Writings and ramblings

Like a clap of thunder, the music stops. The DJ shouts “Fuck!” and the dance floor is restless rather than pumping, edgy and discordant rather than in harmony. There are calls of ‘what just happen!’ and the DJ still cursing about a technical glitch, and everyone waits. The lights are garish without the accompanying beats.

Jeroen’s hand squeezes her shoulder, Orhan fingers dig into her back, and a chill falls over her body.

There are times like this when she freezes, and she feels herself watching the scenario play out before her, rather than participating. Where she doesn’t see herself as in control, as teasing and stroking the men either side of her, but as the meat in the sandwich, as someone – or even something – who could be tossed between two uncaring men like a toy, whose arms and legs could be pulled off on a whim, and the sight of her limbless would be amusing rather than cause for sympathy.

She stills herself, eyes down, not meeting either Orhan or Jeroen’s. She doesn’t need their reassure, not right not. She needs for them to relax their hold on her, needs to break out from the cage of their arms. Her breathing becomes more rapid, her chest heaving. She rolls her shoulder under Jeroen’s hand, hoping, hoping she’ll get away without needing to fight… and his hand flexes, not quite away, but he asks, in a normal voice, now capable of being heard in room, “You ok?”

She looks up, meeting Orhan’s eyes first. He stares down, frowning, concerned. The pressure of his fingers ease, and instead he rubs her back. Jeroen likewise rubs her shoulder, rough enough to be friendly. She turns to both of them, smiling, feeling the air in the space between them, freer once more.

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Next: 49. Nibble

Image found on flickr, by Brandon Fick, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Orhan lets go of her hands, moves them to her waist. His fingers rest at the place were her stomach ends and her hips begin; a place, she’s always thought, that marks where touching above is gentlemanly, and below is sexy. It’s the perfect place, she thinks, for him to linger for a while, between chivalrous and seductive.

The music changes, a slow beat, its rhythm lulling, almost soft. The kind that makes her step gently from one foot to the other, a slight shift in weight rather than taking her foot the ground. Jeroen in front of her falls in pace with her, while Orhan moves his knees; she feels his thighs bump softly against the back of her own.

The music starts to seep under her skin. Her pulse falls in with the beat, or so it seems, for it throbs right through her, from the base of her neck to her clit. The lights too flash in time, and the three of them, together, sway like they are connected by more than clutching hands and sensual desire. For a moment, she closes her eyes, and she enjoys the warmth of the two men, and the surrounding sound.
When she opens them, Jeroen tries to move closer, but she shakes her head, lolling it in time to the music.

“Take it slow, take it slow,” she says, exaggerating her lips so he can read them, so she doesn’t have to shout.

Jereon rolls his eyes, but with humour, and keeps that tiny distance that would take only a nudge from someone passing by to close. Though it is like they are in a bubble, enclosed and separated by a membrane of light and sound waves from the other dances, moving in time with them, but not able to touch.

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Next: 47. Undulate

Image found on flickr, by Brandon Fick, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Again, her next words are cut by Orhan falling back next to Jeroen, forcing himself into the picture again. Once more, the contest is on. It does, she admits to herself, amuse her to let it continue for a while. Granted, it may well be a double or nothing game, but the night is still young. The night is always young, she believes, until dawn.

Jeroen swings back his beer, draining the bottle. “I think it’s time we danced.”

He doesn’t take her hand, but his fingers circle her wrist. She let’s Jeroen pull her to her feet, away from the table. With his grip tight on her wrist, she reconsiders her earlier assessment of him as ‘sweet’. She didn’t pick up on arrogance, or his power. Probably because she let Diarmuid distract her. Then again, Jeroen could be unaware of his strength. The grip isn’t bone-crunching, but it won’t take no for an easy answer.

She beckons to Orhan, a little wildly, insisting he join them. He starts to shake his head – conceding territory, but her hand is insistent. She wants to be fought over still, before the final decision. Jeroen is about to pull her out of view of the table, but Orhan stands and tumbles after them, grasping her hand, and they make a strange chain through the crowd, a moray eel snaking with electric flashes through the water of the tank, curving around the rock-like tables and the schools of people. Jeroen uses his size to mark the passage, though people quickly fill the space, she and Orhan still ducking and weaving.

A space in the crowd appears, and Jeroen dives towards it. She and Orhan are dragged there, and the three of them glide into the pool of light, forming an arc, with her the fulcrum.

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Next: 45. Three

Image found on flickr, by .shyam., used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

A hand falls on Jeroen’s shoulder. From the smiles exchanged between him and the man and woman who are behind him, he knows them. Reluctance flashes across his face, but he excuses himself, and stands just a bit away from the table to talk with the couple.

Orhan casts his eyes down, as if that might hide his smirk. But before she can move closer to him, or speak, his face turned to hers, and he says;

“Do you always talk with strange men when you go out?”

She laughs. “I’d hardly call you or your friends strange.”

“But you do not know us. We might seem friendly and nice now, but who knows if that will last…”

She can’t tell if it’s a threat, or a test. Or a promise that they are both more ‘dangerous’ than they seem. But she sees another way that could be interpreted, and she chooses to pretend she’s read it that way.

