GG, Down from Heaven

I'm a stim-junkie, I admit it. The thrill of going where I shouldn't go, up a fire escape behind an old hotel, onto a shopping center roof after dark, into a fenced lot without being spotted by cameras, I live for that.

Combine this with a strong exhibitionist streak and I was destined to be a tagger.

Stamping, styling, marking, branding, whatever you call it, painting your chop-mark in some roost up the side of a tower or tall building is the shits!

My first tag was in High School. The jolt it gave me. Off limits! Illegal! The heights, climbing the narrow skeletal ladder and walkway! Seeing the whole town spread out below, the sheer drop to a certain death. I shiver just remembering it, fear and thrill mixed with a kind of sexual excitement.

My boyfriend and I wrote Sappers Suck! before the Senior Year final game, letters six feet tall, on our rival school's own tower! Right in the middle Liberty City, really a small town, whoever named it had big plans.

I signed it, wrote my initials, a newb move, folks might have guessed it was me from that.

We did the deed, got out of there. Went to his basement, his parents were off at the game, I fucked him silly. Sucked his cock, jacked in and banged him like I wanted to screw it off!

God I came! Best sex ever, which wasn't saying a lot, I'd only ever done it with him.

I was hooked. Went out in his pickup after that, watched the lights come on as the sun went down, rode him in the bed of the truck to another mind-blowing orgasm. Not because of him, he just lay there with a stupid look. No, because I was outside, naked, fucking!

Not a problem, letting him cum in me, Sandy always had a morning after pill, my big sister, about all she was good for. She had been off to college, didn't do anything but party, grades were not even bad, all Incomplete. The folks brought her home after that, now she just smoked weed and screwed randos she met at the mall, a checkout clerk at Sport Stuff.

But she always has my back when it comes to sex, I gotta give her credit there.

My boyfriend was done with tagging after that, just did it as a Senior Prank. Didn't want to risk any more trouble, jeopardize his scholarship.

I could understand, he had a future. Me? Not so much. Bad grades, could never give a shit. I could get A's if I tried, but that wasn't gonna happen.

Except art, I did amazing in art. The teacher said I should apply to art school. I couldn't see myself toadying up to teachers and collectors and galleries, doing mundane stuff to please the old folks with the money.

The folks retired to Florida, left us the house, I don't know for how long, they might sell it at any time. Their last good deed for their daughters, not headed to college so we gotta get a job and move out, the clock is ticking.

I got a job at the lumberyard, stocking. They had every kind of spray paint. The colors! The finishes! Satin, High Gloss! Metallic! I'd never shoplifted, that was for little kids, not the kind of thrill I need or want. But the temptation is awful.

So a couple weeks in, the assistant manager (another High School graduate from my sister's class) says "Haul these to the dumpster out back, we're switching brands, and this stuff is expired."

I take it home, a frustrated art dropout with an entire case of enamel glitter paint, sixteen-ounce contractor size, whatever am I gonna do?

The bridge down by the river, railway bridge, been tagged a thousand times so I add my own. Go over a couple of tags, but they are faded and peeling.

Had to come up with my mark, I invent a Batman-style oval with a Zorro kind of letter. Most folks just riff on a word, their name or alias, mono. Some even use stencils! Mine has always been free-hand, every one a little different, only my style lets you know it's really me.

Then I do some ordinary stuff, in an alley or on a dumpster, doing it for the excitement of getting caught! Come home after, jill in my room, reliving it.

I do a roof after that, metal warehouse on the airport flight path, anybody who looks down taking off or landing will be sure to see it. Just my tag but like ten feet wide, framed and some artistic flair, shaded and 3d!

The thrill is good - getting up there, walking on metal that made noise like a drum! Risk of getting caught, sliding off, hitting the pavement, getting seriously injured keeps the blood pumping.

No sex after that, I am done with boys, kinda knew I went the other way ever since I was little. Didn't wanna play with Barbie but I sure liked looking. That smooth crotch confused me for a long time.

Don't know yet what I want. Happy jilling and taking risks, that'll do for now.

Anyway rubbing one out on the roof of the lumberyard after suits me. Alone, looking down on the mundane world, panties in my pocket, fingers up my cooch. Just watch the world do it's boring conventional safe thing while I am above it all, screwing myself. I fancy I am screwing all of them too, saying "You know what I think of you? This!" and spray my cum out on the shingle.

That roof tag gets mentioned on the news, the announcer kind of likes it, calls it 'guerilla art'.

Which leads to my first attention from the tagger community.

