First Posted: 10 May 1996
An electronic banshee cries her woe over and around and through the drum's bloodstream. Red and blue lights wash the stage, the crowd. It surges, flows, slams together. Packed, compressed, fighting for space, struggling to be pushed together. Primal. Our genes remember. Stuff it into our subconsious so the sanitized world of nine to five is safe. But we can't forget. Not ever. It is life, this. Conflicting desires and drives. Confusion and chaos. Birth and death. Blood and dust. And power. It is all power. Eternal. Forever. Never.
To be young...
I slam meself into the bruisers next t' me. The hundreds of others, seeking release and absolution in the Temple do likewise. The musician-priests play to an adoring throng of suplicants. Absolution is to be had for all. In the mosh pit all find release, burning bright in a screaming mass of noise and teeth and tissue.
'Course, the Temple ain't really holy ground, just th' latest Dante-hot site in V-town. Haven for th' young. Halfway house for gen-X-ers. A place of safety where th' likes 'o Ward an' June Cleaver will ne'er set foot. It's the place. The site. Ground zero. The stratosphere. Heaven and hell. All in one. Crazy collections of catwalks snake across the upper levels in a maze of platforms, cages, tables, and bars. Steel and plastic, cables an' conduits, pipes an' girders. Chrome and chaotic splaters from a madman's paintsprayer. Puddles o' darkness, flickerin' fluorescents, strobin' spots. Seizure inducin'. Pockets o' ambient solitude behind a pillar. Separate rooms. Stages for live acts an' DJs. Th' main dance floor is a multi-leveled excursion, full of sunken pits and raised stages for th' spiff to show their steps, flash their Vi's. Who's got style, who's got grace? Th' moves? It's armour. It's predation and prey. A huntin' ground. Courtship. Who's lookin', who's available, sexual preference, personal kink...all can be seen in th' style an' carriage.
So what am i set for? Ye tell me. Black silk parachute pants blouse into high-top, calf grippin' combat boots. Three inch wide belt wi' a couple o' small leather pouches. Body fittin' water smooth grey crew-neck bodysuit definines me chest. Sleeveless, high collar, fine-weave cotton duster jacket finishes it off. Th' duster's of th' deepest indigo, brushin' into infinity, dancing with th' black silk of th' pants. Twilight and night. Geometric lines an' patterns snake their way up me bare arms, disappearin' under me duster. The tattoos continue, hidden, across me back, down the left side of me chest. Still bright after all th' years. I've done me face to match. A careful set of geometrics descends from me right brown, around my eye, to end at the jawline. Blue an' green an' black. One line o' red. Been years since i've worn th' face paint. Feels right.
It's style and exoticism i convey. Unique without bein' grotesque, as some o' the goths or heads choose to be. Which is fine. 'Tis all personal choice on display. Embeddin' three rows o' Philips head surgical screws into me forehead isn't my taste, but th' Razboy over there by th' speaker carries it well wi' his tattered leather. Or th' debutante look of that brunnett, casually leanin' on th' rail of that catwalk three over. By th' second level bar there's half a dozen zoot-suit wearin' clones, radiatin' unity, drinkin' th' same drink, wearin' th' same cobalt lens shades. Enough goths to populate a small nation. Not as identical as th' zoot-brothers, but still a recognizable uniform, a statement to th' world at large. Philips-head and deb-girl (an' me, i should hope) stand out in their individuality, tellin' th' world something else.
Tracey's doin' a pretty good job o bein' an individual herself. I spotted her when i first dropped into th' mosh pit. She's a beacon, a twirlin' dervish, over on th' look-at-me dance platform. Her cheap, transparent plastic raincoat flies around her, cracklin' an' snappin', buildin' a static charge in an almost noticable nimbus. St. Elmo's fire. The folds o' th' plastic just highten th' black striping of her zebra body suit. She's done her hair into a raised mane, paintin' in bands of black to alternate wi' her near platinum hair. Quite th' effect. Hell o' a dancer, too. Incredible sense of th' rhythm an' she flows like gossamere.
She looks down into th' pit an' sees me; smiles an' waves. Shouts something at me that i can't hear. I just wave back, bouncin' between the mass o' humanity. She gets a wicked grin, clutches her raincoat around her, shouts somethin' else, then launches herself off th' platform an' onto the heads of the moshers. Whatever she shouted must have been a warning, as dozens of hands reach up, spinning her about, surfin' her across the pit. Weighing all of maybe ninety five pounds probably helps. Tracey gyroscopes across th' pit before loopin' back towards me. As i reach up to help pass her on she curls into a ball and, without th' support from th' other hands, drops down onto me. I manage to shift me grip so that i catch th' lithe bundle, her arms an' legs wrappin' themselves around me as she comes face to face wi' me. Hmmm...nice little bundle she is, too.
