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Depth Mettle
© 2000 by Nikki Isaak

The pit was brutal tonight.

Fists and elbows lashed out, the floor quaked beneath the ataxic stompings and drunken flailings of angry bare-chested youths, sweat-beaded and unrelenting. Enthusiastic grins lit their faces as comrades-in-bashing bonded to the sonics of Dismembered By Cheetahs, vox-boxed menace and trenchant bass lines driving them on. Behind the drum kit, Bukowski's reverberating skin-poundings paced the aural damage.

Jeremy wiped eye-stinging sweat from his brow, falling back from the edge of the pungent maelstrom, its vagaric boundaries shrinking and swelling. Occasionally, somebody -- mostly guys (as girls were groped and fondled) -- would crowd-surf, riding that brief, shifting tide to the glaring security guards standing in front of the stage.

"Let's put the 'punch' back in 'punchline,' motherfuckers!" Rigor Mortis exhorted the packed club, his black dreads falling thick across his glistening face. Seconds later, the band's death-metal rendition of the Fraggle Rock theme song came to a crashing end, amidst hoots of appreciation, devil horns in evidence.

Without hesitation, DBC (as the band was affectionately acronymed by its fans) ripped into "Six Six Five And A Quarter," one of their newer songs.

The pit combatants, wet with exertion, upped the energy ante, pulling up those who fell in the wake of the maelstrom's renewed fury. Jeremy pushed harder into those behind him, ignoring hostile looks and cannabis smoke as he burrowed and inched his way back to the horse-shoe shaped bar twenty-five feet back.

He was tired. Unlike many of the kids here, he had to be at work, early the next morning. He'd already be going to work with ringing ears; further damage was unnecessary.

The bar was three people deep, but Jeremy pushed his way up to the velvet counter, noting the inebriated long-hair who looked irritated that Jeremy impeded his view of the attractive Rubenesque bartender in that taut tank top.

The bartender's jet eyes widened when she saw Jeremy. She zipped down to him, ignoring the clammerings of other customers, mostly young men in blue jeans, black t-shirts and matching leather.


Setting the bottle on the bar, she kissed him on the lips.

The drunk beside Jeremy looked jealous.

"My Asiatic love."


"Moi?" Jeremy feigned shock.

Lynn gave him a dark look, took the fiver he proffered.

"Adrian's in the office. Now go, before I hurt you."

She winked at him as he shoved his way back through the jostling crowd, Guinness pint in hand.

The office was near the entrance of the club. Jeremy climbed the wooden stairs, ducking under the cordoning sash with its dangling sign, "No Admittance: This Means You, Fuck-Wit." Underneath Jeremy's forbidding lettering was a yellow smiley face with three eye-dots.

Jeremy was a big fan of Spider Jerusalem, comic book anti-hero and all-around freak. Somehow, he related.

He pounded at the oak door at the top of the stairs. Clomping steps, followed by the unbolting and opening of the door.

Adrian smiled at Jeremy. "About time you got here, white boy."

"I was--"

"--down in the pit, I know. Sometimes I wonder if I took over this club so you could re-live your youth."

Adrian shut the door behind them, sliding the bolt back in place. Robbed once, Adrian said, that's inevitable; robbed twice, you're a fool.

"I -- we're -- only thirty."

"Still," Adrian sighed, sitting down behind a huge mahogany desk, "we're not like those young turks out there, living for Saturday night, never mind tomorrow."

"Bad night, huh?"

"Yeah." Melancholy clouded his caramel-tinctured face. "It just kind of. . . settled on me."

Jeremy nodded sympathetically. Adrian was manic depressive -- it made him difficult to live with at times, but Jeremy admired the way he coped with it, sans prescriptions, which just made him nuttier than usual.

Jeremy handed Adrian the pint, then moved behind him, rubbing his taut neck and shoulders. They made quite a pair: Jeremy, the sweat-washed white guy with a shock of curly hair, his jeans and Nile t-shirt clinging chillingly to his mid-sized body, his blue eyes crimson-bolted; Adrian, in contrast, was a bald beefy guy, with a piercing cinnamon gaze (that could make Jeremy erect in seconds). His attire made one think of a business man, tan polo shirt with dark slacks.

Adrian's head fell back against Jeremy's tiny paunch, sighing, his eyes closed.

Outside the office, the muted thudding of DBC's headlining set vibrated the walls of the office.

Jeremy stepped aside. "Move back."

Adrian's eyes snapped open. He almost choked on the ale he was imbibing. Grinning, he set the bottle on the desk, scuttled the seat back. Even after seven years, the "funny white boy" he'd met in a mosh pit still surprised him.

Jeremy kneeled in front of Adrian, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, slipping those character-defining slacks around his ankles. Adrian's half-erect member slid out, waiting for him. Taking that chocolate cock in his mouth, he squeezed its base, feeling Adrian harden within his moist enclave, his tongue tracing heart-signs on the underside of its shaft.

When Adrian was sufficiently hard, Jeremy rammed him into his mouth, his tip flirting with the back of Jeremy's throat. With one hand, he tightly gripped the base of his cock, minor tremblings in his heated length; he was not going for longevity, he was going for release.

Adrian, clutching the arm-rests of the chair, gave a low moan, his pelvis arcing: he was about to come, Jeremy knew.

Abruptly he withdrew his warmth from Adrian. Taking a swig of Guinness, he swiftly slid his mouth over his lover's cock again, cold shock of ale stiffening Adrian's resolve even more.

If water were a cognizant sexual being, is this what it would be like to fuck it, Jeremy wondered.

Salinity and ale shot, mingled as Adrian flooded him, fluctuations in his hot mouth. Adrian gasped, drew in sibilant breaths.

"Love your 'depth mettle,'" Adrian chuckled.

Pulling Jeremy up to him, Adrian french-kissed him as he enveloped him in his arms.

Outside the office, youth raged on.

© 2000 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Not to be distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any manner without the express written permission from the author.

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