Читать книгу Junkfood Sexlife - Jessamyn Violet - Страница 5

“Disaster is laughing at us, baby.”

Odessa Messa stood tall before the bathroom mirror, surveying herself through the looking glass speckled with toothpaste. Her surly, curly, bleach-blonde hair twisted around her cocoa-colored pixie face like a wig of tiny golden snakes. Her bikini top barely covered her small breasts with little bright blue triangles that looked like eyes over a pierced-bellybutton nose and the jagged smile of hips adorned with ripped jean shorts.

Her black and white cat stared up at her from the checkerboard linoleum floor with wide green eyes.

“It is, Felix. I swear it. Laughing at our lack of land lines, laughing at our gravity, laughing at our escape vehicles. I mean, what if a Tsunami warning came in tonight? What would we all do, jump in our cars and sit on Venice Boulevard in a gridlock?”

“Purrrr-ow,” said Felix. He stood up and rubbed against her bare legs in an effort to reassure her, or maybe himself.

“Don’t worry. I’d shove you in my backpack and we’d at least bike the hell out of here. I’m in good enough shape to beat a Tsunami, right?”

Odessa sniffed the air and thought she could smell the familiar stank of blunt coming from her roommate’s room. She swayed her hips to nothing in particular and then bounded down the hall.

Knock, knock. “Wacko, you in there?” No response. “I can smell you’re home.”

Finally a muffled, “Open the door, then.”

Odessa found Wacko slouched into his L-shaped couch, listening to hip-hop and hitting a blunt the size of a permanent marker. His unruly copper-red hair matched the state of his room. He sported high top sneakers, slightly baggy jeans, and, at the moment, a nostalgic kitten sweatshirt. He took his time shifting his gaze from the ceiling to his underdressed roommate.

“Let me hit that,” she said cheerfully.

“Come and get it.”

She collapsed next to him. He looked at her stomach. “Tan.”

“Still Moroccan, asshole. Besides, the beach... We live practically on it, you know.”

“I am barely a human being,” he said.

Odessa plucked the blunt from his hand even though he hadn’t offered it. She took a champion pull off of it and tilted her head back on the exhale, staring upwards. Despite being a total slacker, Wacko had somehow pulled off an impressive sticker collection on his ceiling.

“Get lost, Felix,” he said flatly.

Odessa lifted her head to see Felix slinking in. The cat knew he wasn’t allowed in the room. He always bee-lined for behind the couch and then would jump up and pull their hair since they couldn’t get at him.

Odessa fake lunged at the cat and he bolted the other direction down the hallway. She took another huge hit, passed the blunt, and stood up.

“Well, it’s been real,” she said. “Thanks.”

He reached forward and tugged at her belt loop with his free hand.

“Where you going?”

“I have rehearsal.” She wasn’t not interested in having an afternoon romp, but it was rarely a quickie with Wacko. The guy liked to take his time in general. He’d start slowly, like he was hardly putting effort into it, and then a switch would flip somewhere halfway and it would turn into the wildest sex she’d ever had. The first time they’d banged, about a month after he’d moved in, Odessa remembered thinking it had been a big mistake. She was so bored in the beginning that she wondered how was she going to diplomatically get out of it the next time he made a move. And then, suddenly, she was a puddle on the floor with scrambled brains and a throbbing groin. “I have to leave in, like, five minutes.”

“That’s enough time.”

“Is it, though?”

Odessa giggled as he grabbed at her awkwardly, playing with the fringe on her cutoffs. She climbed up on his lap to straddle him.

“Shotgun,” she directed. He put the lit end of the blunt in his mouth and exhaled as she put her lips to the other end. It came out so fast she began to cough violently and collapsed against him. He was warm and smelled like boy, but she couldn’t be late again. Or could she?

“I gotta go. I’m the one with the key, I’m not going to make everyone wait outside just cause I’m busy screwing your guts sideways.”

