Fate's Embrace Ch. 15

Chapter Fifteen

Joe's inner alarm went off when Jenny asked just after they awoke on Sunday, "Maybe you could score some dope before work." The alarm had words in them, "Weekend junkie."

He spoke them aloud. "Jenny, I went through the same thing."

"What thing?"

"I'll just shoot up on the weekend. No big deal. It's an insidious thing, dope. How many thousands have said the same thing to themselves? Weekends always spread to weekdays and then every day because you need to get high to get straight."

"We won't even be able to get any when we tour," Jenny practically whined.

Joe sighed. It wasn't like he couldn't hear that demoness heroin whispering in his ear as well. "I knew it was a bad idea."

"Please?"

"Fine."

"Yay!"

Joe could only shake his head.

He'd brought the kit along and got her off in the downstairs women's toilet at Max's after work, convenient because she had to poop after, the little bit of kid's laxative cut affecting her. Him too as it turned out, and he went to the neighboring men's room.

Afterwards they walked despite hours on their feet and like they had that first time, all the way downtown to their apartment. Joe checked the afterhours club along the way but perhaps being Sunday (or Monday morning) it was closed. Neither of them really cared. The dope was good, added to by a joint they shared along the way. The cocaine influence, borrowed from the upstairs bartender, had been subsumed by the sweet and somehow intense calm of the heroin. They both nodded over their coffee and sandwiches at a diner, the waitress waking them when she plopped down the check. Joe paid, adding a hefty tip before the two continued their walk.

In the apartment, neither could Joe get fully hard nor Jenny get all that wet, so they cuddled naked.

"It's just too good, Joe," said Jenny.

"I know," Joe sighed.

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Joe awoke too early Wednesday still tired from working at Max's every night since Thursday, having replaced one of the waiters wanting nights off.

"Get up, lazybones," Carol insisted, which made Joe laugh despite himself.

"I'm awake!" Joe reported.

"Bitch," Jenny muttered.

"You can keep getting your beauty sleep bitch," said Carol. "Go shower and dress but make it quick, Joe."

"Yes boss."

He got up naked and displaying a piss hard-on, his pubic hair tacky with the juices of Jenny, who'd woke up horny when he got home, Joe insisting he wear condoms again, Jenny pouting but understood. They'd already been a bit dangerous about that, the rhythm method being their excuse, but neither wanted to push their luck, especially Jenny.

Once ready, he and Carol headed to Canal Street to grab a cab for the long and expensive ride to a bus rental place in Long Island just past Queens. It was a short bus thankfully, but Joe, volunteered as driver, still had to get used to it. They stopped at Connie's and Sue Anne's place since it was sort of on the way, the rest of the troupe except Gio and Pete, another gay dancer, converged at the studio to be picked up there. The men had headed up the evening before in a U-Haul truck, Pete being the volunteer truck driver, the truck with the furniture serving as the set for the dance along with their costumes and programs for the show. Joe made his way slowly and carefully through heavy traffic.

The troupe grabbed their choices of various kinds of bagels in a sack which Carol had bought along with little tubs of cream cheese. All of them managed to get some coffee to go. Joe, the strippers and Carol had already managed to have their breakfast along the way.

There wasn't as much traffic once out of the city thankfully, most of it heading the other way. A couple hours driving, they arrived at Bard, heading to the Annandale Inn where most of them would stay. What Joe and the rest of Bard called "Down the Road," Bard's place to drink and dance, had old, small rooms, anything but fancy, but it would serve as a place to sleep.

Most of them because Carol had scored a guest room at Joe's old poetry professor's house near the Inn, across a traffic circle where an old and useless water pump sat incongruously, supposedly referred to in Bob Dylan's song Subterranean Homesick Blues, supposedly about a bust at Bard: "Must bust in early May." And "The pump don't work because the vandals took the handle." The song The Mighty Quinn had been about Sheriff Quinlan supposedly, the author of the bust, and not about Anthony Quinn. Dylan had lived around Woodstock across the Hudson River during the time of the bust supposedly going to Bard to score hot young coeds.

Once Carol got the rooms secured for her troupe, the three headed to Robert Kelly's house where Robert's wife led them to their room. The guest room had a queen sized bed in which Jenny and Joe were invited to stay with Carol. Joe might have read Helen's amusement at the probable threesome. Joe looked at the bed longingly, but Carol had other plans.

