dancefloor. Silhouettes of dark figures sway in the fog of the room, the features of nearby dancers discernible in the faint red overhead lights.

The club’s actually attractive tonight. Reminds me of the way it seemed when I started coming here around a year back, the excitement I got from observing impeccably dressed people before I could predict their outfits, the rush I g ot from listening to mysterious music before it became routine. As the bass of “Love’s Secret Domain” by Coil vibrates the room’s foundation, seeps into my skin as if it were liquid static, this place seems new to me again. Magic.

And big fucking deal if it’s drug induced. Jeffrey gave me the hit over a month ago, but I didn’t take it ’til tonight, didn’t resort to chemical happiness ’til I got bummed-out because Sean flaked on plans to go out with me around half an hour beyond the last possible minute, or however the expression goes. Responded to my two reminder messages with an abrupt “Can’t make it,” no explanation given, no chance for me to question, line chopped off the second syllable of a generic “la ter.” I’d actually looked forward to seeing him. Must be a pay-back for something.

Whatever. I’d already gotten dressed, which is why I ended up here anyway, date or no date. Wouldn’t want to waste a complete outfit, even if I’m basically bored with the scene at Lillith’s. Wouldn’t want to waste a dose of X, e specially if it could make the old dive interesting.

I close my eyes and feel the touch of light to my eyelids, the caress of cigarette smoke to my cheeks. Ah, I could really get into a cigarette. Even better, a clove. I can tell this is good X, because I never crave cigarettes , don’t even like to be near them. And Sean had said the batch of X circulating now is bunk! Damn was he wrong. I feel myself sifting into the wall, the back of my knees and shoulderblades turning to warm water.

Open eyes and there’s a sea of phosphorescent splotches, glowing whitepainted faces, dark make-up around the eyes. Now the club is full of its regulars, dancefloor packed with night’s creatures, people lined up on either side of me . The room has come alive in no time, and I’m drenched in its electric energy, eager for something to happen. Ready to walk away from the wall and the chubby punk girl on my left who’s sloshing beer with loud gulps. Ready for excitement, adventure like I used to have, instead of the ennui my life has become. Ready for some new kind of kick.

“Skin and Lye” by Malign starts up, Xavier’s voice full of fury, voice growling and screeching over ominous background music. The crowd on the floor dances slowly, writhing, sending ripples of movement into the audience gathered ar ound them, tendrils of smoke twisting around safety-pinned jackets and teased hair.

I breathe in smells of leather and hair spray and cigarette smoke, a long slow breath, their scent filling my nostrils, settling on the back of my tongue. I smack my lips. The X has hit me full-force, and I am on fire.

I see two figures standing out from the others, standing out from old friends of mine, fucks, whatever. Two figures draped in velvety black material, hooded cloaks framing their delicate features, fragile-boned faces. Strands of r aven hair spill ’round the edges of their slate-colored skin.

I can’t tell if they’re male or female or both or neither, but they’re pressed close together, leaning against each other, shoulder to shoulder. Siamese twins with the exact same build, except that one stands a couple of inches tal ler than the other.

Who are they? I’ve never seen them before, but they’re too perfect to be real, too lucid to be a dream. Somebody new ! New, completely new and free of the “Oh, I’ve heard about you from so-and-so” garbage that’s about as in teresting as a soggy microwave pizza box lining.

Brow moist with sweat. My skin hot, alive. They’re staring at me seductively, dusky eyes brazenly glowing, and I feel my blood rush. They’re devouring me with their eyes.

I’m dying to speak with them, introduce myself, but I have no idea where to begin. Must be the drugs. They’re beautiful, completely androgynous and alluring. How could I resist the opportunity to speak with a couple of people to whom it’s obvious they can have anyone they want? It’s been so long, so dreadfully long.

Dead Can Dance’s “How Fortunate the Man with None” begins, and I feel Brendan Perry’s smooth voice cover my limbs with a blanket of tingling sensations. The X is hitting me so hard, I’m on the verge of either exploding like a grena de or passing out. My eyelids flutter, the image of the duo blurry, the clusters of people in the room bleeding together into a smudge, like watercolors painted on a paper towel. I’m being reduced to the sway of the music.

“Hi.” I hear a voice within earshot, and I open my eyes wide, focus. “I’m Byron.”

Something twists inside my stomach. Now the erotic duo is directly in front of me, close enough to touch, the taller of the two extending a slender hand. Byron. So he’s male. I place my palm within his, grasp it. Shudder at its warmth as he politely pulls it away.

