Sapphic Voices General Fiction

Beats

by Megan Slater
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Copyright © by Megan Slater, June 2010

This Story is rated 'Adults Only'.

I came off the stage doused in sweat and raging with adrenaline. It was a great performance at top speed, locked in and straight from the heart. I loved coming here, letting it all out in a straight-up improvised music-making session with talented local musicians. The bar was busy with participants and spectators alike, some there for the impromptu music and some simply for the late license. Drunk men patted me on the back, some offered to buy me a beer. Quite often I accepted. Thirsty work, drumming.

Later, I stepped up to play some hand percussion. I was a little drunk which loosened me up adequately, slipping easily into the groove of the piece. The musicians knew me, and I them. I hammered along to the piece, whacking out a great solo on an unusual instrument to be found played well in the late night music venue. The drummer behind the kit played a simple groove and we both earned a great applause. I grinned and knocked back the rest of my pint, readying myself to go again.

I looked up to see the drummer leave the stage, and a slim young woman with long blonde hair winked at me as she took his place. I smiled - she was cute - and she began to play. She thumped out fills on the toms, building a steady rhythm and keeping good time. I could tell straight away that she was good, and we began to test one another. No one else in the band mattered then as we worked a call and response routine, copying the rhythm offered by the other and building our grooves together. Who knows how long this went on, me sitting on the bass amp to the left side of the stage, drum head pointed towards the microphone, looking over my shoulder towards the drumkit to my right. It had to come to an end, and I rubbed my slightly swollen hands together before offering her one of them in a friendly handshake.

“That was amazing,” I offered, over the sound of applause.

She grinned. “Thanks. I was just wondering if you know my friend. She runs a women’s drumming group. You’re great, you must have come across her.”

“I’ve heard of the group but they seemed a bit too exclusive for my liking. Maybe I’ll check them out. But I need a break. Here. You’re playing this now,” I said, and passed her my instrument before jumping off the stage.

She stayed on the stage for another five-minute jam, and I went to grab another beer. Soon she appeared again beside me.

“I had to play with you. I saw you playing earlier. You’re amazing.”

Not particularly great at accepting compliments, I swatted the words away and grinned my cheekiest grin. “I loved that jam, it was intense. You were intense. How long have you been playing for?”

“I trained at the music school here. I play in an orchestra, so percussion rather than drum kit. How long have you been playing for?”

“For as long as I can remember,” I answered. I had grown up tapping and stamping and generally making a nuisance of myself. “I largely taught myself.”

“Well, you’re very good,” she said.

I was flattered, and she was very charming with her compliments. I suppose she must have been in her early to mid twenties, the same age as me. Definitely cute. It didn’t even occur to me that she might be gay, not in that place at that time. We smiled at one another, and the incumbent band started to play. There was silence for a few moments.

“Anyway, if you fancy a jam sometime let me-” I started.

“Are you gay?” she interjected. I looked at her quizzically. I am fairly short with broad shoulders (from all the years of drumming, it seems) and short, dark, spiky hair. I look as gay as the day is long. I laughed and nodded. “Are you... single?” she ventured.

I smiled in what I hoped was a rueful way. “No, I’m not,” I said.

“Damn it,” she said.

There was another moment of silence. She asked, “Is she a drummer?” The look in her eyes said she was sizing up the competition.

“No, she isn’t,” I said. “She’s an academic.”

She nodded. “Ahh, yes. Mine too. My ex. She was an academic. She didn’t get it. Does yours ‘get it’?” She looked me in the eye, challengingly.

At this moment, I knew I should probably stop the conversation. I was in dangerous territory. My girlfriend didn’t get it. At all. Earlier that very day we had had an argument over the importance of music in my life, and where it was all going. I spent most of my time and money playing in bands and saw very little return on it. I drank a lot of beer and stayed out late. She was studious, hard-working and accomplished.

I almost felt her read my thoughts. Thoughts of how every part of my daily routine has a rhythm to it, a different division of time. I thought of how fluid my timing and movements were, how jarring my partner’s. Running, walking, breathing. I count everything, see patterns in everything, hear music in all things. I thought of moments of my life when I mastered new techniques or appreciated the work of another, the journey of my whole life categorised as ‘drummer’. I thought of all the places I had been and all the people I had known, and somehow saw all of it staring back through the eyes of a perfect stranger.

“I’m Kirsty. Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.

--

Later, when we had drifted off back to our respective friends, I still felt the nagging. My relationship was being torn limb from limb by the mere proximity of the girl. I joked and laughed, and accepted the praise of a few drunken punters. I could see Kirsty at the bar, and kept a close eye on her movements. She wore a white jacket, jeans and trainers. Very casual. She looked athletic. She was dangerously cute. I decided to skip off to the bathroom to escape the danger.

In the cubicle, I hung my head in my hands. What was going on? How had this woman sent me reeling so easily? I dug my phone from my pocket to send a message to a friend, but swore silently at the lack of signal. I swore again, and exited the cubicle. Most of my friends had left, and I would do the same.

Washing my hands in the sink, another cubicle opened behind me. I looked up into the mirror and there stood Kirsty, a smile on her face, directed at me. Without taking my eyes off her, I turned to my left and dried my hands under the dryer as she washed hers in the next sink, eyes fixed on mine. No other dryers being nearby, she wiped her hands dry on the back her jeans.

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I thought of her strong, talented hands and the rhythm of her, and what it would feel like to move against her, in time with her. My body started to rebel. Blood rushed to my head, and I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

She was still standing next to me, still smiling at me. A smirk, one might call it. Then something gave way, and we both turned and pressed our lips to the other’s. I sighed, brought my hand to the back of her neck. She ran hers across the small of my back, under my t shirt. One small kiss, and no going back. Suddenly the fire in my body took over, and I leaned back against the sinks, pulling her into me. I kissed her hard, pulled her body tight against me. I felt her fingers digging into my shoulders as she kissed me back.

“Fuck,” I moaned, almost involuntarily.

“Quite,” she growled. She kissed me again. “Let’s get out of here.”

She bid her friends farewell, and left. Luckily, the last of my friends were also making their excuses, so I packed my things and walked out of the door. My friends jumped in a taxi, and I walked the other way. Standing hidden in the shadows of some nearby scaffolding was Kirsty.

We leapt for each other again, hungrily kissing and touching, pulling at clothing and exploring the skin underneath with fingers and nails. She started to bite at the skin of my neck - it was too much, and I thought my legs would give way. We took a taxi to her place.

The night was incredible. Her strong, firm body, her hands and her mouth, all moving perfectly in time with my own. It was hungry, need-fuelled sex like never before. I couldn’t remember the last time someone paid so much attention to my breasts, or my neck, or anywhere. She knew. I came again and again, and, in turn so did she. We fell asleep curled together, exhausted.

I left the next morning, and I never told my partner what happened. We continue to live our separate-but-together lives. From time to time I see Kirsty and we whip ourselves into a rhythmical frenzy which always leads to the same place. Who else would understand?

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