She makes to stand. “I can leave if you’d like—”

A look of minor panic sets his face. “Oh no! I’m sorry, I wasn’t being, what’s the word…”

She settles back down again, though poised, ready again for faux-flight.

He snaps his finger. “Underhanded. Please, no, your company is… very nice.”

She turns her chin upward. “Just very nice?”

Orhan beckons her closer. She allows a beat to pass before complying. He almost speaks in her ear to say;

“Lovely and enchanting.”

She inclines her head, and leans away. “Better.”

He says, more genially, “I am only wondering what you want.”

She winks. “One can’t give all their secrets away at once.”

His hand caresses his bottle of beer. “I doubt it will be a secret by the end of the night.”

She smirks; she bloody well hopes not.

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Next: 43. Jeroen

Image found on flickr, by Rodrigo Favera, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

He smiles, a little jolly, which takes her aback.

“It’s cool. Glad a girl knows what she wants and how to get it. Only, you’ve got no hope with me.”

She turns her head sideways, flirtatious and teasing. “Is that a challenge?”

“No, statement of fact. I’m gay.”

She knows her face has become fixed, trying to mask not so much disappointment, but the inward kick she’s giving herself for not having realised. Unfortunately, Diarmuid can see the exact trajectory of the kick, and he becomes smug again.

“Oh that poor gaydar of yours…”

She makes her best rueful expression, and gives his arm a playful nudge. “Hush. Take it as a compliment I was considering you.”

“Hmm. I suspect you’d consider most men, even if briefly.”

A genuine flicker of hot angry boils in her chest

“Not saying that it’s a bad thing—”

“But you don’t mind me thinking that you think it is.” The words are said through her teeth. He probably can’t even hear her, but he must catch her meaning.

His jaw locks as he swallows, frowning at her. “Alright. I’m an arse sometimes.”

She waits a long moment, before saying, “Apology accepted.”

Diarmuid raises his beer bottled, and she her cocktail glass.

About half a minute after their peace treaty, she speaks, feigned coyness. “So you’re not even up for an experiment?”

Diarmuid chuckles. “Not me. Xavier would, but go anywhere near him and I’m not afraid to fight dirty. He’s mine tonight.”

She looks over to where Xavier is talking with Square Glasses. Xavier’s face is animated as the other guy does the talking, the kind of interest you show to someone to indicate your rapt attention.

She looks back at Diarmuid, and indicates over her shoulder. “You sure about that?”

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Next: 41. Competition

Image found on flickr, by Bruno Girin, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

She frowns at the word ‘marketing’, like he’s applied a commercial to what everyone is wearing.

“Personal choice has to come into it too,” she protests.

He shrugs. “Sure, that’s what they want you to think.”

She tries to keep the tone light, and puts one hand on her hip, grinning as she says, “Capitalist conspiracy then?”

“Oh of course!”

“So, do you think I’m the product of marketing?”

She can’t help notice Diarmuid roll his eyes, and excuse himself, for what is probably the bathroom.
Xavier sniggers, and then says, simply, “We all are. Even Mr. I’m Above All That who just left us. It is all about creating an image of ourselves. Did you really dress ‘just for yourself’ tonight?”

She doesn’t need to think about that. Of course she didn’t. But this kind of spotlight on her isn’t what she wants, so she shifts it away.

“Diarmuid doesn’t look like he cares that much how he dresses.”

“No, and when he comes out somewhere like this, that is what he tells himself, and what he tells himself each time he throws on whatever he picked up from the floor or yanked out of the closest. But that’s to tell himself he’s a real man who doesn’t care…”

She can fill in the blanks – when in fact, he does.

“You’re a smart guy,” she says, meaning it, rather than flirting.

“Nah, just another smart enough guy in a smart city.”

She doesn’t quite believe his humility, but it’s nice to hear anyway, and she wonders what it would be like to hug him.

She gives Xavier her wide toothy smile, and leans forward, allowing her breasts to ease further out of her dress. Xavier only gives her a pleasant grin.

Then Diarmuid returns, and looks between them both.

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Next: 39. Second Round

Image found on flickr, by geishaboy500, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Before she can say anything, Jeroen and Xavier bend their heads together to talk. She could only see their lips move, not make out any words, just like fish bubbling underwater.

She turns to Diarmuid, whose flat mouth smile seems more tolerant that pleased.

What the fuck is his deal? She wonders, remembering the lip-smacking from the street. Maybe he’d hoped to scare her off.

She squares her shoulders, and settles into the chair. She is not leaving now. Diarmuid doesn’t speak, so she takes the initiative.

They make small talk: Been here often? (Both before but not frequently) What do you think of it? (It’s alright, he says, which she agrees to, knowing her true response will take too long and make no sense to him.) What do you research exactly? (He starts giving her a dry scientific explanation about something to do with insect genetics but soon she’s shaking her head with incomprehension.)

The chat exhausted, she looks about the bar and near the dance floor, at the people moving through the light like water. All they need is a fish tank in here, she thinks, like they have in some of the really swanky bars in the larger cities. That said, it would seem far too ostentatious for Cambridge, too over the top. Besides, it’s better now, watching people glide and shimmer in the blue light.