"Come on Joe," she insisted.

They headed to Barrytown, ("I know by what you carry that you come from Barrytown"--Steely Dan) basically a single road that went down to the Hudson River and looped back up, the Annandale Inn sitting at the head of the road.

In Barrytown, they passed small houses on the right, stopping at a house midway down, a small graveyard across the street with a field perched high beyond it, a couple horses looking down on them.

Carol knocked on the door of the small modernist wooden house, and a tall, handsome looking and beautiful dark haired woman opened it. Joe had met Susan Quasha, wife of the poet George Quasha, owner of the performance space where the troupe would perform, before. He'd been in the house, Susan showing him the old fashioned presses in the basement, a letter press and a press to create homemade paper. It had been part of a tour involved with the Fiasco workshop headquarted next door where the composer and poet Franz Kamin lived.

After being introduced to Jenny, Gabby bounced up behind Susan. "You're here! Come on!" She guided them downstairs.

Gabby showed Carol proofs, samples of the poster and the program for the group show. The poster ended up being screen printed, something she'd done at home, the size more than anything necessitating it. Three colors, brown for the background room, red for the back of Carol's head (her hair) as well as at the top where the company's name was printed and black for the words at the top and on Carol's head.

The program samples had more to do with the color of the pressed paper as it was the graphics, from brown to red to a beige white, and the printing on it, which colors were printed on it and which weren't needed because of the paper. Carol decided on the beige, the writing much easier to see on it, the beige writing on the darker paper being black on the beige/white.

Like Joe had felt the first time he'd been in that basement, the primitive technology excited him. It seemed in a way essential to being a poet, being so involved in the printing of it. He gravitated to Susan setting type.

"A lot of work," she chuckled.

"I think it's cool," Joe responded. "The type?"

"I go travelling to find it," Susan smiled. "Sometimes I go to Woodstock where a guy makes them for me, but that can be expensive."

"I think about publishing a book of my poetry, whether anyone would even want to publish it, and then I see this, how beautiful it could be, just the paper, and then the design of the type and how it would be set on the page, being in charge of it entirely, and that seems much more...satisfying I guess."

"You should show George your book. He's started Station Hill Press, and a few of the smaller pressings I press here gets distributed under Station Hill. You could come up and help with the printing and the binding."

"I wish I could," Joe responded.

"You live in the City?"

"Manhattan."

"It's not that far. You could take the train up and could stay here or with Franz."

"Tempting."

"Did you bring your book?"

"I did."

"Leave it with me. I'll have George look at it."

"It's my only copy."

"How long are you up here?"

"Through the weekend."

"Leave it with us. If he's interested we can get it copied."

"Okay." Joe pulled out two manila folders labeled Them and Room. "Two books in one," Joe explained.

"Leave it on the desk." She gestured to an old oak desk.

Joe did, and then Gabby came to him. "This is cool right?" she asked.

"Definitely," Joe grinned.

"You should stay and help."

"I'd love to."

"Cool."

Joe asked Jenny and Carol if he could stay, as much getting permission as anything, although he wasn't sure about Carol needing him that day.

"I thought you wanted to rest," Jenny asked.

"I guess I'm feeling reinvigorated," Joe shrugged.

A quick kiss gave him permission and the two ladies left.

It became a workshop, learning to press paper. The paper needed to sit so printing lessons came from what Susan had been setting type for. He loved every moment, feeling like a calling, though probably no more livable than being a poet.

His tiredness struck him suddenly.

"You okay?" Gabby asked.

"I guess I could use a nap like an old man or a baby," Joe chuckled.

"Come on then," Gabby said, taking his arm and guiding him outside through a back door, along a somewhat treacherous path at the edge of a natural trough and to a back door of Franz Kamin's house, a rough looking basement room with plastic covered windows and a jerry rigged bed and desk, concrete blocks as support of slabs of plywood, the mattress a double.

Joe stripped to his t shirt and jockey underwear and slipped beneath the sheet and the blanket.

"You want me to join you?" Gabby asked.

"I'm pretty beat."

"Okay," she smiled and gave him a kiss.

Moments later it seemed he awoke to the most pleasant feeling of being cock sucked, finding Gabby the culprit. "Turn around," he said a bit roughly, sleep roughing it up.

