Portland, Jan 12, 1990

I crushed out my cigarette and entered the club again, the dull thump of the bass drum giving way to the treble of the guitar and vocals as I pulled the door open.

My flannel back off and around my waist as I worked my way to the bar and ordered a Henry’s, shaking the light rain from my hair as she uncapped and handed me the bottle.

The club was packed, mostly toward the stage. This  band wasn’t bad, kinda punk, kinda pixies-like. An energy that I haven’t seen in awhile. I came for opener, The Melvins, but these guys weren’t fucking bad at all.

Out of nowhere, she plows into me, dumping her drink all over me. Fuck, my Docs. Just Fuck.

Until I get a real look at her, then…fuck my Docs. Whatever.

“Oh Jesus, man. I’m so fucking sorry! I’m a little blown out.” she half laughs as an apology. “I think it’s the shrooms.” she yells over the skinny blonde dude singing.

“Fuck, shrooms’ll do that! No biggie. You OK?” I respond, steadying her from a wobble that could have gone tragic, quick.

“Yeah, Man! I’m fucking great! These guys are the shit!! Woooooo!!!!”

About then, you show up to her aid. If she was the opener, fuck…you are headlining! Fucking stunning, awesome hair, sweet army jacket…10 eye Docs.

“Courtney, fuck Dude! Total bullshit!” You say as you grab hold of your friend’s arm. Courtney gives a pouty face and then flips you the finger and bolts, in not quite a straight line, into the crowd.

“Fuck that noise! I’M NOT HOLDING YOUR HAIR WHEN YOU PUKE AGAIN DUDE!!!” You scream over the music, in vain.

You turn your attention to me for a second, “Dude, you totally have drink all over you. Thought you should know.”

“Yeah, your friend kinda thought I needed it more than she did.” I reply.

“She’s on Shrooms.” You say, like it’s commonplace.

“I gathered.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal. “I’m Dylan”

“Hey man, I’m Caroline…that trainwreck is Courtney. She’s my hetero-lifemate.” You half smile, in an angsty/adoring way.

“So she’s the trouble, you’re the good girl?” I tease.

“Fuck you, Dude!” You say, as you punch me in the arm. “I’M the trouble, she’s the comedic sidekick that CAN’T HOLD HER SHROOMS, CAN YOU COURT??”

Courtney didn’t hear you in the pit.

“Whatever.” you scoff.

The band is playing some number about finding God, hey hey hey.

“I like your boots,” I blurt out clumsily.

“Did you just compliment my tits, dude?” Obviously mishearing me

“BOOTS!, Your Boots!” My long hair hopefully hiding my red face.

“Too bad, because my tits fucking rock! Feel!” as you grab my hand and place it right on you left breast.

“Yes, righteous tits, or tit, as I only have experience with the one.” I reply coolly. At which point, with a cute eyeroll,  you move my hand to the other breast.

“Plural, yes. Righteous tits.” I confirm.

“Told ya, dude.” as you drop my hand.

“So Caroline, sometime…you wanna…” I begin.

“Fuck? Whatever, sure dude.” You answer. And you lead me to the bathroom. The shitty, club bathroom. Jesus, I don’t even piss in there.

After you scare the shit out of the dude puking in the long urinal by yelling “GET OUT  YOU DEGENERATE, PEOPLE WANT TO FUCK!!!”

You bend over the sink, hike your skirt and I rapidly unbuckle my belt and jeans, throw my flannel over my shoulder.

I slide inside you and you steady yourself against the rock-stickered wall. You look back and say with a sly grin. “Hey Dylan, I bet you can’t fuck me sober.”

Oh, it’s on.

I start thrusting inside you to the bass of the song being played. You, slapping out that same beat against the wall. Fucking you so hard, neither of us care that someone comes in to piss. Enjoy the show, fucker!

I hear you start to scream over the top of the skinny blonde singer and your wet hole grips my dick tight, I cum hard and hot inside you, feeling your legs shake as you try and keep your balance. And the band says goodnight to a roaring, drunken crowd of revelers!

You push me off, and I grab a paper towel for each of us.

Once cleaned and somewhat put together, we exit the john and join the after crowd.

As we do, you smile at me and say “Dude, I think I might be sober. Nice Job, fucker!”

“Thank your friend, or the shrooms. Whatever.” I Laugh.

You suddenly yell across the room…”Jesus Fuck, Courtney!!”

Your friend is already making out with the singer of the band, Kurt something.

“Nevermind.” You sigh in frustration.





15 thoughts on “Portland, Jan 12, 1990

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