Art: Written Word

Heavy Beat, Hard Ride, Hot Night


Heavy Beat

The white tiles in the floor pulse with the colored lights underneath, moving to their own rhythm. The people above move, grind, shake, dance. He watches the tiles blink in between the heat, moving bodies and shuffling feet. Speakers relentlessly pound the heavy bass into the air. Something between a danceable techno and a hard industrial, people dance to it anyway. He pops another pill and watches the world spin out of control in the overheated environment of the club. She's on the floor out there. He can see her, can see her color-shifting jacket and pants. Heavy leather woven with the pattern fabric. He sees all sorts of pattern-shifting clothes. They're hell on the eyes sometimes, especially when you've been drinking too much. Hers isn't so bad. Hers is always purple. Just a million shades of purple, always moving, like a sea, or air. Or a beat. Her body moves like liquid through the crowd, all comers succumb to her rhythm, all are eventually rebuffed. Not before that guy feels her curves, before that girl tastes her mouth, that guy slides a hand across her breasts ... it continues. His drugs are small, fit in a pocket. Her drugs move on the dance floor to a beat that never stops as long as the club is open. He gets another beer, she moves closer to him, her little game. First move away, then return. Always she returns to him, always he takes her back. He's getting tired of the game tonight. She moves closer, the beat seems to increase. He doesn't like the transient nature of pattern-shifting clothing. She slides up next to him. He downs the last of his beer. Her arms snake around his waist, he can smell her sweat. Lips touch his neck. He turns his head, their lips touch. Her tongue slides across his lips, hungry mouths reach for each other. He pulls back. Her head rests on his shoulder as he stares into the mirrors lining the walls watching the dancers move robotically to a rhythm only the lights in the floor can follow. She whispers into his ear.


Hard Ride

Fast bikes, that's her thing. He has a big old road hog. A good heavy touring bike, seats two, saddlebags for your gear. It's still fast, but is built more for long rides. Hers is Fast, it looks fast with curves that match hers. Together they scream speed as the highway is chewed up underneath her wheels. He rides the highways for a while, with her. Both of them caught in their own little worlds. He moves off and they both know he'll be at the bar they meet up at. Less music, more booze, not the club she's fond of. The club is her place, the bar is his. She rides on alone, opening the engine up and chewing up the concrete loops of highway built from years of construction to accommodate more and more rush hour traffic in this city. All but dead at night as hot rodders and go-gangs occupy them. She splits the lanes, eating the white slashes in the road up like a hungry Pac-Man from a video game years deep in the past. He always leaves her on the road, alone like that. He goes and sits and watches the stripper on her stage dance for the biker gangs and drinks a few beers and waits for work. Even biker gangs need hackers, they must because he still gets lots of work from them. Some big, some small, always there though. She rides, hunched over her machine, chewing up the highway, spitting it back out with her exhaust. She has to go back to him, always has to go back to him. From the dance floor he refuses to go out on, from the highway he shuns. She pulls through the final loop at break neck speeds, pushing the performance of the bike, and her skill. She slows down on the off ramp. Down one street, then another, ignoring red lights, screaming through them with the high pitched whine of motor. Up to the bar, parked next to his massive bike built for distance, not speed, and inside. There he is in black leather, blue denim and a keyboard on the table with a cable running into his jacket to hook up to his pocket-PC. She sits next to him and orders her own beer, unzipping the leather. He watches sweat slide down her torso from the exposed flesh between her breasts. He leans forward to whisper in her ear.


Hot Night

Back home again, five in the morning. She peels off the leather suit, sliding it down her body, still sweaty from the club and the ride. Naked torso, wearing nothing but lace underwear under the biker suit. He pulls his own jacket off and watches her naked form slide into the bathroom. He hears the water turn on as he pulls his boots off. Peeling his own clothes off he joins her as they wash the sweat and smoke off. Two bodies writhe together in the hot water. His hand slides up her side, stopping at her breast. She presses her thigh into him, her mouth finds his neck and kisses. First gentle, then harder, teeth bite down with pressure. He presses her body against the wall, against himself. Moans as she leaves her mark where his neck and shoulder meet. Move from shower to bedroom, still wet, sweat mixing with water now. Bodies move into and against each other. It's a friendly fight as they twist. With climax the desperation ceases, now they move together in a slower rhythm. The hunger is no longer a need to be filled but a taste to be savored. His hands slide up her body as her mouth caresses his. They fall asleep entwined, resting comfortably with each other as dawn unfolds over the city. They ignore the daylight, alive only at night. Forgetting for a while the push-pull fight that rages from club to street to bar and home. Peacefully reconciling the grievances of past transgressions. Pulling together in the dawning light, the same as they pushed apart in the rising night. They whisper to each other.


Copyright © 2004 Gordon Feiner