Caution: This Mystery Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Romantic, NonConsensual, Rape, Drunk/Drugged, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Group Sex, Violent, .
Desc: Mystery Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Waikiki PI Story #6. Our intrepid PI finds love and tragedy with a voluptuous and unique Punk Rock goddess. The love story is explored and then the tragedy becomes Joe's most passionate and desperate to solve. Inspired by a true story. As usual it is best to read the earlier stories in the Waikiki PI Universe to understand the characters.
Local Musician Found Dead in Alley
A body found raped and murdered early Sunday morning in an alley in downtown Eugene has been identified as Olivia Koscina, 26, a local singer and guitarist for the punk rock group To Molt. Last seen around midnight Saturday night at a popular watering hole for local rock musicians, The Naked Spur, Vy as she was called by bandmates, family and friends, of which she had many, was described as happy and slightly inebriated when she left alone, walking through town to her apartment when an unknown assailant or assailants ended her journey and her life. The police as yet have no one in custody, but promise to investigate the tragedy with their full attention and resources.
Benefit for Murdered Singer to Fund Private Investigation
After over a month since the violent death of Olivia (Vy) Koscina, a popular figure in the punk rock community of Eugene, lead singer of the band To Molt who had been developing a fan base over their eight year existence which had expanded throughout the United States, Canada and Europe, the police have yet to arrest a suspect, and her friends and colleagues are furious. "Do they even care?" asked Bandy Schock, a legendary figure in the local rock community whose band, "The Bums" is often cited as the first punk rock band in Oregon. "I mean what do those --ers do right off the bat but act like it was one of us! I mean fine, we were the last to see her, so you need a timeline, but everyone at the bar was treated like a suspect, and just because we're different from those knot heads. Yeah we're rebellious, we're anti-authoritarian, we've got tattoos and funny hair and rings through our noses, but we're also people, sensitive, artistic, intelligent people." Bobby Belfiore, an itinerant sound engineer for many of the bands agreed. "The thing is, if they listened to us instead of expecting some convenient and impossible confession, they would know we would be the last people in the world to hurt Vy. She was not only one of the most talented and charismatic musicians here or anywhere, but she was loved. Everybody loved Vy. Everybody. She was beautiful."
The music community seems to agree with that statement. This Friday the Pantages Theater will host a benefit for Ms Koscina organized by her friend and the band's manager Paula Proudhon, which will include many local and national acts, all according to Ms Proudhon friends of Vy. "The show will begin at noon and continue well into the night," Proudhon explained. "The money will be used to hire the best private detective we can find, and if he or she is successful quickly, which of course we all pray will happen, the remaining funds will be evenly divided between Amnesty International and Doctors Without Borders, Vy's favorite charities.
It was Paula who called and faxed me these clippings from the Eugene newspapers, a surprising event. Paula and I mutually disliked each other. Though the same age as Vy, best friends since middle school, her character had developed opposite to Vy's, causing their relationship to be almost a mother/daughter sort of thing, with Paula overly protective of her sensitive and free-spirited friend. An intelligent, ambitious and cold eyed soul made Paula becoming Vy's manager inevitable, and she succeeded brilliantly. The one issue which tore at their friendship was Vy's choice of men, a surprisingly rare disruption because despite Vy's beauty and the notorious loose morals found in the rock 'n roll culture Vy ended up far more often than not alone in her bed.
Not obviously or classically beautiful combined with her reclusive nature kept Vy a virgin until high school ended. In fact the night of celebrating the achievement of her high school diploma marked the end of her virginity. She made sure of that, attaching herself to the older brother of a fellow graduate whose house hosted the after graduation party, that is when she wasn't setting up or performing with an early incarnation of her band "to molt." With a single minded relentlessness which she demonstrated throughout her too short life, a microscopic vision in contrast to the macroscopic, big picture vision of her best friend Paula, she essentially cornered the young man until she got what she wanted, leaving him with a bloodied condom still hanging from his limp dick.
One might consider it luck that the man she chose to deflower her proved a capable lover who made sure of her readiness for his cock to pierce her hymen, spending nearly an hour pleasuring her with hands and tongue, waiting to give her her first penetration once she climaxed. But Vy somehow knew who to choose for this significant moment. Her reclusiveness was not narcissistic; it stemmed from an intense sensitivity towards others. Surrounded tightly by people, even fans, horrified her. Especially fans because they tended to push in towards her. I witnessed Paula pulling her out of such a group once, and Vy told me afterward Paula had rescued her several times from such occurrences. Vy looked shaken and even paler than normal.
Wanting nothing more from Zach, her first lover, than for her to experience sex, she had no interest in contacting him, but the feeling wasn't mutual.
As the band evolved, Vy unsentimentally booting out and replacing every member one by one except the spectacular and spectacular looking drummer, a hard bodied blonde with the grungiest outfits and no make-up who seemed more attractive because of her unkempt look (though her hair was always well coifed, or at least before and after her performances), they achieved more and more success and gained more and more gigs. Zach came to nearly every gig. And at nearly every gig he attended, he was told to fuck off, usually by Paula. He might have gotten the hint eventually except Vy would succumb to his needs when her needs matched at least sexually.
