“Yab-Yum,” we chant as one, all these years later, while around us shadows take shape and voice from our shared memory.
Poetry, doggerel, curses, laughs; flashes of brilliance, wine-slurred philosophy; a place and time and voices that live on in millions more minds than ours, yet in memory are still ours alone.
We were wannabe Dharma Bums, jailbait chicks high on the Road, and the Beat, hanging with Kerouac and Cassidy and Ginsburg on the fringes of their world. Tagging along with guys, we were swallowed up, instead, in the urgent mysteries of each other. In dim corners we echoed their game of Yab-Yum, silent, still, close, closer, fighting not to touch while breast swayed nearer to breast, cunt edged toward cunt, nipples ached for tightened nipples. Hunger pulsed hot and slick between damp thighs. Frustration battled willpower.
Blue-hot sparks of longing seared us, need rising in a tide that swept away the will at last, the game well-lost. Our bodies tore at joy with hands and mouths and limbs as fierce in hunger as any savage tooth and claw.
She thought she heard cheers across the pot-smoke clouded room. My ears still rang with glory. As they always will.