Gabby got up, removed her clothing, Joe pushing off his jockeys and removing his t shirt as well and Gabby straddled his mouth. Adjustments needed to be made for her to reach his cock. "Just a second," Gabby decided and lifted a big green pillow to place behind his head. That worked.

"Cumming," Joe warned after a couple minutes, and Gabby used his underpants to catch it. Joe fought through his post orgasm grogginess to continue sucking Gabby's cunt, and she returned to her sucking him, carefully at first but more intensely soon enough.

By the time she came, he was fully hard. "Condom in bag," he told her, and she found one and rolled it on. Joe had her move onto her back and pushed carefully into her tightness.

It was a slow fuck, careful in finding the angle so as not to be rough on her cervix but also a sort of loving connectivity, each thoroughly involved in every sensation. When her countermovement hinted at faster and harder, Joe lifted her legs, controlling the angle, and fucked her through her orgasm and into another where he joined her. His softening cock allowed him to relax atop her and then turn them over so she could relax atop him. His hand went down to catch the emerging penis, keeping the condom on, and she sighed at its absence.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Dinner time," she giggled. "Down the road?"

"Sure."

"We'll meet Carol and company there."

"Okay."

"Jenny came by and told me to have you meet them there."

"Okay."

She got up and put on a robe. "Sorry about your underpants," she said. "And the shower only has room for one."

"I'll manage," Joe chuckled.

She gave him a kiss. "I'll be quick." She darted off to stairs past the furnace and water heater.

He got up, removed the condom and tossed it into a small garbage can and slipped on his jeans commando, then his t shirt and flannel shirt, keeping it unbuttoned. He sat on the desk chair remarkably like his own, looking through a book of early twentieth century graphics.

Gabby didn't take all that long, tossing aside the soft cotton robe, wonderfully naked, before slipping into panties and bra, the latter seeming extra supportive of her heavy breasts. She put on slacks and a white dress shirt, tucked in, a sort of cross dressing, identifying herself, including her short black hair, ironically perhaps in what happened not long before, as lesbian.

"Looking to pick up a coed?" Joe asked.

"Maybe," she blushed.

"As cute as you are, no problem."

"Thanks," she smiled and kissed him briefly on the lips.

"Should I keep my distance?" Joe asked.

"You're already surrounded by hot women," Gabby responded. "Don't worry."

"Okay."

Most of the troupe at the Annandale Inn sat in the bar area, rectangle tables with space in the middle for dancing and a jukebox in the front corner. Plates were empty or nearly empty. A couple pitchers of beer were half full. Jenny and Carol sat in the restaurant area waiting for Joe.

"You haven't eaten?" Joe asked them as he and Gabby sat.

"Expecting you," Carol shrugged.

A thick older blonde woman came to the table. Everyone ordered sandwiches and drinks, for Jenny at least her second, a gin gimlet which Joe also ordered.

"So what did I miss?" Joe asked.

"The hard work setting up," Carol told him.

"Sorry."

"You needed your rest," Jenny said. "There were plenty of us to get the job done. It's a cool space."

"Cool. What's the plan?" Joe asked Carol.

"We'll relax tonight," Carol told him. "There's a master class tomorrow."

"You being the master."

"Yes," she shrugged. "I'll show them what it takes to become a successful choreographer with my own troupe. Learning from the greats who preceded me. Finding my own movement and vision. Documenting everything. Finding both public and private backing."

"Who you need to fuck," Joe bit back from saying. Instead he asked, "Can anyone be there?"

"Of course. It'll be in the dance performance space."

Joe nodded, remembering his own not very successful performance there.

They finished their food and moved to the bar space, switching to beer from the pitchers. The dancers kept the juke box well fed with quarters, various configurations of couples, trios and solos dancing to mostly disco songs.

Students trickled in. One in particular tapped his shoulder while Joe danced, ironically with the woman who reminded him most of the tapper, the somewhat thick set Greek woman from Baltimore, Gia. He turned and without thinking embraced Lindy. Luckily she embraced him back.

"You're still here," he said into her ear.

"Senior, which is what you would have been if you hadn't quit."

"True," Joe chuckled. When the embrace ended, he looked around at the somewhat crowded space, the music fairly loud. "Can we talk?"

"Of course."

"Outside?"

"Sure."

