American Goth

by J. D. Glass

  She meant so much to me.

  We held each other close, and I stroked the hair away from her face, off her forehead, then lay soft kisses on her brow, on her cheeks as she nestled her lips into my neck.

  “You okay, Frankie?” I asked finally as the blood tide receded and she pulled the quilt over us. Somewhere in the middle we’d managed to get my pants the rest of the way off.

  “Mm-hmm,” she answered, trailing silky fingertips along my spine. “You?”

  “Great,” I told her and kissed her softly. I shifted carefully, not wanting to hurt her or cause discomfort.

  “Stay,” she asked, and she held my hip for emphasis.

  “You sure?”

  She kissed me in answer and as the kiss deepened, her mouth once again sweet and warm and so, so soft around my tongue, the comfort of our contact changed, evolved, from easy glide to crawling need. Once hadn’t been enough for either of us—what with finding the right angle and staying there, to making sure there were no accidental exits—this was about making certain that this time was even better for her than the last.

  When her ankles locked behind mine, we’d found the right groove, the rhythm and stroke that worked for both of us, wrapping into a sync that made me reach and hold her tighter even as I moved on her, in her. And as the thought flitted through my head that this was something I could do forever, for the first time since I’d phoned the States in the summer, Nina’s face floated through my mind and I felt a twin-touch of sorrow stab at my chest.

  Forever was not something that could ever be, not on any level, not for me. Nina was a world, an ocean, and six feet of dirt away, and while I loved my Frankie, loved her unreservedly and in ways I hadn’t known it was possible to love anyone, I didn’t love her that way, nor she me.

  And besides, even if I’d had, or wanted to, for her own safety and, beyond that, for the betterment, the enrichment of her own life, she would leave at the beginning of January, right after New Year’s Day. She would leave just after the holidays and I would be alone again. I tightened my arms around her, kissed her desperately.

  “Easy, lover,” she whispered, “you’re okay, I’m right here, right here with you.”

  The beautiful grasp she held on my shoulders eased and she pressed one hand against my chest while the other trailed down, grabbed my ass, and held me firmly.

  “Look at me, Sam,” she asked as her fingers played against the charm I wore and pushed it against my skin. “Sammer…she’s right here.” She touched her own chest, right above her heart. “Right here, and between us? Between you and me?”

  Her palm pressed back against my sternum, while the fingers that held my ass eased under the strap that ran so tight, pressed and swirled in ways that made my breath catch again, because it pulled my cock even harder against me, because I wanted her inside me.

  “We can touch her.” The words were an almost airless sigh as she filled me and I knew, knew this was okay, knew that as we sank in and against each other, I had never before loved my Frankie more than I did at that moment. This, between us, it was all we had, everything we could give, and we gave each other all of it. For a moment, just before I came with my cock buried inside my best friend while she teased and pleased and played me with urgent strokes in my cunt and the frantically choked declaration that she was coming, the thought ran through my head that maybe, just maybe, we were something more than friends too.

  Pretty Boy

  And he who Love touches walks not in darkness.

  —Plato

  The next morning, and the mornings that followed, I woke up feeling strong, loose in my limbs, with a sense of true joy I hadn’t felt since I was a kid pedaling like mad down the street.

  There were days I snuggled in with Fran, content to wait until the last minute before we had to run downstairs and work on matters of the intellect with Elizabeth, while on others, I’d join Uncle Cort in the kitchen and work—on breakfast.

  I didn’t feel the need to walk around with a dick on all the time to complete my disguise, as it were. Besides the fact that it really just made me too sensitive and distracted me from everything, I didn’t need to. Maybe it was cutting my hair and maybe there’d been a slight shift in body language, or maybe it was simply in the way I thought about myself, but whatever it was, it was enough.

  Things were different, at least with Uncle Cort. He lifted my traveling restrictions enough that I was once again allowed to wander about the neighborhood freely, and he didn’t wait too long to let me know it.

  “Hey, why don’t you and Fran take today and tonight off—get out for a bit, go and do something fun?”

  I turned from the skillet on the stove to stare at him, surprised. It had been well impressed upon me, and Fran as well, how important progressing my training had been—where did fun fit in with that?

  “Watch, kid,” he said, nodding at the stove, and I quickly returned my attention to the task before me. This was the first time he’d trusted me solo with his secret mix and I didn’t want to muff it up.

  He came to peer over my shoulder and roughed up my hair. “Doing good,” he said, approval obvious in his voice. “You can finish that, then seriously, it’s been a stressful few days—you need a break. Why don’t you guys get out of here after breakfast, okay?”

  “Sure,” I agreed. A break sounded good to me, and there were a bunch of spots neither Fran nor I had gone to yet. I thought maybe we could do something extra-weird and touristy like visit the Tower of London.

  He carried a tray with the rest of breakfast in his hands. “Stop by the shop before you go, will you?” he said, then left for the dining room.

  When Fran came downstairs and entered, she greeted everyone with the usual good morning.

  “Hey, Frankie.” I smiled up at her as she neared.

  “Hey, Sammer.” She leaned over and kissed me, a kiss I returned with genuine affection, before she sat. It wasn’t until I caught the smile Elizabeth cast upon us, or the warm spark from Uncle Cort, that I realized anything different had happened.