Though she had no one to compare him to, Dotty, the drummer had made it clear to her Zach was a good lover, telling her most of Dotty's frequent one night stands had been disappointments. Except for when he deflowered her, he would make her cum while they fucked every time. This impressed Dotty if not Vy. So the last time Vy succumbed to her libido with Zach and tried to make her usual quick escape and he held her back and desperately proclaimed his love for her more than usual, banishing all the calming of a particularly vigorous orgasm, she decided to give him Dotty.
At the next gig, though Zach tried bypassing her to get to his true love, Dotty clung to him like a vine and kissed him into submission. His lovemaking proved to be all Vy had said it was, and the two became a couple, eventually moving past lust into heartfelt love.
Though never completely losing his obsession for Vy, he came to realize how much he enjoyed Dotty and her body never failing to turn him on didn't hurt. And Dotty felt the same towards him. She hadn't abandoned her addiction to the occasional one night stand, though fewer occurred. Instead of hiding these away and creating a guilty conscience, she used them to spice up their sex play and even encouraged Zach to have some fun when she toured, which eventually he did, but never with Vy. Though tempted, he wasn't stupid enough to succumb to it. Dotty wouldn't have made an issue of it he knew, but he'd lose her because all the time love developed between them would be gone in a meaningless, for Vy at least, one last fling.
The preamble is my attempt to make clear why, despite Paula's view to the contrary, I was meant to be in Vy's life. When we first met I could swear I made all the moves, but once I got to know her I realized she made the moves on me, which of course is par for the course for women, at least those who know what they want and get it.
Appropriately enough, we met at a record store. I was making my usual rounds of the remarkable record stores and bookstores on Telegraph Hill in Berkeley, something I do, along with visiting City Lights Bookshop and eating at Fisherman's Wharf with my mom every time I visit. When our eyes met we shopped at Amoeba. She perused her competition in the Punk Rock section and I searched through the Jazz section looking for gems. As the glances became more frequent and longer, we closed the gap between us until we hovered near the middle aisle and a couple rows away.
As I said before, Vy was beautiful, but not typically. I couldn't see much of her body from below the breasts, but the breasts were large, not huge, but substantial, visible within her black hoody and over large black t-shirt. Her shoulders seemed to fill out the hoody, so she probably had some meat on her bones. Pale skin contrasted with the black outfit and black hair. Cute and punky and shoulder length, most of it banded into chaotic tassels, her hair had been tied into five protuberances giving the appearance of black geysers frozen in place. Her soft and rounded and seemingly plain face had an inner glow charisma gives to very few people. Remarkably open and large and expressive eyes, their deep brown coronas lured me into the tiny black holes sucking emotion and interest instead of gravity. She smiled gently at me, lifting her cheeks, making her unabashedly pretty. I was about to approach and say something clever and off the cuff to her, I had no idea what, when her remarkable smile froze me in place.
I felt less lucky when a slender young man wrapped in black leather and silver spikes approached her out of nowhere. "Can you autograph your album for me?" he asked.
They each patted their bodies and Vy searched through her odd purse, looking like a burnt orange shag carpet sewn into a shoulder bag, but found no felt tip pens. Unprepared to autograph anything when not at a club would change with greater popularity when such encounters happened with far more frequency. Unfortunately I had no felt tip either, but approached the two with a suggestion.
"Why don't you grab all her albums, bring them up to the register, buy them, ask the clerk for a felt tip pen and then you can give or sell them to your friends with her signature?"
"You don't have to..." said the woman I would quickly learn to call Vy.
"Great idea!" shouted the punk who proceeded to gather the three other "to molt" records in the bin and rush them to the register.
"I hope he's not spending his last dime on all those," said Vy.
"The kid's got more money than he knows what to do with. Though his parents aren't sure about his choice of clothing, they figure he'll grow out of it and make them proud some day and are willing to support his whims for the time being."
"How could you..."
"He hasn't even broken in his five hundred dollar leather jacket, and the spikes are too shiny to have weathered any abuse."
"But the jacket is..."
"Pre-worn. Some machine or some poor peasant wore it out for him. The wear is too even and the leather has not yet met a wrinkle."
"Too bad they've only got four of my albums," she said with a laugh, raspy and deep like her voice. It and her voice affected me. Their quiet warmth felt like gentle sandpaper on my dick. "I should warn you. I have a manager already, and she has no plans to be usurped, even by a clever and handsome man."
"Usurped?" I thought to myself. "She's cute AND smart."
My plans or hopes of seducing this woman amped up. Her ego boosting comment barely registered as a beginning of her seduction. My brief inventory of her body, which while full, seemed firm and shapely and meaty encouraged my desire. Though I enjoyed the lithe slimness of my partner Sandy and the perfect model body of Deidre, who at this time though for not much longer continued as my lover in Waikiki, I had loved my former girlfriend Kitty's ample posterior, and with Vy's large firm breasts echoing her large hips and thighs, I could barely contain my saliva. If I was a cartoon wolf, I'd be howling.
