Jazzy Friction

“Is that his real name?” said Al. “Jazzy Friction? What kind of name is that?”

Jodi said, “He’s a music producer, love. I don’t know his real name.” She fiddled with the volume on her amp. “He may have the same initials. They sometimes do that. Jeffrey Foxtrot. John Fong. Jeremy Farah. Who knows?” The beats continued. It was IDM, she’d told him. Intelligent Dance Music.

A broken beathood; jarring and jumping; intelligent how? “Jazzy Friction. Is that meant to sound sexy?” He was being cynical. She ignored it. It had become tiresome.

“Soon my love. It will be soon. But I’m not ready yet. Can we just wait a little longer?”

“Of course we can,” he said quietly. “Of course we can. There’s no schedule.”

“Do you mean that? Can you wait?” Her eyes were bright. He’d said the right thing. “I want it to be perfect – our first time. My first time.” Her eyes brightened more.

Boy she was beautiful, thought Al. How was it possible that no one had been there yet? A ripe woman, unspoiled. Or maybe she’d left it too long, and developed silly hang-ups. Carrying around a sack of junk, clinging to it, never letting go. Silly thoughts. Let them go, man. She’s she, and me’s me. Enjoy what we have.

She turned up the volume. Her powerful system was so much better than his crappy laptop speaker, which she called “Tinman talking”. She had a two thousand dollar BCS amplifier and waist-high Rose speakers, probably the same cost again – and he was pushing sound out of his $400 laptop. That’s why she always wanted him to come to her place. Their replacement for sex was dancing – and talking Tinmen just didn’t cut it. So it was her place most nights for techno/house, jazz funk, IDM, and World Fusion – all under the guidance of the mighty Jazzy Friction.

Their dancing was fun and often fierce. He’d forgotten how heady beats and motion could be. The melody moved you, but the rhythm drove you, and the deeper – unknown, unheard even – harmonics vibrated your soul. Did she use a vibrator, he wondered? Or sex toys? Masturbate at all? She must do. Had she really not opened Pandora’s Box.

For a man used to regular sex, this was very frustrating. To meet a girl, date regularly, feel chemistry and the spark of powerful desire, but to hold back his natural urges, and keep them dampened down. In this day and age. Was he dating a nun? A prude? A neurotic? A she-male? This last thought made him smile.

Thank God for the great outdoors; for rolling Coastal forests, for his cabin surrounded by cedars, cottonwoods, alders, and poplars. All fuel for fire. Chopping wood relieved the tension. It felt potent, primal. Swinging a tool of Barbary, unthinking, smashing the whole, standing over your handiwork, mighty and gloating, then doing it again, and again, and again, and again. Sweating profusely, swinging, aching, grunting, and shouting, till the anger was spent, and the need fulfilled – for now.

He went to her one night expecting dancing. Jazzy Friction poured through the door. It was an ambient tune with quiet harmonics; a promise of deeper vibrations. He smelled her before he saw her. Her fierce perfumes. Rose assaulted his senses, and chilli overwhelmed them; the first inch of door opening allowing sensual passage. She was fully made up – ruby lipstick, cinnamon eye shadow, rich mascara extending her eyes, with a scattering of red glitter beneath them. She wore a raw silk, red kimono, its folds holding darkness, its belt creating tension. The lights were low, with scented candles burning cherry, plum, and blood orange.

“Hello darling,” she said, her voice deeper, larger than before. “I’m ready now. What about you?” She clasped his waist and kissed him, then stepped back and released her belt. Beneath her kimono was fiery flesh, but covered yet. Sheened silks, stitched and shaped for her body alone, covered her mounds and havens.

He saw them together, joined in every way possible. Like sticks on a burn pile yet to be consumed – finding their own arrangement. A relation of height, width, and depth. Adding to that the fourth dimension – time. Coming together, rubbing together, creating friction. Making a spark. Igniting their pyre. Burning like a bush, a moth, a phoenix, Helios, witches, Joan of Arc, Al-Hallaj. Sacrificing themselves like Prometheus. Having the choice to dampen down or add fuel to the fire. Self-consiousness creates friction. The trick is to lose yourself and become effortless. Become the light born of darkness. Bright fire from dark wood. Emanation. Adding fuel, they crackled and burned.

They lay beside each other after, but had to move away. Both bodies were sated, but overheated. A need to cool down. But as they lay a foot apart, it seemed that air was rushing between them, as if glowing logs, their passion creating a draw. Both of them were spent but their fuel was inexhaustible. Flames continued to roar. A fire tree between them remade. Al said, “You were right my love. We were worth waiting for.” He was breathless, unknown.

“I knew it when you first touched me,” she said. “You set my heart aflame.” Then she turned to him and smiled, and started laughing. “Are you Jazzy Friction.”

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