Jackson’s Square

I’ve been a huge drum and bass music fan for some time now. From going to local and regional dance parties, buying and spinning records myself, and watching events online, drum and bass has been an immense part of my life. I frequently read an online drum and bass music forum based out of England. The site reviewed new tracks and allowed users to discuss and communicate. That’s how I met Jackson. His screen name was SkankinJax. He was a fan of some of my favorite djs and producers, and we hit it off swimmingly. I ask questions about his life across the pond. We spoke of the underground dnb scene in his city and surrounding parts. I was extremely jealous when he talked about the massive parties at clubs like Ministry of Sound and Fabric. I’ve only read about and seen these places online, and he was actually living it. Jackson knew more about America than I did England, so I was the one asking more questions.

Jackson told me that he was going to be coming to America for work training in a few weeks. The convention that he was going to attend was about four hours from me. I told him that he should come visit after the convention before he went back home. He agreed and made arrangements to do so.

A few weeks passed and Jackson called me one evening.

“Hello,” I answered.

In a profound English accent, Jackson spoke.

“Hey, mate! Done with that shitshow and headed your way. I need a bloody drink.”

“I got you there, my friend. I’ll text you my address. See you then.”

Jackson arrived approximately three hours later. He came through the door with luggage, visibly agitated.

“Bloody hell. I don’t know why you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road. I almost flattened a bloke when I pulled out into the left lane by mistake leaving the petrol station.”

“Well, we’re going out later, but sit down and take a load off. I’ll get you a drink to take the edge off.”

“Yes, that sounds good, mate. I’m just so bloody knackered from that drive. A drink sounds proper nice right about now.”

I poured us both some good bourbon and put on a few drum and bass records. We sat and chatted about the work convention, drum and bass, American and UK girls, and he bitched more about driving in America.

“I was miffed with all those wankers blowing their hooters at me. How was I to know that you can turn right on red? Anywho, I need to hit the loo then wash me bollocks. I’ll be on the pull tonight for a fit American bird.”

Jackson wasn’t in the bathroom long, when he cracked the door and yelled down the hall.

“Mate! I need a bog roll in here. My arse isn’t self cleaning, and I don’t see a bidet.”

After Jackson adequately wiped his ass and washed his balls, we were finally ready to head out. I decided to take Jackson downtown where the bars and restaurants were. It was a Friday night, so I assumed that area would be jumping. I wanted to show Jackson a good time in my city. It’s by no means as large as London, but it’s also no country-ass B.F.E. neither. 

We parked and had a small walk to the dive bar where we were going. As we walked, I observed rainbow flags and colors hung about. I noticed a few women that were taller than average and extremely colorful clothing. That’s when I remembered that it was Pride week. Now I don’t have a problem with gays. You can do whatever makes you happy, as I couldn’t care less. However, I knew Jackson wasn’t as liberal in thinking as I was on the subject. 

So far so good, I thought, as we arrived at the front door to Hives. I thought to myself, just let us get inside of Hives and everything will be ok. 

I opened the door for Jackson, and as I looked around, I thought, fuck.

Surprisingly, we had a great time the first 30 minutes we were there. That is, until the cigarette incident. 

Jackson and myself were sitting at the bar conversing and laughing with the attractive female bartender, a couple of well dressed guys to our left, and a few of those tall girls to our right, when the unthinkable happened. 

Jackson pulled out his pack when he noticed that smoking was permitted. He looked at the pack, then at me, then back at the pack, and with great emotion, boisterously said,

“I’m just so bloody sick of these goddamned fags!”

It’s like time stood still. Absolute silence and shocked, staring faces surrounded us in a good ten foot radius. However, Jackson was oblivious, still staring down at the pack. He turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and slurred,

“Alright, mate. I’m going to break the seal. I’ll be right back, unless I have to paint the porcelain.”

Then, Jackson dim wittingly sauntered off to the bathroom, leaving me to beg apologies and give explanations on his behalf. After offering perspective and somewhat justification on the situation, most understood and had a good laugh.

I ordered another drink and continued looking over my shoulder for Jackson. I decided that I would tell him about it being Pride week, just so we had no more uncomfortable moments. If he wanted to leave, we could just get a bite on the way back home. 