After autographing the LPs with personal messages for the young man and three of his friends, we continued shopping, which meant her wandering over to the Jazz area. Admitting my lack of knowledge of punk rock and hers of jazz, we decided to have her learn something new. Giving her a brief history of jazz by moving from bin to bin, starting from Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five and moving through Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman and the Big Band era and then Charlie Parker and Be-Bop into the Cool of Miles Davis and the freer sounds of Coltrane and Mingus to the Ecstatic sound of Albert Ayler into the Avant Garde weirdness of Sun Ra enabled me to create a stack of records filling gaps in my collection with peak historical moments.
"But what about lyrics?" asked my gracious and patient student towards the end of the survey.
"Yeah," I admitted, "even the greatest of jazz artists often pen weak lyrics. Although..." I headed to the "H" section and scanned through Billie Holiday.
"I've heard a couple of her songs. I like her."
"Have you heard 'Strange Fruit'?" I asked, and when she shook her head, I grabbed an album with that amazing song on it along with songs with some of her great lyrics. I already had a very nice collection of Lady Day's music, but this was a present.
"What I like about her is not only her soulful voice, but you can hear the lyrics," said Vy.
"There was a time when that was most important," I said nostalgically.
"Yeah. Sometimes I wonder why I write lyrics at all. There's anger in the music, but it would be nice to let the audience know exactly what I'm angry about. I'm going to work on that," she said, smiling up at me. "Thanks."
We brought my pile of albums and her tiny stack of one album and a couple of 45s to the counter. I offered to buy them for her, which she allowed except for the album. "If I'm getting you a present at least I should pay for it," she explained.
It was a Dead Kennedys LP, my first punk album and still one of my favorite records, although I rarely play it now because it reminds me too much of Vy when we first met that lovely day that turned into a lovely week, reminding me of her somehow even more than her own records. And along with her own records, I spent the night following the news of her death by playing it over and over again and grieving the loss of one of the great souls to ever walk the earth.
Once outside the safety of the record store where nearly every word we spoke referred to music, a decision needed to determine our fate. After a pause a few steps outside of the entrance to Amoeba, I asked her, "Are you hungry?"
"Starving," she said. "But I'm strictly vegetarian."
"Me too," I said, which she received with an obvious look of doubt. I had the healthy face or smell or stride of a meat eater. Whatever it was, Vy knew I lied.
If I could tell a boy's wealth by his clothes, Vy could sense the true nature of a person by something much deeper, whether their eyes or their gestures or their voice clued her in I don't know, perhaps their vibe, whatever that is, but if it exists, Vy proved it.
"When I'm in San Francisco, I'm a vegetarian," I clarified, "because my mom is, except when we indulge in butter slathered shell fish at Fisherman's Wharf."
"Okay," she said, a little concerned. "Just don't lie. I can almost always tell."
"About being a vegetarian?" I asked.
"About anything," she said.
I'm not much for lying unless I'm on a case, and then I'm very good at it, but since I wasn't on a case, I saw no reason to test her remarkable statement. But even more than the odd and confident concept of her being a human lie detector (of course detecting a human lying would be a detector's only use, because as far as anyone knows no other animal lies at least with words, but I mean a human as opposed to a machine) her statement had a lovely suggestion in it. She wanted to continue our friendship in order for me to continue not telling her lies.
"I have a suggestion," I said bravely, "and you can of course do whatever you want with it, agree to it or tell me to fuck off or suggest something more pleasant."
"I'm listening," she said, her smile reassuring if a little tense.
"My mom is a pretty good cook and she has a well stocked kitchen, especially since I'm visiting, and she also has one of the best stereos I've ever heard, which isn't saying much, but..."
"So you don't actually live with her," said Vy, her smile increasing.
"No. I live in Waikiki."
"I wouldn't dare lie to you," I said, causing her unfortunately to slug me hard on my right shoulder. "Ow!" I said from the pain and the surprise.
"Don't fuck with me, Joe. Don't condescend. I know what I said seems strange, but just like I expect you to be truthful, I expect the same from myself. I will never lie to you, and I will never pretend to be better than you because I'm not, nor are you any better than me. Sorry. I bet that hurt."
"It did, but I'll live."
"You'd better, because you have to continue your invitation to go to your mother's house and eat her delicious vegetarian food and listen to your cool records."
"And yours," I said with a smile.
"Then we'd better stop at my house to pick up more music, since you know as little about my music as I do about yours. I'll introduce you to my best friend and manager. I'm sure she'll hate you."
"Why would she hate me?"
"She hates all the men I like, not that there's been all that many. Maybe you'll be the first she'll like, but I doubt it. Where's your car?"
"I'm a mass transit sort of guy here."
"That's cool. It's only a few blocks."