"Hi! I thought that was you down in the pit!"
"Yeah," i shout back, "Nice o' ye t' drop in. Didn't expect t' see ye here. Great moves," i add, gesturing wi' me head back at th' raised platform, now occupied by two androgynous forms who are either wrestling or fuckin' above the pit.
"Thanks! Not bad yourself."
The crowd surges and i brace me arms in a ring around Tracey, to keep her from gettin' crushed. Bein' small may be an advantage when body surfing, but down on the mosh floor it's libel to get you compressed to a technocolour paste.
"Hey! Let's take a break, ok?" Tracey shouts in my ear as the mosh pit surges the other way.
"Right," i shout back. I slide me hands down under her arms. "Know what a star lift is?" I feel her nod. "If i lift you, can you hold one?" This time i hear an affirmative shout along with the nod. "Ok, let go," i instruct. As Tracey unwraps herself i shove backwards to create some room, then lift her up. I shift me left hand around and drop me right down to her left hip as i bring her back across me right shoulder. Still lifting her i slide me left hand down her side, and cross me hands over so that she's now suspended above me, balanced on me straightened arms. Tracey points her legs behind us an' spreads her arms out in front, strikin' a pose. Graceful. As i propel us off th' dancefloor, Tracey glidin' above, some o' the people on the near catwalks notice and shout their approval o' th' exit.
When we reach open space Tracey reaches down to grasp me wrists, then tucks forwards in a somersault dismount. As her feet touch floor she bounces around, jumpin' up to fling her arms around me neck in a loose hug.
"That was great!" she laughs, her skin flushed with pleasure, with the warmth of life.
I laugh as well, revellin' in her delight.
Ah...to be young.
Still laughing Tracey hugs me tighter, hanging her full weight on me. Not a lot of weight, really, but i put an arm around her to support her. Fallin' over after that exit would be so un-tres.
I also notice that she's warm and soft and firm.
Her heartbeat thumps painfully against me. Her right hand slides up my neck into my hair. I put my other arm about her. Hot breath. Moisture. The peripheral world slams shut, vision contracting. Platinum silk brushes me cheek. Her back is slick, slippery, in the raincoat. Her left leg curls behind my right high. Breasts and stomach mold against me. From my youth, long lost, the word "tantric" springs unbidden. My right hand opens to cup her ass. My fingers squeeze. A plastic seam gives way. Teeth graze along my jaw. My head is pulled down. No resistance. Angles aline. Lips meet. Heat.
I hear th' screamin' wind of nineteen thousand feet over France in
an open plane.
I smell smothered violets.
Four dimensions of space-time reassert their presence with harsh indiscretion. Reality bites hard, shaking it's mangy head furiously as if to kill the experience snatched between its teeth. Tracey freezes, rabbit-still. I experience respiratory difficulty and neglect to breathe. Our hearts try to synchronize. Her breasts are warm and full against me chest.
Aw, hell... How do ye do this to yourself, John old boy? Clutching th' (admittedly, very clutchable) ass of your research assistant?
Behind her grey eyes i can practically see Tracey's brain registering th' same...alarm: kissin' th' boss is not good office protocol.
Desert conditions assert themselves as all fluid flees me mouth, mummifying me tongue into an unarticulatable lump of cinder.
A small animal sound comes from Tracey. Her eyes are very distant.
Very carefully i loosen me grip on her. She lowers herself down from tip-toes, looking up at me, but doesn't pull any further away. We're a sequestered island of mental chaos in the vehemence of the Temple's maelstorm.
Carbon dioxide builds up in me bloodstream; forces me to draw in a deep breath. Oxygen floods neurons nearly dead from unaticipated confusion, forcing lower brain functions to re-establish themselves.
Cautiously, i smile down at Tracey.
Good choice, i think, with a profound mental sigh, as she gives me a small smile back.
"That was nice," she adds quietly.
"Mmhmm," i agree, "very. Uhmm, want to try it again?"
In for a penny...
"Mmhmm," she murmures, raising herself back up towards me.
It is very good to be young, i think, as i bend down to meet her.