Jackson must’ve had to shit, I thought, as he had been gone for at least 20 minutes. I finished my drink and walked toward the back where the restrooms were. There was a small line, but it seemed to be flowing, with people entering and exiting. I stuck my head inside and didn’t see Jackson. I gave his description to a few people in the line and asked if they’d seen him. No one was of any help. I even stuck my head inside the women’s bathroom just to check. I didn’t see Jackson, but I did see two half naked girls bent over snorting coke off the counter. I apologized for the interruption as I slowly closed the door. 

I exited the side door by the bathrooms to look for him on the street, with no luck. I pulled out my phone to call him, when I noticed that he had tried to call and also left a voicemail. The voicemail said,

“Mate. You’re not going to believe this. I was waiting in line for the pisser, when I met this amazing bird, and we had a proper chin wag. Anywho, I told her that I’d like to buy her a drink, but I was totally skint for the night. She said that she had plenty at her place down the road. So we’re headed there now. I’ll probably need a ride in the morning. I’ll call you. Cheers.”

I attempted to call Jackson a few times with no answer. I was a little pissed that he just bailed on me like that for a girl. Selfish bastard, I thought, as I walked toward my truck to leave. 

I stopped at an all night drive thru and bought a burger meal from an apparent witch in a hairnet. Once home, I turned on the T.V. and spread my food out in front of me. As I devoured the burger, mayo and grease ran down my chin, and a skinny, bald man on the tube was trying to sell me spray paint that fixes holes in boats. 

I woke up on the couch with the phone ringing. I looked at the clock and it was 5:30 in the morning. I answered, and it was Jackson. 

In a chipper, but half slurred tone, he said loudly, “Mateeeeeeey! How are you, friend? I didn’t wake you did I? Could I kindly ask for a ride my good man?”

In a condescendingly, mocking tone, I replied, “Oh, noooooo, mate. I’ve been up all bloody night waiting on your fucking call.”

“Brilliant, mate. You’re the best. I’m at 474 Carryhawk Lane. I’ll be out front.”

I arrived around 6, and saw Jackson, swaying on the sidewalk, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I pulled up with a scowl on mine. He got in the passenger side and we drove off. 

“Mate. Let me start by saying. I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have left you at the pub last night. For that, I’m sorry. And I should have answered my phone. But you know I was looking for a shag or jobby.”

I stared off into the darkness as I drove. I realized that I wasn’t really pissed. I had no right to make this person behave in a way to suit my own happiness. 

I turned and faced Jackson, and with a wide smile, inquired, “You know that woman you were with?”

“Yeah, mate. A real sexual deviant. A lady in the street, but a true freak in the sheets. She gave me an amazing jobby and even played with my bum. After that, without hesitation, she put me right in her ass. I’ve never…”

I cut Jackson off, “You know that person was trans, right?

“I didn’t know when I met her, no. Didn’t know while we were drinking at her place. Definitely didn’t know when she was ravenously sucking me. Thought I may have felt something in reverse cowgirl—slapping and whatnot. I put that out of my head and soldiered on. But then, she stood up and I put it in my mouth.”

I wasn’t expecting to hear this and was in utter shock. 

“You put it in your mouth?”

“Yeah, then she buggered me.”

“She fucked you?”

“Yeah, I was initially hesitant. Until I did all those drugs. After that, it was easy peasy. She even called some friends over to have a go with me too. All in all, a good night. Hey, mate. Can you stop here? I need a…a…um…cigarette.”

The Scream

“Just remember to scream,” I reminded her. “Scream his name as loud as you can.” I looked at her to make sure she understood. I wasn’t certain. Her name was Kristina. Kristina with a “K”. She was from somewhere far away – Kiev, Tbilisi, some dumb place in the Caucasus, The Dardanelles, the Silk Road. You get the picture. 

Kristina gave me this blank look. I asked her to repeat what I just told her. We had a reputation to defend, and business was down.

“OK,” she said. “I take the call, I do the, um. . .”

“Front talk,” I helped her.

“Right,” she held up a finger. “Front talk. Then I ask him what he likes, and then I do it.”

“Do what?”

She blushed. “Do I actually have to say it – that word? And where’s Jocasta? I thought she was going to do the camera.”