While Joe grabbed his shoulder bag, Jenny approached him. "Who's that?"

"Lindy."

"Ah. You okay?"

"Yep," he grinned, watching Lindy go to a table, and poring herself a beer and drinking half of it. She and a handsome, tall, wide shouldered blond man had a conversation neither looked happy about. She immediately headed to Joe and grabbed his arm. "Come on."

He followed her outside into the balmy spring evening, a refreshing cool breeze pressing lightly at their faces. They started walking on the untrafficked road heading towards Bard campus. He ended up leading her to his old professor's house where they sat on the stoop leading to the porch.

"This okay?" she asked.

"I'm staying here," he told her, finding the small metal box that held joints and pulling one out, offering it to her. She got out a lighter from her purse before he could get his and lit up, sucked in and passed the joint.

"This is Robert Kelly's house," she said, breathing out smoke.

After filling his lungs, he replied, "Yep." He paused to retain the smoke before continuing, the joint already passed. "I've been party to some amazing conversation on this porch, like when the poet Jackson MacLow was here, and when these filmmakers congregated: Hollis Frampton; Adolfus's brother Jonas; Bruce Bailley and P. Adam Sitney."

"You still making films?" she asked, a loaded question because her near nude body had been in one of his films to her angry surprise, ending their relationship.

"I'm working with Carol on one to project on the dancers."

"She finally found you," she chuckled.

"I didn't know she was looking."

"You were pretty clueless," she smirked.

"I guess I was," he agreed. "I'm glad she did."

"She's beautiful."

"It's not that."

She laughed.

"Okay, partly, but more I haven't done anything for over a year, no writing or filmmaking."

"Why not?"

"Life? The city?"

"New York?"

"Yeah. I've been working at a punk club, Max's Kansas City, and have been caught up in that and the lifestyle. When I bumped into Carol I found out she's been trying to find me. She planned to use a recording of one of my long poems, with or without my permission if she didn't track me down. Since she did, I've been writing again, rewriting that poem along with other poems."

"I'm glad," she smiled her half smile, her head slightly cocked, something he'd always found adorable about her and still did.

"You look great," he told her, and she did. She looked the same as he remembered her without the weird illusionary shimmer she seemed to manifest from his perspective when he'd see her pass by on the grassy commons area and they no longer talked. At the same time her face looked more defined somehow, less soft, perhaps more mature. The eyes though, almost powder blue in their lightness, with that mischievous glint, remained the same.

"You do too," she returned.

"Was that your boyfriend?" he asked, making her pout.

"It's always the same," she muttered.

She always had problems with clinginess, a lot because her ex when she and Joe were together was almost psychotic about losing her.

"Can I give you my take on that?" Joe offered.

"Go ahead." Her smile and the tilt returned.

"You're an amazing woman, Lindy. I may be biased, but it's true. There's so much infectious joy when you dance. And getting to know you, there's a realness to you. You're not one for bullshit or putting up any walls. You say what you mean, always. When I fucked up, you told me I fucked up, no censoring your thoughts but no meanness to it either. It's like you're puzzled, like why the fuck did you do that. More often than not, because I'm dense or immature or whatever, it's like a learning experience, like is that the way humans are supposed to interact.

"You're beautiful, but it's beyond that. You're unique, guileless and caring. A man can't help feeling like he struck gold becoming your boyfriend, and losing that..."

"It's like I robbed him of his gold," she laughed.

"You know that's not what I mean."

"I like the companionship of a man, getting to know him, liking him. I'd say sex is equal to that or more a part of that, the naked intimacy of it, the pillow talk, the cuddling. You learn a lot more about a man in bed even more than the get to know you part which led you to it. I'd say the actual sex is the least important except it's not, is it? It's what led you to becoming companions, the desire to be pleasured, to be fucked. It compels you to get that close, both physically and emotionally. It's the flaming hoop that needs to be passed through, especially for the man. You help him get his rocks off, now you can talk."

"Sex isn't that important to you?" Joe asked.

"I suppose it compels me to get to know a man, knowing where it's going to lead us. But I think it becomes more of an addiction for him than it is for me, our companionship leading to that."

"I think it's everything else that's addictive," Joe disagreed. "The companionship is addictive. A man just wants his dick wet, although when it's with someone in which he's intimate, in which he loves, it can be so much better."