I was still trying to shrug my conscience away when her surprisingly talented lips sucked my oversized pacifier. No need to lecture me on the disgusting analogy. It was how it felt. My own birth was closer to Malcolm McLaren’s promo stunt with his very much intendedly scandalous casting band featuring the underwhelmingly incapable bass player than to her parents’ tryst that lead to her existence after all. A lot closer.
Blame me if you must. It helped both of us: I got my ego polished along with my fishing rod while she got the feeling of being an unruly and disgraceful late teen out of it—in times when deodorants named Anarchy can be bought in convenience stores. Just consider the absurdity... anarchy being commercially available at your next-door bulwark of capitalism. Maybe that’s why these kids don’t use that brand—or any at all, for that matter. That alone would not be the issue but the processed grease and old onions from the cheap fast food venues do add some... flavor to one’s body odor.
Admittedly, doing it in the dirtiest stall of the ladies’ room while the local hardcore band rattled down their set at speeds that would have made Greg Ginn green with envy probably was as punk as this Tuesday night would get. At the same time, did the separation of bathrooms by assigned sex still make sense in times when gender fluidity should be accepted as perfectly natural? In the graffiti- and anti-fascist sticker-wallpapered basement of a half-deteriorated, illegally squatted mansion in the middle of an abandoned industrial dump of all places.
Well, I did feel pretty renegade being likely the guy who increased the average age of the braces-ridden audience by at least five years and left everyone with the impression I was desperately trying to blend in with the youth—or chase obscenely young tail. At least, that’s what I’d read in the bartending girl’s gaze when she threw me a pitiful look over my company who was cuddling with my arm. My girl must have been too easily misinterpreted as being under my tutelage and having dragged her surrogate daddy figure to such a loud place. To defend said barmaid, she likely wasn’t familiar with my washed- and worn-out Circle Jerks shirt that must have predated her hatching by a year or five.
Can’t hold that against her.
Anyway, I was chastising myself mentally for still thinking about the cute barkeep who was seriously rocking the skinhead girl look with her unkempt bangs and loose, braless tanktop while Whotsername kneeling in front of me was using me as a mic for deep-throat karaoke like it was the Eurovision pre-qualification round. I didn’t bother to keep my voice down as it gave me the kicks, and it did her too, based on how, together with her salacious slurps, we created a positive feedback loop of lust. In between moans, I was having a hard time not just bursting into laughter over the irony of getting acquainted first orally and then verbally and how ridiculously easy it had been to score tonight. Works for me.
Judging from the rhythmic glucking she so shamelessly flaunted, I took it was common practice in this place to make a show of the conquests one has abducted to the stalls. This assumption got confirmed when I heard the bathroom door open and someone walk in, halt, backpedal and finally ‘woohoo’ us from the top of their lungs in a broken voice that sounded more like an ode to excesses on cheap booze, second-hand cigarettes and singing along with the band. Nina Hagen would have been proud.
I cussed when my baby dressing boiled up my balls and spilled out in mind-melting throbs amplified by her thumb's incessant gentle caresses on my slippery frenulum. Smiling like winning the lottery, she embraced the sprays of her coveted jackpot plastering her pretty face. Meanwhile, despite the ebbing but still frequent afterglow spasms, I fought to keep my eyes open and not fall into a clichédly flattering snore on the spot. Whoever had taught her to keep that velvety touch during and shortly after the orgasm knew what they were telling her to do.
Just as the first classy snort threatened to leave my nose, I willed myself to stay awake—even if it meant shaking my alertness to full overdrive by tearing the girl’s pants down and submitting my ammonia-, sweat- and cold tobacco-offended nose to a saturation of day(s)-old crotch marinade (note the bracketed plural). To be fair, she hadn’t minded my unwashed dick either.
Sparing you the detail.
You’re welcome.
I do shower every day, though.
Yes, very rock ‘n’ roll of me; keep the smug remark.
The stall next to us flushed.
Turns out I lucked out and this little punk chick must have had discovered the virtues of personal hygiene. I don’t mean the hair—heck, I’ll let anyone grow as much hair as they feel comfortable with in the places of their choosing. It does have a certain anti-establishment feel to it in times of slick slits and bleached anuses rubbed in everyone’s faces, courtesy of social media. I meant that she was either blessed with modest olfactory effusion or had had the decency to prepare for such eventualities.
Still, my oral assault came as enough of a surprise to send her to the edge in merely a few well-placed licks—just in time for the bathroom visitor to knock on the door and invite themself in. “Got room for one more in there?”
Unable to speak, given my mouth was busy being put to better use than blabbing, all I could affirm was a muffled hum. This, however, sent my little lover girl right to the stars. “YESSS! YESSS!” she replied to both my voice reverberating on her clit and the broken voice’s request.
The exact moment the paper-thin door flung open—decaying antifa-squatted house; why would the toilet locks still be functional?—the intruder was welcomed by a cum-baptized girl in seventh-heaven bliss, emptying her bladder down some old fart nearly twice her age’s gullet like NOFX’s Louise. What else would you come to a public toilet for? Certainly not to replace the spunk on the girl’s face with your drool while making a point of breaking grandma’s strictest table manners regarding the consumption of liquid nutrition.
Outrageous! The old lady’s turning over in her grave!
The sloppy make-out session I witnessed in the following was a sight to behold: tongues passionately sloshing around my sauce, fighting for the upper hand while hands were playing hide between the partner’s legs.