Jocasta had a problem. “I’m doing the camera. You’ll be fine. And what is it you’re doing for what’s-his-name?”

I stared at her, regretting ever hiring her, especially after the casting fiasco.

She half-turned away. “I’m jilling.”

“Jilling,” I said. “That’s a nice word. OK, you get the picture.” She was a newbie, like an apprentice. Maybe she would always be that.

So we waited for a call-in. There hadn’t been many lately. Too many guys were getting laid on their own and didn’t need our ‘service,’ which I thought was a stroke of genius. Who wouldn’t like to hear the girl scream their name over the phone as they’re both coming during phone sex? Of course they would! What am I, some kind of moron? Some kind of idiot like this Kristina chick from Timbuktu? All she had to do was scream his name when she got her jollies. How hard is that?

The phone rang. A tentative voice spoke up. I could picture him – real loser. He was perfect.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” Kristina said. So far, so good. “Feeling horny?”

“Boy, am I ever.” I could imagine.

“I’m Kristina. What’s your name?”

“Ed.” From behind the camera I waved to her, giving her a sign to make him repeat it. I also had to tape the close, so I wanted to make sure his name was right. Ed. I smirked. Ed. E – D. Erectile Dysfunction. What else could it stand for? No wonder he called us. A real live chick would make him go soft. “Ed,” he repeated. “You know, I’m Greek.” 

 “Well, Ed, from Greece or Thebes or wherever, you came to the right place. We’re going to treat you right. You have a girlfriend?”

“Not right now, but I had one.”

“What was her name, if I might ask?”

“Fionnuala.”

“Fionnuala? Oh, I get it. Kind of like fellatio. What a pretty name.” As if she’d know, I smirked.

“It’s a Celtic name that means white shoulders.”

What a buzz kill. I liked where she was going with fellatio.

“You really get around, Ed! You’re from Corinth and your girl is from County Mayo. Well, Ed, give me your credit card number and let’s get started.” He gave it to her and I checked it out. Wherever island or archipelago he was from, he had good credit. Now it was up to her. I put the camera right on her vagina, just the way Jocasta used to when she still worked here. “Can you see me OK?” she asked.

“Well, just your, uh, vagina. Can I see your face, too?”

I backed off. I guess I was getting a little anxious.

“That’s better,” I heard him say.

“I’m taking off my panties now, Ed. Would you like to smell them? Oh, you can’t. How about buying them? Just put it in your American Express card.”

“No. I have a pair of Fionnuala’s right here. I never washed them. I even bought some Irish Spring. ”

“How nice. Now I’m starting to play with myself. Oh, Ed, that feels so good.”

“Yeah,” I heard him say. He was starting to breathe heavily. Then another call came in. Shit! Whenever when we got really busy, Jocasta would help out. I wasn’t much use. Jocasta pulled double duty. She was up for just about anything.

“Hurry up!” I told Kristina. “We’ve got another customer.”

“What was that?” asked Ed. “It sounded like a man. I thought you were alone in your bedroom. That’s what the website said.”

“It was the television, that’s all. Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I’m getting close. And you?” I gave her the sign to just go ahead and fake it, something we usually frown on, but we’ve never had two customers at one time before. When fate intervenes like this, you just have to improvise. Ed was getting close. Kristina wasn’t, and she didn’t even seem interested. If Jocasta were here behind the camera, Kristina would have felt comfortable jilling and everything would be hunky-dory.

But no Jocasta.

Then fate intervened. There was a knock on the door.

It was Jocasta.

“Hey, asshole,” she started. “That last check bounced.”

“What have you got on the television? Porn?” Ed asked. “I thought you were into me, and you’re there playing with yourself watching anal sex?” He sounded forlorn and desperate.

As soon as Jocasta saw Kristina, her eyes softened. “Give me that,” she said, swiping the camera from my hands. She put her index finger to her mouth in the universal sign that meant ‘Sshhhh’ and Kristina now really started going at it, fiddling with her clit, and then inserting two fingers  till she was on the doorstep of ecstasy. 

“Oh,” went Ed.

“Oh, oh,” went Kristina.

“Oh, Fionnuala!” went Ed.