“People watching?” Diarmuid asks.

She nods. “People are interesting.”

He raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You think so?”

“You don’t?”

“Most people are so self-absorbed they don’t see past the end of their own nose.”

She looks at sideways at him first, before returning to the crowd. Yes. They are all caught up in their own little dramas, unaware of anyone but their immediate circle.

There are worse things they could be doing, she decides.

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Next: 37. Cheers!

Image found on flickr, by Wonderland, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

“Just you then…” Diarmuid purrs, and his tongue slips out between his lips. It’s so over-the-top sleazy that she laughs out loud, but Orhan looks honestly mortified.

“What are you, a slobbering dog?” he asks.

Diarmuid holds his hands up in protest. “Hey, just saying! Not like I’m going to pounce on her.”

She thinks it would be unwise, at this point, to say she wouldn’t mind that at all.

“No, you certainly won’t,” Jeroen says, voice completely ironic. Diarmuid cocks his head at him, folds his arms, eyes narrowed slightly, before wagging his finger at Jeroen, but he doesn’t say anything. She detects volumes of history hidden in these interactions, but decides not to pry.

They continue along the queue this way, bantering, laughing, asking non-serious questions about each other. When they get to the door, at last, the doorman looks them over, and decides they’re all fine. She wonders if he noticed that three of the men are all wearing Converse, Xavier being the exception.
The stairs drop, sharp and sheer, space economised so tightly that she has to lean back a little to stop the feeling of falling forward. Jereon puts his hand on her shoulder, firm but not gripping her.
It makes the journey down the stairs less frightening, and she’s able to give the ticket man a genuine smile rather than a fixed grin of terror.

They pay for entry, and squeeze into the bar together. Free of the staircase, the bar opens up, a vault packed not with treasure but people. A thin aqua marine light bathes the marble walls, a soothing colour but also icy cool. Somewhere you can feel relaxed, but not cozy. It makes bare skin look even more naked, and she wonders what it would be like if they all were.

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Next: 35. Table

Image found on flickr, by Rennett Stowe, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

A queue is snaking out from the bar she wishes to enter. She looks down the length of it, and assess it will be at least a five minute wait.

She decides she can afford five minutes.

She attaches herself onto the end, and is soon joined by a group of four men. They are maybe her age or younger, with fresh as daisy faces, eagerness, joy, excitement of the night before them. They are chatting to each other – pleasantly, without any macho posturing. This is good. She can handle a bit of cocky strutting, but she prefers to view if from afar, the other side of the room or opposite side of the street, something to be noticed, watched, but heaven forbid interact with; too many thought showing off to their buddies constituted finding a woman to holler at or pull her hair or try and grope. Like in the playground, but far more threatening. A pack is different from a group of friends.
One of them – tall, blond, broad – turns to her and smiles, and asks her how long she has been waiting.

“Just got here,” she says.

“Oh, that’s good. How long do you think it will be?”

She detects a slight accent through the word perfect English.

She tells him. He nods.

“That’s ok. Better than ok. At least we can talk out here.”

She cocks her head. “We can talk inside too.”

“Ah, but with all that music throbbing and people trying to talk to each other, you end up Shouting! And Screaming! Trying! To Make! Yourself! Heard!”

He mimics the hoarse shouts that everyone uses in a club to make themselves heard, replete with the excessive, expressive facial movements that accompany them so well that she giggles, her hand going to her mouth, almost shy.

He seems very sweet.

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Next: 33. Origin

Image found on flickr, by Alex Brown, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Swiftly, she leaves the square, strides up the side of the church where Auntie’s Tea Shop sits, the chairs now piled up on the outdoor tables and cordoned off like that will protect them. Reminders of the people that aren’t filling them, of the lack of anyone around but the eyes that are piercing her back.

She exhales, thinking it is just her, a sudden tension born from inside that is manifesting in imaginary beings. The release is fleeting; the sense of a persistent stare is still present.

At King’s Parade, she looks up. King’s College chapel looms over her in the dark. And despite her unknown observer, she stops, takes a deep breath.

The sky is that dark shade of blue that sits beyond twilight but just this side of night time. Against it, the spires of the chapel are branches studded with wood knots, or gnarled pieces of fruit. Beautiful, frightening, out of reach. She swallows, and moves across the parade, heading for the low wall that blocks the front lawns of the College from tourists and the town. The huge, billowy horse chestnut on the lawn in front of the chapel itself undulates in the breeze. It is a large, woolly beast that could smother, or protect.

Breathing now juddering, she falls back onto the wall, sitting hunched over, eyes furtive and darting around her. Each little rustled paper grabs her eye, each scurrying leaf seems a threat. But there is no one there, in any direction. The street, often so busy during the day, is bizarrely empty except for her.

She inhales. And now, with the chapel and the chestnut at her back, and the realisation that she is really, in fact, not being followed, or watched, she sits up straight, and relaxes her grip on her shawl.

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Next: 31. Next Stage

Image found on flickr, by James Bowe, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.