“And I’m Gitane,” a second voice adds, offers a hand of her own. My palm meets hers, rests against smooth skin. Gitane. A female. I examine her chest area as she retracts her hand, but none of her body shows through the m aterial.

I study their faces, compare the similarities between their meticulously arched eyebrows, deep chocolate eyes, prominent cheekbones, well-formed noses, raspberry-stained lips. It’s remarkable how closely they resemble one another, each a mirror image of the other’s striking elegance.

It’s impossible for me to speak, impossible for me to look away. The whole club has been shut out, and nothing but this sensual feast exists, my heart racing as I’m devoured by their ethereal presence and the refrain of “The worl d however did not wait / But soon observed what followed on .”

Byron and Gitane are statuesque, patiently await my response.

“How Fortunate the Man with None” crescendoes, peaks with lavish strings and horns. Byron leans forward, centers his cool ivory face before mine, wraps his hand around my upper arm.

“With us,” he says, face expressionless as he tightens his grip. “Now.”

He positions himself between the punk girl and me, twists my arm like a slab of taffy as he scrapes me off the wall and slides behind me. Shoves my left hand up my spine, stops when my knuckles press between my collarbones. Steps forward, overtakes my balance, shoves me chest-first toward Gitane.

I stumble, feet sweeping the floor as he steps again, pushes me past Gitane, steps again, again. He weaves me through the mass of people standing around the dancefloor, strands of their sticky hair brushing my forehead and cheeks, their sweat and perfumes stinging my eyes, dripping bittertaste between my lips as I try to cry for help. The weaving stops when we make it to a cluster of goths and cyberpunks blocking the doorway marked with a flickering “HEAD” sign in blue neon letter s. There’s a splitsecond pause; then he uses my upper torso to part the crowd, their shoulders and metal jacket adornments smashing against my ribs, shouts of “Asshole!” and “What the fuck?” following as he pushes me through the bathroom en trance.

The room is washed with dull yellow light. I feel my face squinch in disgust, the stench of piss and lemon air freshner filling my nostrils as I’m led toward the urinals. Byron moves up to the left side of me and reduces his grip on my arm, frees it from its locked position. It drops, dangles. Gitane files in on my right, the two of them leading our dance across the slippery tiles, the floor slick with toilet water and spilled beer. We slide past an empty stall with its door o pen, a closed door, a closed door, an open-doored stall with a leatherman hunched forward taking a piss. Then we make it to the last stall, where a generic-looking guy with a brown buzzcut is exiting. Gitane steps behind me, allows room for him to get a round us. He does a double-take.

My feet slip as I’m shoved into the stall, but Gitane and Byron hold me up, prevent me from busting my ass on the floor. Byron slams the cubicle door shut, the sound of metal against metal echoing ominously. It fades, and muffled reverberations of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Spellbound” remain.

“…From the cradle bars / Comes a beckoning voice / It sends you spinning / You have no choice…” Siouxsie’s eerie voice still entrances me after all these years, voice rich with enchantment and disheartening splendor. “…Following the footsteps of a ragdoll dance…”

A flurry of hands unfasten my pants and tug them open, the air cool on my bare ass. Natural instinct overpowers drug euphoria, and I reach down to cover myself, suddenly aware what’s happening.

“No!” Byron shoves me onto the toilet, my asscheeks slapping the porcelain seat.

“But I- but I-” I hear myself speak, but my words are high-pitched and pleading, sound foreign.

“But you what?” He grabs the bottom seam of my shirt and rips it to the collar with a single flick of the wrist, tatters the velvet into two pieces.

“I’ll use you as much as I want, day or night, for as long as I want.” He tears the remainder of the shirt off me, tosses it onto the floor, whacks me across the ear. A lightningbolt of pain cracks into my temples.

Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into? I look up at the two sets of eyes glaring at me and see a faint reflection of myself repeated across the four murky orbs, my pants wadded around the knees, private parts exposed, c hest patterned with the fresh splotches of red and purple across it. I’m embarassed at what I see, how I feel, vulnerable and afraid.

Byron leans forward and tenderly kisses me on the shoulder, his lips warm and smooth as liquid, hood tickling my jawline. “But you’ll love it,” he whispers against my neck, his voice deep and comforting.

I watch Gitane watch him lick a trail to my ear and flirtatiously flick the lobe, and I’m filled with a strange sensation of pleasure, a combination of submission and dominance and exhibitionism unlike anything I’ve experienced. By ron’s hand moves up my thigh, and I’m scared, excited, my cock starting to rise.