We walked a little over a mile to the house Vy and the band used while in the Bay area, a summer rental they rented while working on their third album at a studio run by Jello Biafra, the lead singer of the Dead Kennedys and his label, Alternative Tentacles. Toting a full load of records, it felt like a long walk but both me and Vy kept in shape, and I enjoyed the company. She was excited about working with Jello, though she suspected the reason for him signing them onto his label came from having the hots for their drummer, which when I met Dotty I understood, though her attractiveness was more understood than felt because when I met her I had the hots for the lead singer.
By the time we reached the house, a large Victorian structure straining from the abuse of the continuous stream of impetuous students that passed through it year after year, I had informed her of my work in Hawaii.
"So you do undercover work?" she asked.
"Yes. It's the second favorite part of my job."
"Before telling me the first, let me make this clear. You lie for a living and you enjoy it."
"Guilty as charged," I said.
She stopped abruptly, and since we walked side by side, I stopped nearly as abruptly. She looked thoughtful, and cute I might add, studying my face thoroughly before she made her decision. For some reason, whether it was because we had just met and no real attachments had been made or she needed to see me in the full light of truth if attached so to speak, I felt comfortable and confident while she stared.
"You leave your lies at work. I'm glad you're not working now," she said.
"Me too," I said.
She laughed and asked about my favorite part of my job.
"Solving the case. I'm very good at it."
"And at lying?" she asked. Our walk had curved toward the house, so I knew we had arrived, but she stopped before we entered. "And at lying?" she repeated.
"Yes," I said.
"Cool," she said and rose up on her toes to kiss my cheek before taking my hand for the first time and leading me into the house.
The interior looked even more worn than the exterior. The furniture and carpeting appeared haphazardly placed, walls were dingy and bare and the house smelled musty with layers of beer, marijuana and tobacco. A dirty blonde with a thin but pretty face looking clean and well pressed in her white blouse and designer jeans, a complete anachronism to her surroundings, talked on the phone, a mug of coffee near her hand resting on a well stained wooden side table. Being the same age as Vy, she was in her early twenties but looked older. Her tight jeans revealed a thickness to her abdomen and her narrow hips and slight bust made her anything but voluptuous, so sexually she wasn't my type. Lucky for me, because I appeared not to be her type either.
She looked at me with Vy, our hands still together and her pretty face became not as pretty as I first thought. Vy smiled at her and waved and pointed towards the kitchen. Paula waved back, the expression on her face telling me everything I needed to know.
As sensitive as Vy was to the essence of others, I always wondered why she didn't see the intense love and frustrating jealousy Paula felt for her. Vy never told me if they had been lovers. I never asked. Perhaps they had been or continued to be and had fought about being exclusive and Paula had lost these arguments. Despite the pounding my shoulder took and would take a couple more times in our relationship, Vy was anything but mean, so her arriving with a beau in hand could never be seen as flaunting her sexual conquests in front of Paula, but simply expressing her freedom to love and be loved if only occasionally. In other words, Vy was being Vy and nothing Paula could do could change it except to hate her boyfriends.
Leading me into the kitchen led me to meet Dotty busy rolling joints. "Great. Company," said Dotty after being introduced.
While Vy climbed the stairs to her room to choose her records for our listening session, Dotty lit a plump joint and passed it to me.
"Isn't she beautiful?" she asked. When I nodded she winked and said, "Good boy." And before taking a hit from the joint I returned to her, she added, "Lucky boy."
I coughed. "Good shit," said the blonde beauty roughly, holding the smoke in her lungs.
While I inhaled a second hit, Vy returned. She hadn't changed her clothes, but the fabric sticking out of her small army green backpack looked very much like she didn't plan on returning home until at least sometime tomorrow morning. Obviously she was a girl after my own heart and other parts of my anatomy.
When she offered the joint to Dotty, the blonde waved it away. "We're two up on you," she explained. "Do you have anything to put these in?" she asked, holding up a couple of equally plump and well rolled joints. I told her I didn't. Entering her purse, which looked like she purchased it from an Army Navy store, an army green shoulder bag, she pulled out an Altoid case. When she opened it she laughed. "I gotta stop smoking this shit. I completely forgot I had these," showing me four plump joints resting inside. "Take these, Joe. It's even better."
I thanked her. Vy grabbed a couple dry oat cakes and a bottle of orange juice, shoved them into her shaggy bag and led me back into the living room, catching Paula between calls, so Vy introduced me. I shook her reluctant hand. "Phone number," said Paula, shoving a small spiral notebook and a pen at me. I wrote my mother's number. "If you're late, you better call ahead," said Paula to Vy.
"Am I ever late?" asked Vy, quietly angry. "Just be thankful I'm not some junkie dickhead you're managing. But then why bother talking about being late because he wouldn't listen, would he? I listen. I respect you. You're the best friend I have and will ever have. So why can't you be nice to Joe and happy I met such a nice man. You know and I know it doesn't happen every day. Hardly ever. Nice. I'm nice, you're nice, he's nice, so be nice. Okay?"
