Pisstory Pt. 08: Either/Or

"Excellent, darling. Now, I think Harriet and I need to answer a call of our own peculiar nature, don't we, sweetie? C'mon Joe. Stop sulking."

It didn't seem worth pointing out that she'd led us through the door marked 'Gentlemen.' There were two adjacent cubicles standing open.

"I really do need a piss" I said.

"So do we, darling. Harriet and I will share. You join us when you're done. Just knock three times." She ducked into one of the stalls.

Harriet reached under her skirt, as though adjusting the knickers Louise had said weren't there. She brought her fingers out, and smeared my nose and mouth with the juice of her cunt.

"Three times" she said, and followed Louise into their cubicle.

I could hear them laughing, and the snap of Harriet's rubber clothes as she peeled them off. With the rich earth scent of her cunt in my nostrils and on my tongue I struggled to diminish my erection enough to be able to urinate without hitting the back wall and incurring Matilda's eternal enmity. The hiss and splash of one of the women pissing next door didn't help. I licked drying lips, only to give myself another dose of Harriet's snatch.

"Now you" a muffled Louise came through the partition wall. "I'll lick you while you're going."

Fuck this, I thought. I didn't even bother to put my prick away. It stood out at 45 degrees from the front of my trousers as I slipped out of my cubicle and triple-rapped on the next door.

"It's open" Harriet breathed.

It was, and there was just enough room for me to slip in behind Louise, kneeling on the tiles with her pants round one ankle, sucking at Harriet's vulva as her piss pumped into her mouth. How she managed to keep swallowing without a break I had no idea, but that wasn't my concern.

I crouched between Louise's legs and lifted her skirt over her waist. She splayed her thighs to allow me to push my cock into her cunt, so wet it felt less like I was pushing than she sucking me inside herself. Harriet lay back on the toilet seat, her shiny, sweaty brown tits liberated at last from the rubber top, her long fingers stroking the black nipples in opposing circles. She began to breathe more quickly as she finished pissing and Louise's tongue penetrated her harder and further. I imitated her rhythm with my cock, in and out of Louise's cunt, the combined reek of their piss, lube and sweat concentrating in the narrow space and driving me still further toward my own ending.

Harriet reached one hand down, and with her middle finger began slowly rubbing her clit in the same circular motion as her nipple. Following her example I reached under Louise's thigh, found her own slippery wet button, and began rubbing it furiously as I shoved faster and harder into her. She in turn speeded up her licking of Harriet.

Harriet looked directly into my eyes, opened her mouth, and rotated her tongue round her parted lips. I hammered into Louise's cunt, fully aware I was fantasising about fucking Harriet's face. Louise squirted over my fingers, and pushed her face further into Harriet's crotch. Harriet and I came together.

The little toilet booth absolutely stank of our cum and sweat.

"Matilda'll probably ban threesomes from now on" Louise said, reaching down to mop up the little puddle of her ejaculate off the floor. She made me lick Harriet's cunt out of her own mouth and watched approvingly as Harriet sucked her cum off my now-limp cock.

"Now you know how poor little Vaughn and Molly feel" she said to neither of us in particular as we topped the steps and found ourselves in the relatively fresh night air. The traffic island was deserted, the three of us latterday Crusoes gazing out over a dark urban ocean.

"You have my blessing, of course" she went on.

"How come you always make everything about you?" Harriet said.

"Well isn't it?"

"Look, we've all had a good fuck" Harriet said in the underpass. "I think I'll go home tonight."

"Me too" said Louise. "Joe, you can sleep at the studio tonight. Nice and convenient for the twins tomorrow." She handed me the keys.

As far as I was aware, no one had made any definite arrangement as to when and where the Dead Babies audition was to take place. I knew the Market was open on Sunday mornings, so assumed I'd just take a walk down to the twins' stall and organise something with them for that afternoon. That was still my plan at ten o'clock the following morning, with the added element of a visit to the Greasy Spoon beforehand for some breakfast. I hadn't eaten since Saturday lunchtime.

I was putting my shoes on when the entryphone rang.

"Uh, Joe? It's Vaughn. And Molly. Louise said we could do the audition here."

I let them in.

"She never said anything to me."

"Only phoned us this morning. Is it OK?"

'How come you always make everything about you?' I heard Harriet saying the previous night.

"Is she coming?"

"Dunno."

They'd brought instruments with them: Molly's bass and a six-string acoustic guitar. I made instant coffee with Louise's kettle. There were only two mugs, so I improvised my own from an empty jam jar I hoped hadn't been used for any extreme artistic purpose. There was no milk.

"So how does this go?" I asked, watching them on the battered brown leather sofa which, just over a week ago, had been the venue for Louise's and my performance of 'Everything He Wanted To Do To Me.' They'd placed themselves as far away from each other as possible, but I imagined I could see the lines of electrical attraction which every now and then pulled one of them unconsciously in toward the other, then realise what he or she was doing and pull as far away as possible again.

"It depends on what you want to sing" Molly said, and I realised that, although they'd initially been virtually indistinguishable physically, she was the more articulate of the two. "There's no amplification, but we don't really need that. The strings on the bass are tuned to give any kind of basic rhythm you might need. The acoustic can play chords or melodies, either with or instead of the bass."

I put my jam jar down on the floor. It tasted suspect.

"OK" I said. "Can you play the bass line of 'Psycho Killer'?"

She beamed, the first display of anything like emotion I'd seen from either of them.

'Psycho Killer (Qu'est-ce que c'est?)' from Talking Heads' first album has one of the most recognisable bass lines in all rock music.

"Of course! Tina's my hero." She stood and slung the guitar strap over her shoulder.

"Count me in" she said.

I took three deep breaths, cleared my mind, worried for a split second that I wouldn't remember the lyrics, then counted aloud to four.

David Byrne, Talking Heads' vocalist, has likewise one of the most distinctive voices in rock, so the important thing was not to sound like I was trying to sound like him. I pitched my own voice lower, made my delivery even more staccato, flatter than the original, like I really was some kind of sociopathic nutter hiding in plain sight, aware that at any moment he might erupt into barely comprehensible violence.

I didn't forget any of the words. I think I kept up with Molly -- or she with me -- and after we'd finished I heard her, as though from far away, say "Yeah!."

Vaughn began to clap, slowly at first then, as though aware he might be mistaken for mocking me, quicker and quicker until he sounded ridiculous.

I was quite pleased with myself. I'd acquitted myself well, but nevertheless knew I wasn't the only would-be singer who'd be likely to perform a modern standard like that at audition.

"There's another one I'd like to do with the six-string" I said.

Vaughn smiled, seeing this as his chance to shine as an accompanist. He picked the guitar up, fingered a couple of strings.

"Do you know 'Greensleeves'?" I said.

He looked panicked, eyes flitting from me to his sister.

"Traditional English air, supposedly composed by Henry VIII between killing his wives?"

"I do" said Molly.

Vaughn handed her the guitar.

"Four-four time. Lento. Key of A minor. I only need the first verse. I'll take it from there" I said. I'd done my homework.

"OK." Vaughn just looked baffled.

"Give me the note" I said.

She did. I la-la'd it a couple of times.

"Let's go."

And I gave them, in the original French, a version of Jacques Brel's 'Amsterdam', that beautiful, terrible song Henri had played for me, in tears, over and over in his little cave of a café when Alana was still alive and I was in love with her and I thought we could do anything together, what felt like years ago and was only really a few months.

As with the Talking Heads piece, I did it staccato, relying on phrasing and volume to achieve the dramatic effects rather than allowing any other kind of vocal dynamic to take me into its emotional depths. I concentrated on the hard consonantal sounds of Brel's poetry for emphasis, their strict rhythms to carry the story along, the final shouted repetition hanging in the air where Molly's guitar, silent on my instructions, would have played out the final chords.

The silence afterward went on forever.

"Fucking hell" said Molly. "I didn't understand a word of that, but... fucking hell!"

"Joe, mate."

Vaughan had stood up and now put his arm around me. I felt a single tear, unbidden, embarrassing, slide down my cheek. "That was... Fuck!"

"Am I in?" I said, rubbing the salt off my face with my palm.

"Fuck, yeah" said Vaughn. "Can you write songs as well?"

And without warning he kissed me.