‘Oh, what?” went Kristina. I waved at her. My lips mouthed “E – D.”

Then she came. “Oh, Jumpin Jehoshaphat!!” she screamed.

There was a blood-curdling scream at Ed’s end of the Zoom connection. I guess he came, too. Then there was dead silence, followed by, “How did you know my middle name?”

“Jehoshaphat?” Kristina said.

“Jehoshaphat?” said Jocasta.

Jocasta shushed her and made the universal gesture with the index finger slashing across her neck. It meant either to shut up or I’m going to cut your throat. In this case, she was shushing Kristina and staring at me, which meant she wanted Kristina to be quiet and she wanted to slit my throat. I was broke and a little sorry her check bounced.

“Ed Jehoshaphat Shufflebottom.”

“Shufflebottom? Where are you from?”

“Georgia.”

“Georgia? Me, too.”

‘Tbilisi,’ I thought.

“Macon,” she said.

“Ed Jehoshaphat Wolfinger?” asked Jocasta.

“Shufflebottom,” said Ed, his voice trembling. “I changed it. Wolfinger was too weird. No one would go out with me. Just Fionnuala.”

“That was your name when you were born. You should have been proud of it – Woolfinger.”

“Mom?”

“Son?”

“Mom, I’m so ashamed!”

Jocasta glared at me. “Look what you’ve done to my son with your porn.” As if she was a saint.

“You two actually know each other?” said Kristina.

“Baby,” Jocasta said to our customer, “I never approved of that Irish girl with the weird name. Who wants to go out with a mick or a weirdo? But, look, I found this wonderful girl from Georgia,” she put her arm around Kristina and gave her a hug, “A girl who can make you happy faking it or not faking it.”

This was more than I could take.  “Business has been rotten and you’re masking it worse,” I scoffed. At least I had this moron’s credit card number.

The phone was still ringing from that second customer. He must have been really desperate. I picked up the call. Things could not get worse.

“Hello,” said an authoritative voice.

“Yes.”

“Is this Lecherous Loads Incorporated?”

I concurred.

“Sir, this is the Department of Frivolity and Fragrances, a division of the Federal Bureau of Information. We have it on good authority that you are operating a business/enterprise/racket wherein girls of no means of visible support are faking orgasms over the phone, in violation of Federal Statute 13.69. There will be a knock on your door. Answer it.” 

I could feel things getting worse.

“We’re leaving,” said Jocasta. “Don’t worry, son. Momma’s coming home and she has a little treat for you.” Then the Zoom connection went down as they started to head for Georgia.

Then there was a knock on my door.

There were two of them – a dumb one and a smart one. “Are you the perpetrator of the igneous, no, the ignominious deeds disrobed, no, described over the phone you are holding in your hand?” That was the dumb one. The smart one already knew.

I dropped the phone.

“What phone?”

“Should we cuff them?” Again it was the dumb one. The smart one stayed mum.

Then Jocasta gave them the universal sign of a Milwaukee Reciprocating Sawzall slicing through a cord of Mountain Mahogany, her index finger protruding from a fist she held waist high, going in and out. It was also the universal sign for ‘yes, that’s the sole proprietor. Cuff him’. Her sawzall was pointed at me.

“Him?” the dumb one said.

“I faked dozens of orgasms, shot the film, cleaned up after you-know-what, the works.” Her reciprocating finger still went in-out, in-out pointing at me.

The smart one said nothing. He just nodded assent, his head going up and down like the piston of a Wacker Diaphragm Pump pumping toxic solids from a landfill to somebody’s basement. And that basement was mine.  It was the universal sign of someone smart enough to let dumb people ask all sorts of questions while he kept his tongue till the very end instead of making a fool of himself.

Next thing I knew they handcuffed me. Jocasta smirked. She liked stuff like this. Then she and Kristina with a K were gone.

This was not how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to make a fortune with my novel idea of having the girl on one end of the phone connection scream the John’s name as she faked an orgasm. Which she did not do. She did not even give me the traditional blow job when I auditioned her for working in my studio. I could not pay Jocasta for her job of mentoring these young stars, wherever they came from – Georgia, Macedonia or Georgia. Fate had intervened. Fate! Fate as in Gotterdammerung, like Star Wars, like some Greek tragedy. So I did something I’ve wanted to do for quite some time.