A local group contacts me shortly after, overpaints one of my tags with a cipher, I figure it out - a phone number, all the digits stylized and inverted, reversed.

Pissed because they'd soiled my art? Excited to be noticed? A little of both, mixed. I call it.

"Hello?" Not giving anything away.

"Hey! Z-girl? This is Greg, maybe you've seen my tag? Green and black, wild-style, inverted final g?"

I have, not impressed much but excited he notices me. At least now I know what that style is called.

"We're having a meet at the switch yard behind the steel recycling plant, Saturday afternoon. You're invited!"

"I guess I might show." Be chill, don't want to seem like a newb.

"Cool! Don't call this number again." and it goes click!

Z-girl, that fit. The Z, my mark. But wait, how does he know I'm not a guy? Maybe my voice.

And do I want to rub shoulders with other taggers? Dunno. I'd been a loner so far, but for that one time with my ex. Maybe.

Saturday is a long way off; I can't wait that long for my next hit. I decide to do the back wall of the police station, after work, just getting dark.

Wait for patrol shift change, in an alley down the corner from their back lot, away from cameras. Cop cars come in and out then quiet.

Approach from the side. Cameras cover the entrance, cover the lot but not the fence, not the back wall.

Chain-link, easy-peasy, spider up, pull up my pack with a rope, lower it down inside, climb down.

Take a little while on the tag, get it just right. Gotta look good, the whole force was gonna see this one! Fill layer, background, detail. Acrylic coat, anti-overpaint!

I get it done, nobody moving, all quiet. Just as I drop to the ground outside, the back door opens, a desk sergeant comes out.

Shit! That was close. Adrenaline.

He goes to the dumpster, drops a trash bag in.

Turns, I think he sees me but doesn't 'see' me, just a slim girl with a backpack making her way down the sidewalk. Kinda dark already.

He sure sees the tag! Stops like he's been paralyzed, just stares with his mouth open. Gets on his radio, starts talking.

Time to split! Saunter away, my nerves screaming Go! Go! but I walk like I own the street, don't look back.

Get just a block, duck into an alley, boost my pack onto a dumpster, heave myself up. Sit, back to the brick wall, shove a hand into my waistband, two fingers in my cooch, scrub one out. Heel of my thumb on my clit, fingers sloosh in my already-soaked cunt, eyes closed, head back.

Sit exposed in public on a dumpster, a pedestal, jilling, celebrating my bold strike against the establishment!

Close, close, I switch to three fingers, get my thumb right on my cum-button, mash around. Think of my near-thing escape, the cop shows up a few seconds faster and I'd have been toast.

Hell yeah! Grunt, cum, convulse, gush a gallon around my fingers. Gasp, shivering, hand wet, panties soaked, it is showing thru already, my leggings a dark spot on the crotch. Look like I pissed myself!

I pull my hand out, shake it, spatter on the dumpster lid. Have some wipes in my pack, yeah I keep them there to clean up if I get paint on anything. But also for after cumming, I won't stink of pussy juice.

Climb down and I notice my own tag on the brick, I was leaning against it! Sweet.

Like some underground comic book title shot, the wild woman, finishes finger-dicking herself, pull back and she's framed by her own mark, like a logo, like an emblem, Z-Girl!

Walk home proud, not hiding my wet crotch, stalking my turf, flaunting it.

I feel like a superhero.

The news doesn't call me that. They have a camera crew at the station, showcase my work, my mark all shiny and brilliant, my best work!

Boring straightlaced cops with their hands on their hips, look and shake their heads, disappointed.

"This vandalism has to stop! It's getting out of hand. We're tolerant, in an alley, on a fence, we let that go. But disfiguring government property? This is a serious matter."

The anchor isn't very upset, kind of impressed if I read him right.

"Z has upped the ante! Raising the stakes! Where will she strike next?"

Where, indeed. Saturday might give me some ideas.

...

"She's a menace! We'll all be hassled now!"

"She's awesome! Did you see! Right under their noses, like a boss!"

"What was that, clearcote? It was so bright! They'll be like, Why can't I paint over this? Damn."

"They got a crew out, spraying over our stuff! It's a massacre! All gone, took me all year, my portfolio erased in days. Because of her!"

My reception is mixed. I just listen for a while, in my leggings and denim jacket, t-top and backpack. Incognito, they don't know me yet.

Some tall dude, scrap of beard, piercing in one ear, one eyebrow, notices me, smirks. Comes over.

