Smokey Kisses

Autumn crept up like a fart. The days were steely and the nights bitter. But we were boys. We were 16. You have to create your own fun in this coal stain of a town: a graffitied scramble of brick terraces and abandoned shops. We were 16, princes of the shadowy estate. On this autumn night the cold of possibility chilled us to the bone. It was Rob who suggested it: he had older brothers, see, so he was always on the front foot.
Let’s go to the Tavern.
Of course Tom ‘butt-fuck’ Handley had backed him up; all the way up to the fucking hilt. And now here we were, and they were looking at me to go first.
Fuck it.
Those famous last words. There was no security, so I shuffle in feeling as transparent as a sheet, through those wide doors and right into the barrel. The room is awash with watery talk and booze. A man sits at the bar, looking as drab as an English weatherman. The bar lady stacks glasses, looking like a caricature. She has a friendly face, in that I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of a way. I slide on over, all nonchalant and old.
Just a New thanks, I say, pulling the words from my Adam’s apple.
She looks down at me thinking, are you fucking serious. Waiting for the shiny cameras to jump out and the news headlines to brand themselves into her forehead. But she can’t be arsed the hassle, and thrusts the beer at me. I pay her in change to make things fucken worse. The ‘today and the rest of the week will be dull’ guy sits next to me, cradling his beer like it’s the Queens piss. You know how he’s going to sound, just from the look of him: all “fuck” and “mate.”
How are ya.
He looks at me like I just asked him to pull my finger, then turns back to his beer.
Fucken alright, mate.
Fuck me to a cross.
Outside, I watch the boys play rock, scissors, paper, and the security to tell them to piss off. They sulk on over to the fish and chip shop, like dogs. Then the lights inside dim and a woman walks on to the small stage. Her lipsticked lips pull back on a fag and she kisses the smoke into the wash of the room. Her hair is black and frizzy and untamed. Pulling a guitar around her neck, she throws back the rest of her beer. She’s younger than she looks; she would’ve been beautiful once. The weatherman looks at her with the lust of Degas: his eyes groping and grabbing. She plucks a few strings, and begins. And that was it. The point of no return. I should’ve gone played silly buggers with Rob and Tom. Or jumped off a fucken bridge or something. But I don’t. I just sit there; like a stunned mullet, or a boy with his first boner. Glued. Then she begins to sing. Her voice rips through me like shrapnel, like piss in the snow; and my heart could beat right out of my fucking chest. It’s pure and crackly and vulnerable, like an old wireless. She sings with the longing of a widow. Those powerful notes rippling through the room like swells. Heck, it’s so moving I almost feel guilty about the tingling in my dick. I watch her fingers, as they glide along the neck in a Waltz. The sound of it penetrated me like a fever. I feel like I’d had my soul ripped out my anus. Drabby next to me is a little perkier now, and rattles on about something or other. Footy probably. I answer him absently, mesmerized, transfixed; hypnotised by the music, by the guitar, by this women. But then she’s finished and disappears off stage, poof! Like a mirage.

It was two and a half weeks before I saw her again. I went back to the pub, but they didn’t know when she’d play again. I was walking home biting at my cracked lips in a thinning wind. Rob and Tom were up ahead. Things had become a little weird since the pub night, so I took the long way home. And there she was; leaning up against a brick fence, in front of a brick building. Wisps of smoked pooled around her lips before she’d sends them pirouetting on the breeze. The wind dragged her blouse across her breasts. I eyed her nervously as I walk by.
Fuck it.
And there they are again, those famous ‘fuck-me-in-the-arse’ last words.
Hi, I squeak like someone has a tight grip around my little ones.
She blows smoke out the side of her mouth.
I saw you play the other week.
Nothing. I’m sweating now and I hug my arms for warmth. I feel all hot and cold, like microwave food. And just as greasy.
Um, it was at the Tavern. I ah. I really liked it.
Still nothing. She takes another drag.
Okay, I mumble and turn to go.
Kid. You play?
Her voice is as scratchy as a chimney. Not what I had expected.
Um. No. But I want to learn, I say like I’m fucken two years old.
It’s cool, you know? I persist. Writing those songs, and stuff.
You do it ‘cause you have to kid. You have no choice, she says emphatically, you know?
Yeah, I lie.
The silence thickens as I study my shoes.
I can teach you if you like.
Yeah?
Yeah. Come round this time next week. 15 bucks an hour.
With that she takes the final drag and flicks the cigarette in between us. I watch it smoulder away.
Okay. Yeah. Sound good, I say a little unsure.
Alright kid, she says, and turns away. Remember, 15 bucks.