Gitane unbuttons the neck of Byron’s cloak and removes it from him, exposing the tight white skin underneath. She drapes it over the side of the stall and he moans into my ear, his hair tumbling down my back, his voice passionate a s the sound of rustling velvet.

Gitane pulls at the neck of her own cloak and extracts it, exposing her small frame squeezed into black satin bustier. A boy, looks maybe sixteen or seventeen, must have borrowed the i.d. of an older brother or friend, opens the s talldoor halfway, tries to enter. The door bumps Gitane’s back as she situates her cloak beside Byron’s. She turns, notices his innocent face and laughs, her lips a violent red smile.

“Whoops! Guess we forgot to lock it,” she says.

Boy takes a half-step back, blue eyes wide, disconcerted. Byron moves from me, pulls door rest of the way open. Grabs the boy by his shoulder, holds him in place.

“Well, hello,” he says. “Watch.”

Eyebrows raise in disbelief.

“Huh?”

Byron spreads my legs apart with his knees, pushes each to either wall of the stall. The metal partitions are cold. I flinch. Gitane pulls my head back by the hair above my neck, laughs again. My lips part and release a soft moa n of embarassment. She leans forward, positions hers around them and pulls back, strings of saliva snapping between us. They fall around my cock head, cling to it as if it were a may-pole.

“I said watch.”

Byron keeps one hand on the boy’s shoulder, digs his fingertips into the flesh around the collarbone, extends his other arm to reach the half-hard bulge between my legs. He circles the head with index finger, smoothes the spit into a ring. Spreads it down my cock. Forms a fist around it, pushes down. Pulls up. Pushes down.

“He likes this very much, see?” He says, third person, detached. Sneers with the crinkles ’round his eyes. “See the way his whole body moves with the rhythm of my hand?”

The boy doesn’t answer, also doesn’t look away. Stands there in a stupor of fear and awe. He looks vaguely familiar to me, though I don’t know why. Stares at me with iceblue eyes, looks down at my dick, now fully erect. The exci tement in his face crackles, pops like baconfat.

Hand continues moving up and down my dick. I shut my eyes, moan.

Gitane scoops a breast out of her bustier, pushes two fingers between my lips, pries my mouth open, inserts nipple. I stroke it with my tongue, lap the saltysweet taste of her skin.

Open my eyes. She and Byron are violently kissing, lips pressed together, jaws in motion. Byron’s eyes are also open. One of his hands still holds the boy in place, the other pumps my dick. He watches us,

Stops kissing her, smiles at me, takes his hand from my bulge. It bounces, rebounds from his touch. Throbs.

Slowly, delicately, he pushes away from me. Tugs on my bangs, forces my head upright. He unzips his tight pants and his cock falls out on its own, half-erect. Fingers run through my hair, Gitane’s, Byron’s. Pulls me closer. His dick is directly before me, its head large and light red.

“Come on,” he says, his voice stern. “Suck it.”

Splitsecond longer of cock before my face; then disappears between my lips, into my mouth. Eyes close habitually. I take it all the way to the base, my nose buried in dark tuft of hair, his musky scent filling my nostrils.

“Yeah,” he moans. “That’s good.”

And it is good. I love the way he feels in my mouth, the energy of his dick throbbing as he slides it against my tongue. Pulls himself out to the head. Pushes to the back of my throat.

I move my left hand between Gitane’s silky thighs, nudge the strip of material covering her sex. Her clit is hard and slick. I rub my fingers against it, smear her wetness. Rub it harder, faster. Feel her thigh muscles tighten a round my hand, her hips jerk.

I touch myself with my right hand, cock throbbing and burning. Thrust my forefinger deep into Gitane’s wetness. Move my tongue against Byron’s cock so slow it’s barely moving.

Samples of bubbling water, hollow drumbeats, an angelic voice. Ambient dreamscapes of The Future Sound of London seep into the stall, accelerate our sensual energy.

Byron shudders, starts pumping furiously. Almost too much for me to handle. Tears form in my eyes as his dickhead bangs against the back of my throat, balls slap my chin. My lips make sloppy smacking noises against the base of hi s cock, and a small retching sound escapes from the back of my throat. I desperately gasp for air, but I love it.

He loves it, too. “Oh yeah,” he says through clenched teeth. “Keep fuckin’ blowing me. Suck me off, you little slut.”

His deep voice intensifies my excitement. I stuff three fingers in Gitane, her inner lips hot and luscious. My dick drools, and I tighten my grip, pound in rhythm. Pound furiously.