Paula's eyes looked sad and her face twisted, not knowing what to express. She shrugged. "Whatever," said Vy. "See you later."
Flinging the door out of the way, Vy stomped down the stoop and outside. "God!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry she's so rude."
As we walked several blocks to the BART station she proceeded to extol the virtues of her manager and best friend, quickly cheering her up as she remembered funny moments the two had shared. By the time we reached the station, she ended the monologue with, "I wish you could meet the true Paula. She's funny and smart and nice and cool and she has done everything she can to make my life what I want it to be. She's so selfless in helping me it's almost too much to bear, but than I realize she loves being in control of my life. Except..."
"Except meeting new friends," I said.
Vy laughed. "Don't downgrade our relationship, Joe. Friends, schmiends. If you were a girl I met in a record store and we got along, she wouldn't care. Even some guy, some fawning fan like the rich kid in the leather jacket who I wouldn't be caught dead running off to his mother's house with but for some reason enjoyed talking to, she wouldn't care. But a lover..." She pulled my head down. Our lips met for the first time. Gentle, it made me tingle and caused my cock to rise. Her lips felt soft and subtly expressive. When it ended, she looked as stunned as me. "You're a really good kisser".
"You too," I said.
"Anyway, I wish you could meet her."
"Maybe she'll relax."
"I doubt it."
Reaching the BART station, our conversation ended as we rushed through the ticketing and entering processes and waited for the train. I already missed the long and heavily weighted but incredibly lovely walks through the streets of Berkeley with the two of us mostly alone and unlistened to and private.
"Will we meet your mother?" asked Vy, sitting on the train, her fingers laced through mine.
"She's at her store."
"She's a clerk?"
"She owns it."
"Ah, so you're a member of the bourgeoisie," said Vy.
"You don't know the half of it. My father owns a warehouse. He's a middleman."
"No shit. My father is a trucker and my mom's a factory worker. We have no hope. The class struggle is against us."
"Does your father own his truck?"
"No, thank god. He had friends who tried owning their own rig, and their credit went south quick when they declared bankruptcy. You remember the oil crisis? Well they're still trying to climb back from that. But fuck you for asking."
"That's okay. Despite the sin of your birth, you're not hopeless. In this country you're free to be downwardly mobile. I can't imagine being a snoop gets you rich."
"No way! You're rich? Not your daddy's money?"
"No. And I'm not exactly rich, just flush at the moment. My career is like hunting for oil wells. Sometimes it trickles and sometimes it gushes. Recently I hit the biggest gusher yet, though its source was unexpected to say the least. Not a percentage of the recovery or a reward for finding someone missing or the villain who killed someone, though the last did bring me some money."
(I had gotten the surprisingly large check from Chloe a few months before for helping her research her bestseller about the crazed sensory deprivation cult, and with my living rent free in Deidre's fancy condominium, ironically enjoying the endlessly thrilling sex with a former member of that cult, a woman who had drugged me into submission when we first met and escaped prosecution by the skin of her sexy teeth, but who also discovered our insatiable need for each other's bodies, little of my money needed to be spent and other cases only added to my bank account. As you can tell, this story jumps back a few years from the last, but the actual case, the hunt for the motherfucker who raped and killed Vy actually occurred several months after the previous one. So this part of the case I am writing about is sort of a flashback. If there were any confusion, I apologize, and if not, I apologize for this lengthy and unnecessary explanation.)
"I want you to tell me about it, but not right now," said Vy. "But I do want to hear."
"And I want to hear your music, Vy. But..."
Vy laughed. "We'll work up to it. It's pretty rough and in your face, but I'm proud of it. I've been at it for five years, but I'm always looking to improve."
"You've got a couple years on me."
"And you're already hitting gushers. You must be a great liar."
"You're not going to let that go, are you?"
"You lie for the greater good."
"And to make a buck."
"Okay, I'll give it up, for now. How old are you?"
"I only have a year ... wait. Aren't you young to be making a living as a private dick?"
"I discovered my talent."
"Ha, okay, me too. It's good to do what you love."
"Yes it is."
"Let's go visit your mother's store. I want to meet her."
"I don't know if you'll like it."
"I don't care. I want to meet your mom. I want to see how she reacts to me."
"She'll like you. Why wouldn't she?"
"Because I'm a scary, drug addled, nihilistic, anarchistic, subversive, antagonistic, tattooed punk rocker. I bite children with my poisoned fangs and turn them into monsters."
"You'll grow out of it." Threatening to punch me hard again, Vy reared her arm back, but stopped when I cringed. She laughed. I joined in. "I don't see any tattoos," I remarked.
"They're hidden. I'll show you later."
"I'm looking forward to it."
"Me too," she said, and we kissed. Not as good as the first because the train decided to jostle and turn, but it felt right. "You can see one on my neck."
"That? I thought it was a birth mark and didn't want to stare."
"Fuck you." At least she didn't punch me. She pulled her hoody and t-shirt down so I could see the rippling black flag on the bottom front of her neck and a hand holding the flagstick, its owner still hidden by the t-shirt.