The room is tiny: boxed in by piles of books and CDs and folders. A grand piano sits austere in the corner, covered almost completely in sheet music and other papers. She seems surprised to see me. Bleary eyed, she leans against the door cupping her coffee. Behind her, the kitchen is full of dishes. A solitary beam of light comes through a grimy window, strong and determined.
Um. I’m the kid from last week.
She looks at me, searching, and I finger the straps of my school bag nervously.
You told me to come round.
Oh. Right. Yeah. Come in.
She’s not wearing a bra and her nipples stick out like witches hats. The smell of the room is dizzying: musky and sweet and her. A black cat pushes up against me as I negotiate my way into the small living room.
Right, so you wanna learn to play, huh? she says whilst bent over the desk organising the papers.
Yeah.
Hm. Okay. Well. Can’t teach with a dirty kitchen, can ya? Do us a favour will ya kid? Do a few dishes while I set up here.
And that’s how I spend my first music lesson. I scrubbed and scraped and scoured. I revelled in it. Sure, she hadn’t actually taught me anything, but it was enough for me to just be there; soaking up the music coming from the old stereo and listening to her sing along. Photos plastered the walls. They were black and whites. And all of her, naked. I gazed at one in particular, as I rubbed away at those dishes. She looked so powerful and beautiful. Her breasts full, like berries, with her arms up around her head. Her hips melted away into a man’s. You couldn’t see his face, but he must’ve been James fucken Dean from the way her eyes burnt through the back of his head. Yes, James Dean. You’d have to be. To be straddled and controlled by this woman.
It was that photo which kept me coming back, those first few times. I eventually got to learn some music . The theory first; gotta wank before you can fuck, she’d say. Problem was it was boring as bat shit. The oldies bought me a crappy little guitar, which I twanged away at till the dog next door would start up with its whooping bark.

Music quickly overtook my life. My marks plummeted, and I rarely saw Rob and Tom. Instead, I lost myself to the ecstasy of Pink Floyd, the lust of Led Zeppelin and the swagger of Jimmy Hendrix. I though about her a lot, and I’d spend hours in that steamy shower rubbing away and picturing that black and white woman. I didn’t know wether I loved her because of the music or the music because of her, but every week I’d go round with 15 sweaty dollars and fall victim to their intoxications.
But everything would change, on this musky afternoon. My world, completely. Autumn gives way to spring and I troop up the hill with the determination of a soldier. She was in one of her good moods and greets me with a smile. That smile, it kills me. The room behind her is just as squeaky.
Hey, she shoots at me and turns away before I have time to respond. Today you’re going to learn to play ‘Classical Gas.’ It’s an easy song. But it’s all about timing and bravado. You gotta have balls, and ya gotta know when to use them.
She emphasises the balls part and cups an imaginary pair, in case I’d never seen a set. Every pube on my scrotum stands on end.
You do have balls, don’t you?
Again, that fucking smile. It slays me. I study the music. The notes swing and dance along the tightropes; like ballerinas they dance and swirl and play. My fingers follow them up and down the fret board. The ballerinas pull me in and spin me round, tossing me from one to the other. I watch as they spin and twirl and flip, and soar and glide and flow and fold. But then I trip and fall, and it all disappears like smoke.
Timing, she snaps. It’s all about timing. Having the balls to push on, but having the balls to ease up.
Without hesitation she slips in behind me, breasts pressed up against my back, legs wrapped around me. She takes the guitar and begins the dance. The ballerinas jump of the page and muse and prance and laugh, and chase and fly and giggle. I study her hands: like birds, like lovers they answer each other’s calls. They glide and drift and sail and caress and kiss. The ballerinas swing and dream and flirt. They flit and dart and flutter. But then they stop and stand, dizzied. And bow. The last notes linger in the air.
There were no famous last words this time. Instead I throw my mouth against hers, my tongue probing like the first fleet. She stiffens, but I cajole her with my hands and mouth, and she melts into me like clay. I pillage through her cloths, until her tits are free and full. And there I am, her eyes burning through me. She pulls my shirt free and studies my white, young body. My dick wrestles with my jeans and sticks out the top, red and angry. Her undies are moist and sticky and slick, I traverse along their silver lining. Like Scott, I travel and slip and explore. Like Cook, I penetrate and probe and navigate. Like Burke and Wills, I grub and grab and finger. And she pulls and claws and yearns.

This town can beautiful, when the light hits it right. The lighthouse shepards the cueing ships in through the harbour, and they slide in along the icy water like buildings. Surfers dot the ocean as swells sweep in around the headland. Outside this tiny room, kookaburras snigger like school kids, and the moon is lost up in the empty blue. I’m soaked. Head to toe. Grimy and sweaty in the sweltering heat. The afternoon sun casts across her white arse. With a clammy hand I trace along her rolling hips and shoulders, and into the spill of her hair. I watch her breast rock with her steady breath and listen to her faint snore. I feel sex creeping across my skin. My dick is flaccid and small and spent. It’s late, the oldies would be worrying. Not that I can smear the smile from my face. Pulling my jeans on I think about kissing her on the cheek, but don’t. I pull the door closed behind me.
That week I practiced more than ever, and I let the music wash over me as if it were her hair. She embodied the music and the music embodied her. And I was on my knees before them. On every lick I could taste her skin, on every melody I could feel her breath and on every crescendo I could hear her ecstasy.

At her door, I knock and knock but she doesn’t answer. The door is unlocked, so I sneak open the latch and slide on in. The first thing I notice are her boobs. But they’re different: static and limp. Not pendulous like when we made love, or ripe as in the photo. But still. Her toes are white and untangled, her fingers peaceful, and that’s when it hits me. Like a brick across the face. The rope cuts in around her neck, all red and fleshy. The gentle sway of her body makes me sick. Urine runs down her thighs and drivels onto the floor boards.
She left a note.
It didn’t mention me.