She could feel his dick tapping at her through his jeans. Wacko groaned as she lifted off him. He spanked her halfheartedly, mostly missing her ass, as she walked away while still coughing.

“You’ll be back,” he said as she closed the door, smiling to herself.

There was plenty to do at rehearsal that day and she kind of wished she hadn’t gotten so high. The rehearsal room was littered with gear and smelled like the stale B.O. of the guys who had played in it earlier. Odessa sat down at the drum kit and began to warm-up, quickly interrupted by knocking from the other side of the wall.

She opened the door to Johnny and Clint holding cased instruments with gleams in their eyes. They loved to play together so much it was practically an orgy every time they had rehearsal. All that eye fucking and audio fucking and mingling sweaty pheromones always made Odessa a little crazy.

“We had a whole bunch of sake,” Johnny admitted as she hugged him.

“You bastards didn’t bring me any?” Odessa whined.

“What do you think we are… something the opposite of gentlemen?” Clint said, opening his guitar case to reveal a flask.

“I think the word you’re looking for is rude,” she grinned.

There was another knock.

She opened the door and Stevia walked in with her theremin case, dressed in a vintage sundress with cherry red lipstick, looking impeccable as usual.

“Hey, gang,” she said, setting up in her usual corner by the Himalayan salt lamp. “How’s everybody?”

“Good,” they all chorused. Odessa and the guys didn’t really dig Stevia’s vibe all that much. It always felt strained and fake, like she was doing them a favor by being there. But they couldn’t forsake the facts that she looked great onstage and could really play the hell out of that theremin. The instrument sang in a way that was irreplaceable to the band, and Stevia knew it. Everyone said she was a witch, but Odessa had never gotten close enough to prove it. Odessa always had the feeling that Stevia didn’t really like her, but the guys said that was just the impression she gave everyone.

“How should we do this today?” Clint asked. “Run the set, then maybe jam a little and see if we come up with anything?”

“Sounds good to me,” Odessa said.

They got to work. Sometimes, Clint and Johnny and Odessa would lock in so hard that they’d stare at each other until Odessa thought their sex organs would explode. They shared an intuition she’d never found in band mates before. One time, she’d even had an orgasm playing onstage during a particularly crazy part of a song that had turned into a free jam. Later on, Clint had admitted to her that he’d let some “baby juice” loose as well.

Stevia was pretty much always right on the same musical page with them as well, although she never made eye contact with them while playing, so Odessa wondered how exactly Stevia did such a good job following.

Altogether, there was an effortlessness to their sound that made Tiny Tin Heart a band the Venice locals had come to know and love, claiming that they were the next “The Doors” – though it would take the band much longer to reach that kind of iconic status because it was known that fame, in general, took longer these days, thanks to the oversaturation of everything on Earth.

Odessa lived by her intuition, and she sensed change in the air like microwave popcorn about to burst. Things seemed to be improving fast, and the band mirrored the times, shifting constantly towards better. Often, her lyrics and drum beats would be explosive and off-the-grid, the words inciting action, the drum fills spontaneous and a little scrambled, but she always landed back on the one with the rest of the band. People loved the wild, throwback, analog sensation that was Tiny Tin Heart, hooting and hollering at the sweaty local refurbished speakeasy shows they’d play every first Friday night of the month before the DJ would take over and play songs with programmed drum beats.

“That ending was sloppy as fuck,” Clint said, smirking as they came out of a song so clumsily it was clear they’d all gone off wandering in their own thoughts.

“I kinda liked it that way,” Johnny said.

“That’s cuz you’re lazy,” Odessa said playfully, then gulped down more sake. “Everyone knows bass players don’t wanna work.”

“Kiss my ass,” Johnny said.

Odessa blew a kiss at him. He bent over and smacked his own ass.

“We play it till it’s tight,” Stevia said crisply. “We’re not going to be written off as a jam band. It doesn’t matter how weird we get in the middle, the beginning and the end have to be on point or no one takes us seriously.”