  “This is something I’ve been thinking about for a bit,” he said as Fran and I walked into the shop. A set of athames glittered on the counter, while artifacts were hung carefully from the walls. We followed him to the back, through the boxes of raw materials and past his workbench the light shimmered on through watery glass, and Fran gave my hand a quick squeeze.

  There was a door for the back room—it led out to a small courtyard that could be reached from an alleyway from the sidewalk. We kept it gated, and I never went there, but out to the yard was where we headed. I felt the excitement jump from Fran’s skin as Cort waved us out the door.

  “Been on my mind,” he said as he gathered us around a black-cloth-covered pile on the center of the cement. “Seems a shame your car’s in storage back in the States and you can’t drive around. A young”— he hesitated —“person needs a little freedom, needs to get around, so…” He fished into his pocket and tossed something to me. I caught it reflexively.

  “This is for you.”

  A key, it was a key that winked from my hand in the early morning light, and Fran grinned at me as I palmed it.

  “Go ahead—what are you waiting for?” he asked, and gave me one end of the black tarp.

  I’d always been the sort of person who carefully unwrapped things—I untied ribbons, delicately slit tape, unfolded corners only to fold paper back with perfect precision. It was odd, I supposed, but I suspected it was part of what made me a musician, part of what made me enjoy other things I cared about as well, the savoring of discovery, the collection of clues and hints until all was revealed.

  This was no different, and I could hear Fran sigh impatiently—that made me smile to myself, because I knew she was equally meticulous—as I gathered the corners and walked forward, uncovering a chrome metal basket that jutted out with a small luggage holder that held a thick tire. I uncovered the rear wheel and its side compartments, excitement and disbelief warring in
my throat. One black helmet, then another, perched on two leather seats, and by the time I’d uncovered the handlebars, the front leg shield with mounted glove box, the perfectly restored dial indicators, and the front tire, I was speechless, the canvas knotted in my hands as I stared at the onyx and chrome shine.

  “Sixty-six Vespa,” Cort said. “It’s got—”

  I knew what a Vespa was; I loved old cars and old bikes. “By Piaggio,” I almost whispered. “This…is a VBC Super 150.” I handed him the canvas as he smiled widely, then popped the key I’d squeezed in my hand into the ignition. I’d missed that: the sound, the pop in the lock, the unmistakable click, the resistance of the key against my fingertips and my palm as it snugged in and hit home.

  “It’s been kitted out a bit,” he said offhandedly as I scooped up a helmet and handed it back to Fran, then grabbed the other one. Lightweight but solid, and it felt good under my arm.

  “Electronic ignition,” I commented, observing the new work. “Single-cylinder engine?” I asked as I stroked the handlebar.

  “Yeah, and automatic transmission. Tweaked your speed a bit too, you’ll get over,” he frowned as he thought, “seventy mph if you treat it nice.”

  “That’s a little over one hundred twelve kilometers,” Fran told me, and I gave her a smile before I checked out the seats then popped the glove box. I laughed at the map he’d already put in it for me, wrapped about with a rubber band and a small clear plastic bag with almost three pounds’ worth of change, and a compass.

  Mine? This was mine? I could go anywhere, I could, I could… “I don’t know what to say,” I told him honestly, “I just—”

  He messed my hair again. “Seats are new, gas is full. All it needs is someone to ride it.”

  Still I stared, unable to convey how much it meant, how much I appreciated it. “Go on,” he said and patted my shoulder, “you two, get out of here.” And he turned back to the door of the shop. “Oh, by the way,” he said as put his hand to the knob, “take a ride over to the local Green, that’ll give you a feel for the streets before you head out—use your American license if you get stopped, and we’ll get you a regular one next week sometime. Oh, and skip the visit to London Bridge—go by Tower instead. They’ve a tour and all that, and then you can go on to visit the Tower proper, if you’re still of a mind.”

  He grinned at us both before he closed the door.

  “Did you know about this?” I turned and asked Fran.

  Her eyes shone a pure gold and her smile beamed at me. “Yes—and this is yours too,” she told me and reached into her coat, “because I know you never button up.”

  She put a scarf about my neck, one of those wide, long ones that would fold and wrap properly, done in the MacRae tartan. “Besides,” she said as she tucked its ends into my coat, accidentally-on-purpose smoothing over my breasts to ensure it lay right, “since your haircut, your neck is almost bare.”

  I put an arm around her waist and pulled her to me. “Thank you,” I said quietly, then kissed her as her fingers caressed my cheeks.

  “Do you want to drive?” I asked her.

  She bit her lip and smiled at me in a way that only gave one message. “Maybe…later. Let’s go.”

  *

  After about twenty minutes of zipping around the neighborhood, we were off, and we had more fun getting there and back than doing the actual tour. The Tower of London, other than the crown jewels, was a rather grim place, from the legend of the ravens—when the last ravens left the Tower, the Empire would end—to its often violent history: there was a heavy cast, a weight in the air of the past, proof that events did indeed embed themselves for all time in the Aethyr.

