It is like closing your eyes and trying to connect the dots.
This is what Piers is thinking as she sculpts fire onto the blondegirl’s breasts.
Her hands work over the cotton-knit sweater, and then under, fingers skimming bra as if it were runway Braille.
Piers and the blondegirl, whose name is Tracy, are at Tabanid, a nightclub on Sunset. Specifically, Piers and Tracy are in the coat-nook, a place where Piers often takes the girls she meets at the club.
Piers and Tracy’s mouths are grafted together in animal wedlock,
their tongues like forked lightning, flashing pearls of saliva.
Because Piers, at 5’2, is shorter than Tracy, 5’7, there is a furious incline to her kissing, to her desire.
Outside the coat-nook, a rapping on the door, followed by a voice—Piers. Fucking Piers. It’s time to go on. Get yer ass out here. PIERS.
The voice belongs to Trink, Piers’s shadow-show partner.
Piers disengages her mouth from Tracy’s.
The two girls are panting, inflamed.
Piers steps back, allowing her perspective to widen.
Tracy tucks stray bits of hair behind her ear.
Piers can’t tell if Tracy’s eyes are blue or green. She asks.
They change depending on the light, Tracy responds with obvious pride in this quality.
They change according to the light, Piers repeats, smiling, relishing the prickly sensation just below her navel.
Piers draws nearer to Tracy, isolating her perspective to Tracy’s face.
(Trink: Put your tongue back in your mouth and get yer ass out here.)
You’re so fucking beautiful, Piers smooths her hand over Tracy’s cheek.
Tracy, in turn, runs her fingers over Piers’s fuzzcoated scalp—I like your shaved head. The way it feels. And I like your tongue piercing.
Piers sticks out her tongue and wags it, modeling the ribbed silver stud bobbing on pink.
Then she springs forward, tongue lancing Tracy’s sealed lips.
Again the kissing, the groping, connecting the dots.
(Trink: I’m leaving Piers. You hear me? Bye!)
Piers withdraws—Guess I gotta go.
Then, clutching a swath of coat, Piers asks Tracy—Do you like leather?
What do you mean?
Piers takes a blue leather raincoat off its hanger, places it like a shawl over Tracy’s shoulders.
Who does it belong to, Tracy asks.
I don’t know. Maybe a lady named Suzanne.
Nevermind. It’s yours.
I can’t just—
Sssssshhhh (index pinning Tracy’s lips) it’s impolite to refuse a gift. See you after the show.
Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag.
His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at johnbiscello.blogspot.com. Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.