“Preach, Stevia,” Clint said. “Someone’s gotta steer this careening spaceship or we’d get lost in the galaxy.”

“Ooh. Good idea. Let’s do a space party theme for our next show!” Odessa clapped her hands in excitement.

“That’s what the fuck I’m talking about,” Johnny said.

“Again,” Stevia said. “I have to be out of here by eight.”

As soon as rehearsal ended, Stevia took off. Odessa lingered with Johnny and Clint to smoke a spliff in the parking lot. They sprawled out in the open back of Odessa’s 40-year-old Honda station wagon. Odessa leaned against Johnny’s knees and Clint lay with his head on her lap.

“Do you guys fear oblivion?” Odessa asked.

“I mean, who doesn’t?” Clint said.

“I don’t,” Johnny said softly.

“Well, obviously,” Odessa teased, “or you wouldn’t have become a bass player.”

He ignored her. “I made my peace with it back when I was a seventeen and my best friend died. Tyler Camp. He never got a chance and he was an absolute genius,” Johnny muttered. “I’m probably the only one who still thinks about him.”

“I’m sorry,” Odessa said, tugging his hair.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t make a difference, is my point. All the time we spend worrying about death and whether anyone will remember us when we go. Being remembered doesn’t fucking matter. Being alive does. And when you’re alive, shut the fuck up and go nuts, enjoy it while you can, and quit worrying about how famous you are or should be. Because I guarantee, even dead famous people mean nothing to most people.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Clint said after a moment.

“I’m not saying I want to be a celebrity or anything,” Odessa said playfully. “That’s gross. I just wanna find meaning in everything that seems so meaningless. You know, turn no big deals into big stupid deals. Whatever. Give me kisses, you guys. Fill me with meaning.”

Odessa leaned back and kissed Johnny on his stubbly lips. He stared down at her with heavy eyes. Then she bent over and kissed Clint on his forehead. He tipped his face up, their lips met, and they began to make out. Odessa’s hand traveled down between Johnny’s knees to his crotch and started rubbing it. His arms closed around her, grabbing her breasts, playing with her while she continued to make out with Clint upside-down. A little moan escaped her lips as the spliff roach fell from her fingers to the ground.

A remote-controlled robo-cop rolled into the parking lot at that moment, whirring as its sidekick drone swept the ground with a spotlight and a motion sensor. The two approached the station wagon. Upon hearing the whirring wail of the robots, the three band mates broke apart and struggled to find normal positions. The drone’s spotlight fixed on them, shining directly into the vehicle. Johnny’s hands dropped from Odessa’s breasts. Clint sat upright. Odessa pushed her hair back away from her face, trying not to look disappointed by the interruption.

An officer’s voice crackled through the robo-cop intercom:

“You guys hear anything that sounded like breaking glass in the last few minutes?”

“No,” Clint said. “No we haven’t.”

“Well, pack it up. The back of a car is no place for an orgy.”

The robo-cop continued to video record the scene while the drone hovered above, keeping the spotlight fixed on them. Clint shifted his legs nervously and a drum stick fell out from the trunk, making its trademark drumstick sound as it hit the pavement, echoing throughout the parking lot. Then a blues band broke into song in the rehearsal space right by where they were parked.

They heard a crackling and then the controlling police officer, in a tower somewhere manipulating the robotic surveillance duo, spoke again through the speakers:

“Pack it up, I said. No loitering. And it’s always a bad idea to hook up with band mates.”

Odessa burst out laughing, surprised.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Johnny said coolly. “Good thing they’re just my cousins.”

“Not funny,” the officer barked through the robot’s intercom. “Don’t make me run blood work on you all.”

The machine beeped as a syringe emerged from a side compartment. The three band mates stared at it in shock. Then the drone began sweeping the rest of the parking lot with its spotlight and the robo-cop sped after it, the creepy laughter of the controlling officer echoing through the speakers.