"Anarchism," I said.
"Very good, Mr. Bourgeoisie. Did you know Paula's last name is Proudhon?"
"Like the French Anarchist philosopher."
"Wow. Are you?"
"I don't think so. I believe in freedom of expression and freedom from repression."
"That's a start."
"But I'm not much for politics. I know about Proudhon and Bakunin from the Beats mostly. My favorite bookstore is City Lights."
"Speaking of bookstores, why don't you want me to visit your mother's store if it's not to scare her?"
"It's not that I'm ashamed of it or her, but it embarrasses me a little. I can't imagine what you'll think."
"It's a new age store, kind of a hippy store. My mother is a late blooming hippy. A latent hippy who came out of the closet a few years ago when my parents divorced and when she divorced my father, she created the store out of the settlement."
"Wow. I definitely want to visit it. My mother the hippy, that is really bizarrely bourgeois."
"Believe me, I had no idea she harbored such a terrifying secret. She's a good mother, a good woman, and she raised me well I think, but this whole hippy thing was quite the surprise."
"I think it's cool in a sort of uncool way. Please take me there."
"Okay. I wanted to ask if she could stay at her new boyfriend's place anyway so we could have her apartment to ourselves."
"See. That's a great reason to visit her."
"I could just call."
"Do you like arguing with me even if you know you won't win?"
Our conversation ended as we neared our stop. We transferred to a bus that took us a block from my mother's store.
After my mother finished with a customer, I introduced her to Vy. Seeing my mother was always a good thing. Her whole being had been transformed ever since she escaped the coldness of my father's house which had only recently warmed with the presence of Kim in his life. But this visit my mother looked especially beautiful. Her relationship with a man ten years younger than her had made her smile warmer. My mother had a glow.
"You have an awesome collection of vegetarian cookbooks, Mrs. Solomon."
"Call me Peggy, sweetheart, and thank you. You're a vegetarian?"
"Good for you. Is that a tattoo?"
"Yes. I have a few."
"Could I see?"
"Sure." Vy glanced uncomfortably around the store. There was no one but us, but my mother sensed her shyness.
"I'll put up my 'Be Back Soon' sign and we can step back out of the window. I want a tattoo, but I'm afraid for some reason."
"You do have to be completely sure of course. And it does hurt a bit."
"I don't care about that so much as, I don't know, maybe going too far for my character."
"Nonsense, Peggy. Your son told me about your transformation, moving out and finding your passion in this cool new age store. There's no too far if you're that open to change, especially a little tattoo you could put anywhere. What would you want?"
"I know it's silly and kind of girlish, but I want a butterfly."
"No way! I love butterflies. Where?"
"On my butt of course." The women shared a laugh as I cringed at the thought of my mother getting a butterfly tattoo on her butt. At the same time, causing a quick recovery, I looked forward to the first uncovering of my shy punk rock princess.
"Do you have a butterfly?" asked Mom
"Of course. But it's a scary butterfly."
"A scary butterfly?"
"Let me explain something before the great unveiling," Vy began. "I'm a punk rocker, a singer and guitarist, and the name of my band is 'to molt.' It's a pun, because of the nihilism of punk. When you hear the name, it makes you think its spelled t-u-m-u-l-t, but it's actually t-o-space-m-o-l-t. I'm fascinated by molting, snakes and insects shaking off their old skin to grow. It's an incredible metaphor for freeing yourself from the old you like you did here. The butterfly thing isn't exactly molting, the transformation is too radical, but I decided to loosen the definition a lot. So I have images of a beetle, a lizard, a snake, a butterfly and a human emerging from their skin or a pupa or chrysalis for the butterfly. But since I'm all about punk rock, well, the emerging creatures are not pretty and happy about their new selves. No that's not quite right. They are proud to have grown, but they see the world with new eyes, they see the shit they had been lulled into living in and want to proclaim to the rest of the world their vision, their anger at the shit. So that's why their faces are angry and their mouths are wide open and their eyes are bulging. They want to be noticed. They want to be heard so things can be alive and vibrant and fresh and free. Okay. Here goes."
As it turned out, in order to see everything, she needed to strip naked. Not being aware of this, I was perplexed when she asked my mother for a chair. When I asked why, she explained her need to be nude and suggested I wouldn't mind. Of course I didn't, but I asked her how she was willing to reveal herself in front of strangers.
"I trust you, Joe, and you're no more a stranger than my band members, and in fact, except for Dotty, you know more about me then they probably ever will, except of course they've seen me more over time. But I never talked to a man before as much as I've talked to you. You've never heard my music, but that will change soon."
While talking she removed her heavy army boots, then stood and stripped away her sweatshirt and t-shirt. I looked at my mother, and she looked at me proudly, as if seducing this odd beauty was a wonderful thing. It was odd, and it was wonderful. After stepping out of her black jeans, she didn't hesitate to remove her black bra and panties.