I squeeze my tongue around his cock and look up, watch the muscles in his stomach tighten. Watch him groan as Gitane plays with his nipples. He thrusts his hips forward, greased cock rapidly gliding in and out of my mouth as he le ans against the boy, cradles his arm around the adolescent neck.

The boy’s eyes meet mine and a sharp rush of panic shoots through my chest. Oh my God. Those eyes. I know those eyes. Reminders of that glossy blue, that soft face, that scraggly bleach blond hair, the small silver hoop earring, swim from the depths of my memory, the inner recesses of my mind. But it can’t be, just can’t be, they can’t be. My consciousness swirls.

I pull my hand from Gitane and long ribbons of wetness stretch down her slender legs, spill onto mine. Byron continues thrusting himself into my mouth with an increasing sense of urgency, groaning desperately, arm locked tight arou nd the neck of the boy, standing solemnly, staring. Those eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes freeze my lips with a chill of horror, the edges of my teeth scraping Byron’s skin as he gives himself a final shove in my mouth.

He pulls out and comes with an idle rush, sperm cascading from his cockhead and sticking onto my face and neck like ornaments, like quivering jewels. His discharge reeks of salt and soured milk. The small puddles collapse under the ir own weight and shimmy down my shoulderblades, my stomach, my shrivelled cock, in thin pasty trails.

There’s a trace of gummed-up whiteness in my eyelashes, but I don’t move to wipe it away, don’t move whatsoever. The boy’s lips unfold in a soft gesture that could be shock or disgust or pity, and it’s astounding how much I know h im, remember him.

Byron examines his midsection, yawns, flicks a stray pearl off his pisshead toward me. It spatters into my right eye, crude and merciless.

An acidic stinging stifles my vision, makes me wince. I frantically knead my aching lids with the jointed edge of a fist, but slender fingers scramble around my wrist, pull my arm away. Within seconds, the fingers find their way t o my face and calmly move back and forth on both eyelids, producing tears that wash the stinging away. The fingers then move to my forehead, my cheeks, and sweep off small lumpy bits, smooth my skin to dry stickiness.

I blink until the blurry orb I see transforms into the young boy. It’s the sandy-haired teenager who’s comforting me, caring for me with his gentle touch, leaning forward into my muddled space, his azure eyes sparkling and curious.

He smells of soap. I recognize the vigorous rhythm of the Orbital’s “Halycon and On and On,” realize he’s moving towards me.

He presses his lips to mine and gives me a rough kiss, a kiss of inexperience, tongue darting around in my mouth, scraping against the rawness in my throat. The kiss is uncomfortable and long. His tastebuds feel like dry gravel as he pushes his tongue farther into me, wiggles it. It’s as if he’s trying to reach all the way to my heart, yearns to lick my soul.

I clumsily wrestle with him, attempt to bulldoze his tongue back to its home, when suddenly it hits me: I taste myself in his mouth. I twist my tongue around his, taste the sweet nectar of summertime at my grandparents, taste the excitement I felt sneaking out of the house to smoke pot with my best friend, taste the swarm of adrenaline I had when I lost my virginity. I taste the richness of memories, and I want to tumble into them, wallow in their splendor.

The boy breaks our embrace, backs away from me with a grimace, leaves me panting, my torso quivering. Gitane and Byron have clothed themselves, and he clings to them, glares at me with glittery eyes.

My stomach grumbles. I’m hungry for that taste I found, crave it the way a dieter does chocolate. I know I can’t have it; I know the boy tore himself from me because of the bitterness he discovered back in my spongy cave of a mout h, a bitterness toward life and humanity that tastes like poison to a boy whose innocence remains unmarred, whose romantic ideals still seem plausible.

The frantic way he clutches Gitane and Byron, small arms sunk elbowdeep into their cloaks, tells me he’s afraid my depravity will work its way into him like a virus. I’m sickened by the realization of what I am, this jaded monster I’ve become. But I wonder who Gitane and Byron are, why they’ve come to me, what they represent, what sort of lesson they’re trying to teach.

Splitsecond and they are gone, stall deserted, door gaping wide, stained grey concrete wall replacing the line of vision where they were. I try to call after the boy, call my name, but it catches like a cinderblock in my throat. His name, my name. He who I used to be.

Tears blossom and flow like blood as I sit in this stall, frail and slump-shouldered, wishing I could return to the face that once was my cradle, my home.

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Posted by on Thursday, December 15th, 2005. Filed under Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry