Down Payment BluesbyCactus Jack 01©
'What if someone sees us?' I said, as the first clasp on my shirt popped free.
'We're alone,' she whispered, 'look around.' And she was right, we were alone on the stage. But there was getting on for a thousand people packed into the auditorium that was hidden only by the heavy curtain.
'Or hears us?' I continued, but even as I said the words I knew I was beyond caring. Meg had now positioned herself so that her butt was pressing painfully into my erection, and the way she was moving meant that my thoughts were now only on one thing.
'We'll only hear them,' said Meg, her nails now running a pattern down the bare skin on my chest. 'Now just do it. We haven't got much time.'
She started a rhythmical rubbing against my crotch as I lifted the hem of her thin sweater, nipples already pushing against the white cotton. I swept my hands along her back and over her ribcage, then upwards to encircle her breasts. She lifted the sweater with one hand and let me see what I was touching, flawless pale skin capped with two rose red bumps as stiff as rubber, my fingers pushing her gorgeous cleavage together. Her mouth was in my hair as I pulled her into me, lifting her petite body against me, straining for release and also for balance on the tiny drumstool. There was a new pressure on my jeans which quickly changed into release as Meg pulled my buttons open and exposed my dick, her hand instantly enveloping the shaft and tugging mercilessly.
While the throb of the crowd echoed across the empty stage Meg quickly climbed off me and stood between my spread thighs, a smile on her face as she glanced down at my hard dick while she scrabbled with the zip on her crimson trousers. I felt a bead of sweat slide down my back as I took the opportunity to shove my jeans down to my knees, the fur of the drumstool tickling my ass excitingly when I lowered myself back onto it. In one swift motion Meg tugged her trousers and matching red underwear down her thighs, revealing to me a patch of pubic hair as black as that on her head. Her hips and inner thighs were rounded, smooth, such contrast to the darkness in the centre, and I wanted to kiss my way over her skin and bury my face in that tuft of wet heaven. But this was Meg's time, she was in control, and before I could move she was back straddled over me, this time with skin on skin, and even before she was on me I could feel the heat coming from her hot sex.
Her fingers gripped my hair, my hands were once more on her tits, and then she dropped onto me hard. There was a pleasure that was nearly painful as my cock buried itself in the depth of her pussy, and the feel of her was unbelievable; hot and wet and achingly tight. No sooner was I in her then she was moving, lifting herself up and down, rocking back and forth, angling her body against mine for maximum pleasure. I locked my mouth to hers and she gasped as I twisted her large nipples, and in return her nails dug into the back of my neck, hard enough to nearly puncture the skin. I cried out, my excitement overwhelming, and my cry was added to the hundreds that I couldn't see but only hear behind the curtain. The Bowery unaware that I was with the object of their fanatical worship.
Meg's teeth were now on my neck and she bounced herself on me, and her thighs gripped me as her pelvic muscles held me in a vice. I moved my hands down her back and over the curvature of her ass, filmed with sweat, and thrust her down. My index finger traced the valley of her buttocks and rested on the puckered opening of her anus, and after a moment's hesitation I hooked the finger into her butt, and I felt her fingers tremble on my skin and her whole body stiffen. Then she was moving again, slamming backward hard enough to slide my finger into the second knuckle, and my own breath became harsh as I realized I could actually feel myself moving in her pussy. I tensed my waist and tried to force myself even deeper in her, the matted fur of the drumstool slipping beneath me, holding Meg up as she rode me. She'd told me she wanted to fuck, and that was exactly what she was doing, pure dirty sex that was nothing more for both of us than a need and a desire. I'd have loved to kissed her body, tasted between her legs, let her suck me, but I knew that wasn't going to happen.
Perspiration ran into my eyes like tears, and I might have well been weeping with the whole joyous feeling of her body. My legs were shaking and I knew that I was close, and I pushed my finger back and forth in Meg's ass with the best rhythm that I could. Her cries were like the faintest call of a bird at dawn, her tongue wet on my neck, and then a fire erupted in the depths of stomach and rushed upwards from my thighs and the pressure broke. I came, the tendons in my back locking as I threw my whole body into my orgasm and ejaculated hot fluid into her. I was vaguely aware of her anus clamping over my finger and her vaginal muscles squeezing against my pulsing shaft, and then Meg threw her head back as she added her sticky juices to mine, her breasts heaving upwards as she rocked with me. Her nails finally punctured my skin, the pain bringing me back into focus, and there was blood on my neck as she hit her climax and called out a name. And it was a name that wasn't mine.
We both stayed silent while we unwrapped ourselves from each other and fumbled with our clothing, and my hands were shaking as I fastened my jeans. When I stood my legs were aching, and as I buttoned my shirt I took a look at the Meg's drumstool. There was a wet patch around the size of a silver dollar near the edge of the fur, a mark and reminder of what we'd just done. I turned to Meg and watched as she brushed the hair from her forehead and pulled the wrinkles out of her sweater as she smoothed it down over her chest. Her nipples were still visible as dark shadows against the white. We looked at each other again, and this time I saw not the lust-fuelled woman of the last few minutes but the apologetic sweet angel who'd given me ten dollars on the sidewalk earlier that day. I leant forward and kissed her parted mouth, and we embraced gently. And then there was a whistle, and we both looked around at the road manager who was ascending the back stairs to the stage. He asked Meg if she was ready and she nodded her reply, and then he contemplated me with an almost bemused expression. I still had my arm around Meg as I stared back, but when he threw me a sly wink I looked away, embarrassed. It was a moment that took me a long time to forget.