Her body was memorable, incredibly voluptuous the way women were viewed as having beautiful bodies a hundred years ago or in the late fifties and early sixties. Her wide chest held large, amazingly firm breasts, young and taut, and her torso narrowed to near slimness at her waist before expanding to equally firm and large buttocks and thick thighs. She was breathtaking.
The tattoos continued to take my breath. A voluptuous woman, a miniature of Vy, held the black flag, her face contorted, her eyes bulging, her mouth wide, her body leaning back to give power to her scream, her legs spread wide surrounding Vy's left breast. The old skin hung lax from her left foot like an empty woman shaped sack. From her wide mouth, cartoon lines emerged along with sprays of saliva, and the words, "Wake Up" scrawled across her chest in a balloon font except the top front of each letter jutted forward like blades.
The snake beautifully drawn on her abdomen twisted like a sliding rattlesnake with golden brown diamond designs and subtle shadows, the face again tortured and ugly with the tongue in soft red stretched out. The abandoned skin coiled and looked like a pile of shit, though the most beautiful shit I ever saw rendered. It sat just above and a little within her full bush of curly black pubic hair.
A lizard curved along the right edge of her back, done in shades of green, a jagged red forked tongue jetting from its open mouth. The skin dangling from its tail drooped like the skin hanging from the woman's foot.
The beetle on her right bicep was the smallest image, but the reflection off its shiny hard back became a beautifully subdued rainbow of colors. Again the tiny face contorted and screamed. The skin lay below it in another lovely shit pile close to her elbow.
Last but not least the butterfly had been inked on her left thigh, the multi colored wings, mostly warm red and purple, purple dotting the surface like eyes, covered the outer and a little of the inner thigh, the head barely discernable still showed popping eyes and a wide mouth and faced towards her pussy, the pupa sitting just above the knee looking broken and profoundly vacant, the visible interior in shades of white and gray.
"I can see what you mean about ugly," said my mother, "but they're not really. They're beautiful and intense like you."
My breath taken I said nothing, merely nodding in complete agreement. Suddenly Vy embraced my mom, no shame in her nakedness. Mom held her arms stiffly at her side for a moment, but recovered and returned the hug. "Wow," said Mom, "you're in great shape." Again I couldn't agree more.
"Great genes, and I work out, weights and jogging, and I don't have the luxury of fattening up because like 99.9% of all rockers I'm very poor."
"Not that I want you fattening up," said Mom after the embrace ended, "but be sure Joe brings you to my home and lets you eat anything and everything. Bring some stuff with you when you leave, too."
"Speaking of which, would you mind staying with your boyfriend tonight?" I asked Mom.
Mom laughed. "Of course not. I'll have to slip in to get some change of clothes, but I promise not to bother you."
Vy dressed while Mom talked. Her skin got rosy and she giggled.
"What did I say?" asked Mom.
"Never mind. It's nothing," said Vy, her skin tone gradually returning to the normal pale as she finished dressing.
Vy explained her embarrassment on the two bus journey to my mom's apartment. "I had a vision of my mom walking in on me while I bounced naked on some boy. It never happened cause, well it never happened. I never fucked a boy in my bedroom. I guess many girls have had to jump into their clothing when they heard the door close, so they've gone through that fear, but it was the first time for me, at least in my imagination."
The vision of her voluptuous body bouncing on top of me, her boobs bouncing excitedly instantly made me hard. "What if ... Never mind." I said.
"It won't bother me if it won't bother you. Will it?"
"Then we'll just have to wait until she's gone. We have lots of music to listen to."
"Uhm..." I stuttered, wondering about the process of seduction and realizing that if the game of seducing a woman into bed and eventually fucking her were like Chutes and Ladders, I had just rolled a ladder to the top.
"You do want to fuck me don't you?" she asked, whispering in my ear, surrounded by a fully occupied bus.
"Of course," I said.
"I guess I won't mind if you don't want to fuck me, but it's a little insulting. I do like being with you and talking to you. And I am big boned and not as pretty as your girlfriend I bet."
"God, Vy, you don't realize how sexy and beautiful you are!" I said loudly and vehemently. And then I whispered, "The image of you bouncing on a boy turned me on. I can't wait to see it in the flesh so to speak. I love your body, it's perfect, and your face is cute and lovely AND beautiful."
"Thanks," she said quietly, relaxing back into her seat.
"You believe me, don't you?"
"Of course," she said with a wink. I sensed her self-conscious and self-deprecating character so for a moment her easy acceptance of my over the top yet truthful compliment surprised me. Then I felt the pain of the bruise lingering on my shoulder. She believed me because she could tell if I lied. She laughed unbridled and I joined her. If our conversation hadn't been noticed, the laughter certainly was.
"I guess I thought I had to ease you slowly into my bed. Coax you into wanting it," I explained.
"Is that how it goes with you and your lovers? They bullshit you into believing they need to be coaxed?"
"Actually most of the time no, but I could tell you were shy."
"Have I ever been shy with you? I wanted you Joe. I want you just as much as you said you wanted me. I'm not shy about sex. And I hate bullshit. So how many?"