"You're making quite a splash. Gonna take a while for everybody to understand. Give them a minute."

I put out a hand; this is clearly Greg; his leather jacket has his mark on the back. Not really a smart move, anybody familiar can make him from that.

Looks cool though. Maybe I gotta get me one of those.

"Z-Girl." The capitals are clearly there, the way I say it.

"Greg." He shakes, drops my hand, waves an arm wide, encompasses the loose group of individuals clustered at the gate.

"Meet our crew."

And what a crew. Ages from fifteen to forty, mostly just about my age, a little older. More guys than gals, besides me there were three.

One, young, Asian, in a school uniform, J-Pop style with a lolly and weird hair, white skirt, neon top, giant work boots. White makeup, what is that about? Her personal style I guess.

"Itzy, after some band vocalist. Not as young as she looks. Does skateboards, installations mostly."

That means she isn't a tagger, doesn't risk public censure. Does private pieces for the art. And for money, most likely. Whatever; everybody gets to choose what lifestyle to make their own.

Second female, very female, leather with lots of thigh and belly showing, tits like a porn star. But paint under her nails, hair back, streaked now with something stiff and green. Been tagging already today. Legit.

"Sally Ride. A mashup of the astronaut, the porn star."

Makes sense. But have to be brave to tap that keg. She has an expression like, Fuck off! Resting fuck-off face, RFF, a new one for me. The guys are leaving her alone, out of respect or fear, makes no difference I guess.

The third woman, thin, lean, agile. Stands there like, if the sidewalk suddenly tips she'll keep her feet, just skate off. Aware, present, knows where she is, where everybody is.

Has made me already, from her expression. Not mad, not happy, just sizes me up.

And I find, I want her, bad. I know now, what I have been waiting for: her. I want to push her down, pull off her jeans, stick my tongue up her cooch as far as it can possibly go, lick her juice and never stop.

My pussy is seeping, my heart is thumping. This is the chick I have been saving myself for, looking for all my short life.

"GG. Not got her figured out. In it for the thrill, I think. Comes from money, but folks cut her off. Does work in pirate radio, indie stuff. Extreme tagging."

"You and her tight?" She had looked at Greg, lingered. Something between them.

"For now. Until we get each other figured. Then she'll move on, find somebody else to puzzle out."

Sounds good. I had a chance then, if she is Bi. And she looks Bi. Don't know what that means but somehow I did know.

Greg decides it is time to get a move on.

"Hey! Let's get creative! Got a hundred cars in the yard, nothing moving until tonight, then it's off to Tucson. Get it done by 5:15, they won't have time to buff, it might run for a year!"

Some cheering, Let's get started!

Chancy, doing a piece on a train car. A lot of work. Then they leave the yard, you might never see it again! Could end up anywhere. Hard to make your mark that way.

If you are all about the art, then ok why not. No money, no fame, but maybe something lasting, something that will burn for a decade.

Somebody does something to the lock on the gate, swings it wide. Itzy! She didn't force the lock, she's picked it. Skills.

Folks collect their bags, stream thru the gate, pick out their canvas.

Boxcars are problematical. Big and flat, sure, but lots of texture, supports and door latches. And the door gets left open, you can't see the piece.

Two guys and the oldster were looking to do a burner on one, start outlining something ambitious. Have to check it out before I leave. Gonna have to work fast, to cover all that. Maybe just a bomb, who knows.

"Foster, an art teacher from Bayonne. Likes to work with crews, turn writers into artists. Got a black book, some pretty chill stuff in there."

Ok, a piece then. Good luck.

I walk past the crew, get to where the tanks are. Find one, pretty clean, neutral color. Been buff'd not too long ago.

Unzip, lay it out. Stare at the tank car a while, waiting for inspiration.

"Curved, gonna be a challenge."

GG! God, she startled me. Don't look like a fool, say something smart.

"All about perspective. Sketch the lines, find your viewpoint. Then warp it."

Curved surfaces looked best from one particular angle. Look at a piece designed for the ground from high up, it turns into warped nonsense, like a fun-house mirror.

GG agrees, doesn't say anything. So I start.

Some crates by the track, used to cover switch gear. I drag one over, stand on it. Start my sketch with neutral pinstripe, nearly the same color as the background.

Warp the perspective, gonna look like shit from the ground. This one isn't for benchers. For the suits in the offices, looking down on us, literally and figuratively.

GG gets it quick, smiles a little.

I block out my Z, but on its side. Add some detail, swell the verticals, make the notch thicker. Sensual.

