Free Punk and Zen by JD Glass

especially when she was ripping through the
nylons.
    What a fucking event that had been, I mused as I
stepped into the showe r. I got soaked as quickly as possible and went through
the routine of bathing. Finally, when I’d rinsed off the soap, I stood under
the shower itself and simply let the water pour over me.
    Trace’s words pounded through my head, so hard that my
head ached. It was time to get out so I shut the taps and reached for a towel.
    My hair wrapped, I grabbed one of my robes from behind
the closed door (I have three of them: tiger stripes, leopard spots, and
black), wrapped myself in the black one, and began to rub my aching head with
the terry cloth. Suddenly, it occurred to me that perhaps my head hurt because
I was a little hung over, and my follow-up thought was maybe, just maybe, Trace
had been a little drunk as well, because I could think of nothing else to
explain her behavior.
    But that made things more confusing, because didn’t
alcohol lower your inhibitions? Supposedly, it just lowers your guard; your
brain is definitely not functioning well enough to come up with new and novel
ideas, thanks to the effects of oxygen deprivation. So what did that mean?
Yeah, I’d wanted more between Trace and me, but I didn’t “go” for it, and Trace
had pretty much literally attacked me, which was still just unbelievable.
    And I’d frozen. What the fuck was up with that? I’d
been fine, or at least I’d thought I was, just a little while before she
appeared. Was it really the tequila pop? Or was it something else? For a moment
there, I’d honestly considered just letting things happen—if I’d just, well,
given over, it would have been what Trace needed, it would help her to be
whole.
    Why fight it or her anyway? I mean, it’s not like I
didn’t know that it didn’t matter who Trace was with; she always wanted to be
with me in the end. Except perhaps now, after this, this thing, she wouldn’t. I
admit that something inside me was afraid, and I wasn’t sure what I was more
afraid of—that we’d continue the way we’d been, or that maybe, just maybe, it
was finally over and I was free.
    Free. That was a strange thought, and I shied away
from it. Free from what, really?
    But something in my mind insisted that I’d done the
right thing, that this whole issue wasn’t just about whether or not we ever
fucked. I mean, look at me and Blue, um, Candace. What happened between us was
pretty damn intimate, can’t really get much closer, physically. But I felt no
tie, no connection to her, other than a warm friendliness and an honest lust.
The only game between us had really boiled down to this: she was interested,
was I? And there was no deceit about it. Yes, I was. Okay, maybe it had gone a
ABC little further faster than I normally would’ve let it and, for
chrissake, in the skybox of all places, but really no harm, no foul. She
wanted, I wanted; it was very happily mutual.
    Too much, it was too much to think about—the words,
the feelings, and this strange sense of shame all floating together. That was
weird, the shame, I mean. I didn’t feel any about Candace, but from what had
happened with Trace. I felt like my whole body was as raw as my neck, as if I’d
lived out that nightmare everyone has sooner or later—you know, the one when
you go to school and suddenly realize you’re naked.
    I brushed my teeth (I’m a Crest baby), and somewhere
during the rinse and spit cycle, I realized that my hands were shaking.
    Maybe my blood sugar was too low. It had been quite
some time since I’d had anything solid to eat, I rationalized. Besides, that
made sense, in a purely biological sort of way.
    Wrapped in my robe and stepping out of the bathroom
finally, I walked into the kitchen and drank some orange juice. That would take
care of the sugar. I left the light on over the stove, since it would shine
nice and dimly in the living room, then went to the bedroom that I shared with
my roommate, Jackie.
    Oh,