"How many what?"
"You said 'most' which means a lot more than one girl who didn't need coaxing. So how many?"
"A few dozen?"
"Hardly." We arrived out our stop. I stood and moved towards the exit, Vy following.
"A dozen?" she persisted.
We walked up the steep hill to my mother's apartment, actually the bottom floor of a small gabled house. I thought the change of scene from the bus to the street would change the conversation. I thought wrong.
"A dozen?!?" she yelled, catching up to me and holding my hand.
"I don't know exactly."
"That many hunh? I hope we have time together before you're back to Waikiki and your girlfriend so I can hear about them."
We arrived at the house and I opened the door for Vy. A small space efficiently divided into my mother's bedroom, her study which I used as my bedroom, a tight little kitchen and living room with enough room for a couch and overstuffed chair, a low table and a very good mid-range entertainment system.
"A bourgeois female with no closet space?" asked Vy. I opened a door to a space which jutted into the living room and receded back to a stairwell above it. Though narrow, it equaled the size of the study and was filled with clothes hanging and on shelves and several pairs of shoes at the back. "Of course," said Vy.
"About my girlfriend," I said, setting my bag of records against the stereo, Vy placing her bag against mine. "I wanted you to know that yes I do have a girlfriend sort of."
"What do you mean sort of?" asked Vy walking into the kitchen and pulling Tupperware out of the refrigerator. "Mmm, these smell good. I'll be a good housewife for once in my life and fix us up some dinner."
"She and I are useful to each other. She satisfies my needs and I satisfy hers, of which she has plenty. We have no illusions."
"Do you love her?"
"I guess so. We don't mention it, but I enjoy her company and we feel close emotionally, but we both have our lives and other lovers and we feel no jealousy, so if it is love, which I guess it is, it's not the clinging kind."
"I knew it," said Vy. "I knew you were perfect."
She tossed a pile of mysterious glop which smelled delicious into the microwave and pressed a few buttons until it started humming and immediately came to me, pushed me back from the kitchen doorway and guided her pushes until I fell onto the couch. She straddled my lap, pulled my ass forward, pushed her crotch into mine and we kissed. I had been soft, but that lasted less than a second. Her wonderful kisses I had experienced before equaled this one, except eventually we added a duel of tongues.
"I knew you'd never be jealous or clinging no matter what we feel for each other," she whispered wetly into my ear, her breath making me tingle. "I knew I'd find you some day. I want to fuck you right now, but I'm too hungry. Let me prepare you for a lengthy fuck after we eat."
She stripped off her sweat shirt and t-shirt and reached behind her to unlatch the bra, which I took over. Once bared, I made love to her breasts, loving the weight and smooth texture of them. I teased her small dark nipples until they became taut.
"You like my breasts, don't you Joe?" My mouth being filled by one I nodded. "I like what you're doing to them. Be gentle. That's good. Mmm. Yes. You're perfect."
I sighed like a spoiled child when her breasts slid away. She smiled up at me as she descended onto her knees between my legs. "There'll be more later, lover, but I'm hungry."
She unbuckled my pants and I lifted up to let her pull them and my Jockeys away from my hard-on, making it bounce vigorously against my abdomen.
"Nice," she cooed before capturing the head of my cock between her lips. "Don't hold back. I'm hungry," she said before licking all around my staff, coating it with spit, then spitting into her hands to make them slippery.
Her mouth returning to suck on the helmet, the lips giving friction to its edge, she circled both hands around the shaft, her thumbs and pointing fingers squeezing together to form a couple o-rings dancing up and down with a pressure close to too much but perfect. She used a unique but effective technique. Her steady rising and falling mouth tight around my cock head and the chaotic fisting of my shaft sped up subtly. She stared into my wide, thrilling eyes, her eyes studying my reaction seriously until my face contorted with the exquisite pleasure she gave me and her eyes smiled.
"Oh fuck, yeah, now!" I moaned. She removed her mouth and squeezed out a rope of cum, catching it in her t-shirt.
"Sorry lover, I don't like the taste," she said, pulling more spurts from me.
"Is okay," I said, barely able to speak. "Is good." When all that remained from my ejaculation was a bead of cum, her tongue lapped it up with a quick stroke. "Maybe for you I'll swallow."
"You don't have to," I said.
"Of course not, silly, but I'm sure you won't mind. Pull up you pants and take off your shirt." My smile must have looked perplexed because she explained, "I want to see your body. I don't care if it's flabby or whatever, I just have to see." Standing in front of her, I obeyed.
My body though not profoundly muscular wasn't flabby. At least some muscle tone could be found at my chest. "Perfect," she said, pressing a finger into my breast and studying the give. "I won't have just your cock and your cute face to fantasize about. I'll have your whole body." She licked and nipped a nipple with her lips. She giggled giddily. "I'm a lucky girl," she said sweetly.
"I'm the lucky one," I said, hugging and kissing her, our naked torsos meeting for the first time, a heavenly contact.
Pulling herself away from me, she said, "Let's eat."