Take my time, filler and outline, shade it, mask with a piece of cardboard, crisp edges.

Two legs, apart, one calf coming down angled to one side, the other straight on, makes the tipped Z. Spread, lewd, naked.

Finish with detail on the crotch, red wavy lines, a rusty bush, fine work, took too long.

Then the gash. Pink, some silver to wet the highlights. Grey to hint at the hole. A mole, for the pervs.

Do cartoony sneakers next, one at an angle, one head on.

Finish with a flourish, white splooge cloud, a pool of cum underneath it all, an underline.

GG is smiling now, really pleased. I hop down, do my quick tag, sign the piece.

Looks like shit from the ground, lurid, grotesque but GG seems to get it anyway.

"Z, you're gonna fit in." Turns and walks away.

That gets my heart going again. She can see I am hot for her, she doesn't respond. But she doesn't shut me down either.

Gonna cum like a fire hose tonight, remembering that smile.

Crew wanders by, those that've been happy just tagging a dozen cars, bombing. They shake their heads, aren't getting it.

Greg gets it, takes him a moment, then a grin that nearly splits his lip.

"Jesus! They're gonna shit their pants."

Damn right. Bigshot corporate slugs, look down, learn their train is hauling around a feminine statement, horny and shameless!

Look at my Cunt! it seems to say, casual and public and I-don't-give-a-shit-who's-staring lewd.

I split, nothing else happening here. Foster and his gang have only a third of their car covered, not gonna make it, not by 5. Too ambitious.

I haul my stuff home, don't bother waiting for a reaction. That piece is for fat rich fucks, not for locals. Not for the crew. For me.

Laid out in my basement room, on my cot in the dark, rub out an orgasm, rub out three, remembering and grunting "GG!" as I wet my sheets.

...

Fast forward a coupla months, full summer now. Been attending a few crew events, even a sponsored one, a library wall, the alley entrance, book themed. For my part I did a Walt Whitman thing, the crew didn't get it but the library staff did. Who says I'm not literate?

Get to know GG a bit, talk once or twice. Cool, talented and sexy as shit, a perfect storm. Listen to her broadcast a time or two, her indie music sucks but her patter is prime.

Continue to get up, make my mark, spread my tag around. Work at the lumberyard, spend my paycheck on hot pockets and paint.

And an outfit, leather and skintight pants, climbing shoes. Wanna feel the rush when I climb a billboard or go up a drainpipe, but I wanna survive it too. Dark colors for nighttime tagging, and nothing loose so I don't get hung up three stories above the pavement, stuck somewhere.

No more news stories, and the attention from the old one has faded. No more massacres. The crew doesn't resent me anymore, much. Not all chummy but accepting now. I imagine I am gaining their respect.

So she calls, Sandy answers upstairs, yells "Hey! It's somebody called GG!"

I pull up my shorts, leave my panties on the bed, make it upstairs in like two seconds.

"GG?" Sandy is all curious, I ignore her, take the phone.

"Yeah!"

"Hey, I'm doing a heaven spot, need backup. You climb; I've seen your piece on that billboard."

Heavy breathing but just on my end.

"Another billboard?"

"No. Radio tower. Tonight, 8, out past the interchange, we meet at Starkey Storage entrance."

"We?"

"Greg is spotting for us, radio and car."

"What gear?"

"Your regular gear, I'll have the climbing stuff. You only have to back me up."

Normally I do all my own stuff, I'm a lone wolf, independent as fuck. Nobody orders me around.

But for GG? I'd lay down and let her cornhole me, no questions asked.

"I'll be there."

Click!

That gives me what, 8 hours to get ready. My day off, so I have all day.

"You doing another stunt?" Sandy calls my tags, stunts. Thinks I am only in it to show off, to taunt the authorities, for the thrill.

I let her think that, because it is mostly true. I grin, grab my jacket and head to the lumberyard.

I'll need blackface, a black wooly hat, even in summer it can get chilly at night.

Some carabiners, I have my own ropes and a harness, but I don't know what kind of traverses GG has in mind.

She says I'm just backup. But what use is backup, if I can't get to her if she hangs up or needs help?

I blow my month's paint budget on that stuff, plus some paracord and a knife. Ready for anything.

Waiting for 8 takes like forever. I head out early, 6:30, stall in a coffee shop off the freeway, nurse my half-caf.

I see Greg go past in his van, toward the overpass so I go that way on foot, still half an hour early.

He parked in the storage lot, all legal and not attracting attention. I knock on his glass, see him startle, spill his red bull.