  “Hey, can you feel things?” I asked Fran. Even though we might not have been learning exactly the same things, I was sure there had to be some similarities, especially if as Cort said, she would be bound to the Circle, and to the Light as well.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know,” I shrugged, then waved a hand about to take in everything, “pick up on the traces left, that sort of thing.”

  She gave me a slow grin. “Can you?”

  The spark of friendly challenge in her eyes and the angle of her chin made me smile. “Let’s see.”

  We went through the halls and galleries, extending that extra sense, allowing the memories imprinted on the walls to form images in our minds that could be described. We’d narrate what we “saw” to one another before we’d look up the history; we were both surprisingly accurate. Maybe that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

  It was more than enough after a while, tiring as well as depressing given what we were picking up on, so we cheered ourselves after by taking a detour over to the dockyards, where we found the tiniest chip shop along the harbor, a small newsstand-like construction, and after I insisted on paying for the well-battered and deliciously fried fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper and soaking through a paper bag, we amused ourselves by warming our fingers as we ate them, bumping against each other while we walked along one of the piers.

  “Hey,” I asked with sudden inspiration, “there’s this new club the band keeps telling me is great—wanna go?”

  “Sounds cool. Do you know how to get there?” she teased, her eyes and smile bright under the lamplight in the twilight.

  Her smile was killer, and I couldn’t help but respond to it. I crumpled what was left of the paper bag in my hand and shoved it in my coat pocket as I leaned closer to her. “I’m well supplied for these things, you know,” I told her, then wrapped my fingers into the thick wool of the peacoat. “I…have a map.” I gently pulled her to me as her hand came up and cupped my neck, while the other eased under my jacket, over my hip.

  “That’s not all you’ve got,” she murmured against my lips as her fingers slipped against my back pocket, traced the projection of what they found, and kissed me.

  From the sure way our lips moved and the sensual haze that clouded around us, even if I wasn’t completely sure of where we were going, map or no, I knew where we’d end up.

  *

  We eventually found a phone so I could call and let my uncle and Elizabeth know that we intended to stay out a bit later than originally planned—I didn’t want them to worry too much—and after promising both of them that I’d call if there was a problem, we were set and on our way.

  Hannah, Kenny, and Graham had described it well. It was an old factory, and a little placard right next to the door claimed it as a one-time refuge during the— The rest was pasted over with a bit of laminated cardboard that read: “The original scoundrel who owned this place was mad as a hatter, a dashing dresser, a scoffer of parking laws, a lover of wine, and a master of the tango, both long and short forms. In short, a legend. We liked him—lots. Welcome to SPIT.”

  A faint hum, a hint of beat, of rhythm, came through the door itself, which was spray-painted with a large, black message: “You don’t know SPIT.” I gave Fran a quick smile over my shoulder, then opened the door.

  Even without knowing that the building had survived the industrial revolution, the moment we walked through the door and onto the worn, broad brick steps that flowed down in huge half circles to the main level, there was no hiding the age of the place. There was no missing the blast of sound either, the low sensual throb that pulsed under the electric buzz of people and the pattern of emotions, muted by the brick, that came wafting through the air.

  I handed the bouncer a few bills, then asked where the bar was.

  “First time, huh?” he asked with a wide grin as he handed me back my change.

  “Here, yes,” I agreed.

  “Well, don’t miss the show—or the house drink.”

  I wasn’t certain I wanted to drink anything called “spit,” and he smiled at my expression.

  “It’s not spit, really,” he assured me. “It smells like a suntan and it’s a real treat. Get one for your girl,” he said, nodding at Fran next to me. “She’ll like it.”

  Down the steps
we went, through another corridor, following the beat that became a buzz under our feet until we passed through a darkened archway and there…

  I hadn’t known how thick the walls were, how effectively the combination of layers of brick and iron could contain the thoughts, the feelings, the nonsubtle sendings of intent, but because there was nowhere for them to flow, they gathered, concentrated, a thick soup of sensation, accentuated by the music that poured through the speakers, the press of bodies that moved to it under the lightning strikes of color and the illuminated panels that played a variety of images, only to darken as others lit up. Somewhere, farther in through the cavern, was an unlit stage, hinted and highlighted by the occasional glancing strobe.

  I stood still for a moment, letting it all run through me as I peered through the dimness for the promised bar. I felt the lift under my skin, the rise of my blood, the automatic body response to the call that sounded out across worlds, and the heady, reckless feeling that accompanied the unmistakable, unavoidable sense of hunger.

  I shut down the extension of myself that echoed through the Aethyr, shut out the sense of others as well until all I felt directly was Fran’s presence, the barrier that surrounded us both, and the remains of the tide the wild call had roused through me. When Fran’s thumb brushed along the column of my neck while her fingers tickled under my collar, we exchanged a glance, and I knew she’d felt it too.

  It figured. It simply figured. Soho may have been a hunting ground, but Spit? Was a lair.

  *

  “Dance or drink first?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Dance or drink first?” Fran repeated as we came to stand near one of the many steel columns, the bare supports for the floor above us, and she gave me a smile.

  I glanced around and decided there was no time like the present to know for certain whether or not my “hide in plain sight” plan would work.