I screamed.

The Hat

Samira forgot the hat the first time, so he had to go back to see her again.  Except for the absence of the hat, it had been fine the first time. She had done everything the way she always did it, with the murmur of her crisp accent, and the glare of her blue eyes.  It still felt like there was something missing somehow, and, when Leon left her little room and went down the steep, twisted staircase, and into the brisk air of the street, and the glow of the red lights against the gloom of the night, he realized what it was.  She had forgotten to wear the hat.

It was not the same without the hat.

She called it a hat, because her English was limited, but it was really a cap.  It was made of black rubber, kept to a dull shine, with a wide latex peak and a sharp crown molded to a soft point at the crest.  There was a white latex band that ran around it in a thin stripe.  It fit snugly on her head, making her seem even taller, over six-foot in spiky heels, with her golden hair streaming, and her gimlet blue eyes gazing from beneath the peak.

Leon had bought her the hat on a business trip one year.  He had not been looking for a hat, but he was looking for a gift.  When he saw the hat, Leon knew immediately that it was what he wanted for her. She loved the hat, when she received it, although she loved anything if it was a present.  There was no such thing as a disappointing gift.  Leon never arrived empty-handed. He brought her designer jeans, perfume, inexpensive jewelry, t-shirts from his travels, and once, for her young son, a toy train.  

From the first time that Samira wore the hat for him, it became part of her costume.  It matched her long latex boots, and her long black gloves, and her golden locks brushing her shoulders.  It went with the exposed girders, splintery rafters and hanging chains and the smell of wax in the dim light of the room.  They heard the raucous noise of the passers-by, drunken singing outside, and accordion music from a nearby bar.  He sometimes gulped down a stiff shot of vodka there, before he knocked on her door.  He did not want to feel like himself, he wanted to hide behind intoxication when they played out their ritual.

They had to do everything again from the beginning – with the hat this time – when he went back the next night.

She had a short crop, and she strutted up and down upon the mat, stopping with her face nose-to-nose right in his face, and her riding crop teasing across his unclothed body.  He felt the heat rising from her, and there was a sweet, musk scent when she was close to him.

She exuded a commanding presence.  She barked orders and made him march naked from wall to wall with one hand swinging at his side, and the other hand clutching his genitals.

“I am the Kommandant,” she insisted, tucking the crop under her arm,  “Left, right! Left, right! Left, right!”

“Yes, Kommandant!”

“I decide what is good, and what is not good,” she said ominously.

“Good, good, good,” he pleaded, “I am good.”

“If you are not good, you know what will happen to you,” she warned.

His eyes filled up with terror, and she smiled wickedly.

He always felt such a cathartic sense of relief when it was all over, as if she had done him an enormous favor by filling a desperate need.

She took the hat off, indicating that they were finished, and she could not wait to get out of the boots and back into her walking shoes and her street clothes.  He got dressed one button at a time with his back to her, so that they did not have to look at one another.

Afterwards, they sometimes went for dinner together in Chinatown.  There was a place where the ducks were hanging in the window on S-shaped hooks, and they shared a lemony dish with hot oysters on the half-shell.  They drank sweet beer served in chilled tankards.  She spoke to the waiter in a guttural language that he could not understand. From the restaurant, they could see the barges floating down the canals and the colored lights from the district reflecting on the ripples of the water.  They heard the peal of the bells chiming the hour from the Old Church, as it grew later, but they lingered over the meal.  Neither of them had anywhere in particular to go, and the kitchen stayed open until midnight.

The square tables were close together, and the people beside them could overhear their conversation, but they kept everything innocent.  They had known each other for many years, and, like old friends, they talked and joked about everything under the moon, except the taboo of what had just occurred between them in her room.  Now, after the fact, when it had worn off for both of them, what they had done seemed traumatic and depraved.  It felt like they had committed a crime. They had a familiar aftertaste that lingered from the time they did it before until the time that they would do it again. They were not ashamed, but there was a grubby feeling that stained them on the inside. She never wanted to speak about it; for her, it was work, and the dinner was personal.

There was only one other subject that they never talked about, and that was what had happened to his family.  It was a long time ago, and besides, that was in another country.