One more time, the bathroom door gave its telltale agonizing creak that rivaled Tim Armstrong’s guitar amp feedback. This time, though, the new visitor, the bartender, grossly misinterpreting my unacceptable presence, simply yanked me by my hair and pulled me out of our little private stall. Or so I thought at first. In fact, she flexed her exceptionally sharp perception and situation assessment made proof by her lifting her skimpy plaid skirt and pulling my face into her naked crotch while putting her booted foot on my shoulder to establish dominance.
The point was not lost on the other two that were still in the narrow confinement of the thin chipboard walls, tongue wrestling over drops of my earlier offering. They too joined the male toilet slave who was earning his golden reward from his newfound, nameless Jezebel who wasn’t afraid of using his favorite t-shirt as a doormat for her Doc Martens.
All three stood around me, taking turns in snowballing my load back and forth while holding my face firmly locked against Bar Girl’s pussy by a fistful of my hair. “Bite my clit and scratch my cunt with your scruffy stubbles. Make me ruin your pretty face, daddy whore.”
For once not feeling so rebellious anymore, I very happily gave in to her crude orders. As if I were a depraved little lapdog I lapped her large inner labia that protruded from her slit like a soft fleshy flower enwrapping my tongue in a meaty cushion of soft wetness. Her clit was so well-hidden between her folds I kept clumsily losing it and darting for it but the combination of my awkward fumbling caused by the weird angle and my scrubby lips easily catapulted her to a shattering full-body climax during which both her companions had to support her.
She was fighting for breath, legs barely carrying her anymore as her eyes rolled up and she relaxed every muscle in her body, releasing the dutifully retained fluids of an entire evening’s worth of bartending at two-point-odd pints per hour. The warm, acrid stream landed on my chin and cascaded down my neck, soaking into my old t-shirt that was experiencing the acme of its twenty-five years in my possession.
What followed were lazy, smacking kisses exchanged between all parties—my cum from earlier included, naturally.
Sadly, my initial companion had already drained me so badly, best I managed for the rest of our little private sideshow was unimpressive half-mast, and I wasn’t really into the prospect of getting sucked as though it were a poorly rolled doobie either. This did, nonetheless, not prevent me from joining the merry-cum-go-round.
I chuckled as I remembered the piss-ruined and accidentally situation-fitting t-shirt I had picked for the night. My frivolous companions chimed in with the laughter before they looked at each other, nodded and spewed the curious foamy mixture of meanwhile highly spit-diluted DNA onto my face and upper body to fulfill the message screen-printed on my chest.
Our visitors gave each of us a sensual, full-lipped kiss and an earnest “thank you.” They giggled as streaks of the stringy slime were still hanging between our faces.
“I like you,” Bar Girl said with a gaze that captured mine and lingered a bit too long.
And off the two of them went, skipping back to the main attraction while holding hands.
My conquest—or new mistress?—lent me a hand to help me up; a sweet gesture. She looked at me, smiling over both ears, pastel pink short hair ruffled in all directions. She kept my hand as we slowly stepped to the bathroom door.
“Merch stand?” I suggested. “I might need a new t-shirt.”
She agreed, snickering.
“And I’m gonna hang this one up as a keepsake.”
I opted against washing my face. A cautionary glance in the mirror confirmed my suspicion that my kohl was running down my face and mingling with the goo it had been garnished with. I looked like the cheap man-whore I knew I was deep within—or a clumsy first try at corpse paint.
The merch guy who sold me the shirt, a stupid, knowing grin spanning from ear to ear, happened to be the band’s singer. Standing beside him was an obviously jealous guitarist sporting an impressively high blue mohawk that had her tilt her head to pass any door. I blew her a kiss and a wink and turned to the girl to whom I owed my improvised make-up.
The rest of the night was a blur. Exchanged numbers and first names, a few more beers, wiping my face clean with a tastefully perfumed handkerchief, the girl showing me her forename read backward is a sexual practice applicable both ways (given the appropriate tools) and considered second base among her generation, yadda-yadda-yadda—nothing out of the ordinary.
***
I unwrap the thin slab I brought from home and inspect the frame’s content. Some of the stains resisted the bile soap just as my brain barely escaped the alcohol-facilitated purge. While hangovers are, fortunately, fleeting (even those who remind the victim of a Minor Threat show playing in their skull), those permanent blotches testify to the shirt’s long and fulfilled life and how it went out with a bang—quite literally.
It will do perfectly between the posters and collection of guitar picks I’ve hung on the wall of my classroom. As a somewhat eccentric high school music teacher, I take pride in my décor of contemporary music concert memorabilia.
I hang it on the nail, step back and look at it. The few who will recognize the band will love it. Some of my students always do.
“Mr. Carter,” a voice behind me intrudes my little moment, “as I memoed you last week, you’re having a new student for private singing classes.”
“Yeah, rings a bell,” I reply to the principal while slowly turning around, gaze reluctant to leave the newly-hung ornament. “Lana, if memory serves.”
Yes, memory does serve for once and I don’t think much of it until I turn around and realize why it serves so well in this case. My eyes fall on the one Lana whose number I got after a certain Tuesday night’s hardcore escapade—in both the musical and lewd sense of the expression.
I observed wordlessly how she first looks at me and then follow her gaze to a certain garment with suggestive stains now prominently hanging on the wall as the new centerpiece. Her growing smirk is only limited by the frame of her face.
“Private classes...” I repeat in the best inconspicuous voice I manage, lips curling into a broad leer quicker than I hoped for. “Right.”
Remember when I said it probably wouldn’t get any more punk than the bathroom stall episode?
Scratch that!