I could have watched the show from the wings, but after myself and Meg had made our way backstage I found one of the roadcrew and asked him to direct me to the main auditorium. Eventually I found a vantage point at a side balcony which elevated me above the crowd yet still gave me a great view of the stage. Ordinarily I'd have wanted to be pressing forward at the head of the audience, hanging over the barrier and joining the masses in a heaving rush of rock and roll in an attempt to get as close to the band as possible. But on this night I'd been as close as I possibly could have been already, and both my mind and body were tired. The beer in my hand was cold and tasted sweet, and I had a slight headache forming. Next to me were two shaggy-haired guys and a girl who looked sexy and vulnerable in a gypsy dress and faded denim jacket. There were talking excitedly and passing a joint back and forth, and when I caught the eye of one of the guys he grinned and offered me the smoke. This time I didn't refuse, and I traded the beer with them and let my lungs fill with cheap marijuana that made my heartbeat slow.
The lights fell, the people went insane, a spotlight hit the curtain as it rose steadily, and then I was looking down at the stage that I'd just been on. The spot glinted of the scratchplate of Jack's Mosrite, swept left across the pair of Marshall and then shone brightly on the drumkit. Meg sat on the stool, her looks immaculate, sticks in hand and head cocked to one side as an almost childish smile lit her face. I heard screams and whistles, and then a roar as Jack walked out with the strut and confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was and what he was about to do. The suit he'd been wearing had been traded for red and black trousers and a tight red T-shirt, and as the lights hit his pale skin he took on the image of a ghost. Then the Mosrite was around his body, a burst of feedback shook the Bowery, and the mysterious duo that comprised Detroit's finest looked at each other with an expression that could only have been love. Jack blew Meg a kiss, dropped his hand, and then opening chords of Black Math blew a tornado threw New York City...
Much later, in the early hours of the morning, I was back in Red Hook, walking slowly through the streets and eating a bagel that I'd bought from an all-night deli with the last of my money. It had been snowing and the sidewalk was covered in dirty slush that kicked up in brown showers as I walked. On the corner of my street a brazier was still glowing with the remains of a fire, whoever had been standing around it wasting time long since gone. I crossed to it and held my hands over the embers, looked down into the dying coals, and sighed deeply with fatigue.
Nothing had happened after the gig, and I guess I didn't really think it would have done. Maybe I could have returned backstage and gotten steadily drunk, or wasted, or whatever, but I knew there was really no point. There was no-one who I really knew or who I wanted to talk to, and whatever had been shared between myself and Meg was of the moment; a one-off. I was too jaded and cynical to convince myself that there would be a repeat performance or that we would act like regular people with the exchange of numbers or kind words. The way she'd looked at me after our sex had confirmed that. It hadn't been revulsion or even regret, but a look that I'd seen many times in my own mirror. That of guilt.
But something else had kept me away. It was something I'd seen during The White Stripes final song of the night, an incredible and scorching version of Elmore James' old standard Boll Weevil. Like all the best blues legends Jack had adapted the words to suit himself, and beneath a sweat-drenched fringe and with blazing eyes he screamed his warning against the evils of life to a crowd who were emotionally drained and who absorbed every word. He fell to his knees during the solo, the sonics threatening to ignite the amps, while to his left Meg thundered on the drums, hair a nest of snakes whirling around her. Jack's eyes were closed as his fingers picked the lines, and then there was a pause as he let feedback take over, drawing the crowd to the edge. But before he released them his eyes fluttered open, and I was close enough to see what I had already seen. A man who was genuinely haunted by his emotions and by demons that he'd only hinted at to me. It was hot in the Bowery that night, the smell of sweat and heaving bodies permeated the air, but just for a moment I was shivering just as I had been out on the street that afternoon. When the song came to an end and Meg emerged from behind the drums, stood next to Jack as they took a dual bow, I recalled the name she had spoken when we had been together. They took each others hand and waltzed from the stage to as loud an appreciation as I'd ever heard, and as they did I also recalled what Jack had said to me in that smoky dressing room. Something about Absolution.
The snow had started again, huge powdery flakes that fell from the darkness and brushed against my upturned face. I jumped as a cat howled behind me and I left the warmth of the fire, turned the corner into my street. Once more I stopped, this time with my heart pounding, the blood ringing in my ears. Blue lights bounced their harsh light of my crumbling apartment block, and at the doorway to my stairwell a small crowd was gathered, some I knew and some that I didn't. Two paramedics moved carefully, the gurney seemingly hovering between them, and even from a distance I could see that the shape they carried was completely covered with a sheet. I heard noise, a pounding that I finally realized was my boots hammering the sidewalk as I ran towards them, and on that freezing New York night the hot breath of the Terraplane was worse than ever against my back.
Hellhounds on my trail, myths and legends, the deal of the Mojo hand. Standing at my crossroads.