The coming of Yumi.
By chuck
- 1746 reads
The year is 1966, or thereabouts. The place, a quiet street in Maida Vale. It is two o'clock in the morning as a Mini-Cooper eases up to the curb outside a small apartment building. Two figures get out and move quickly through the rain towards a covered porch. A few minutes later a light goes on in a second floor bachelor flat. Simon is home with his new friend. Her name is Kiko or something. He found her wandering backstage at a Faces concert.
But first things first. Check the answerphone thing for messages. There are two. One is from David Hepworth informing Simon of a new magazine Hepworth will soon be unleashing on the fast growing teenage market. He will be needing ‘stuff’ he says. The other message has come a long distance. An anonymous girl at Rolling Stone in San Francisco wants Simon to call Jann Wenner.
But there is still no message from Samantha. Her ominous silence continues. What to do about Samantha? What precisely is the status of their relationship? Were they engaged or ‘going steady’ or what? Hard to say. Simon has been fucking like a rooster since she left. A different girl every night for months. With so much willing flesh around nobody seems sure what constitutes ‘going steady’ anymore. London is crawling with sex-crazed females. Sex has become a quick affair. Perfunctory. Nothing permanent. No hang-ups. Quite nice really. The whole range is on offer, from placid Swedish Models to pushy American ‘chicks’, eager young English Roses, French demoiselles, Teutonic beauties. Even a few exotics are starting to show up like this one sitting on his bed flipping through album covers. Kiko or Pico or something, from Tokyo…Yumi that’s it. Yumi. Pulling them is easy enough. Getting rid of them the next day is the hard part.
Simon crumbles a bit of Red Leb, mixes it with some Virginia tobacco and slowly rolls a joint. Mustn’t forget that Clapton article, due in by midday tomorrow. As he skims through some notes it occurs to him that he is living on the cutting edge of something quite amazing. This is definitely the right time and place to be in London and he is right there where the action is. What is happening to us all he wonders? This Swinging London business…is it real or just a marketing device? The music has a power all right. Power to excite teenage hormones and generate cash flow from Tokyo to Golders Green…but where does the real power lie? Who controls the beast?
Rock writing has been changing fast too. At first it was just a question of gossiping about the group a bit; what is the boys’ favorite colour? did they have girlfriends? That kind of rubbish. Then a whole new generation of writers has started to emerge, teethed on Kerouac, Miller, Burroughs they are taking it to another level. Readers are getting more sophisticated. They want solid information, studio details, technical stuff, even a few intellectual observations. Rolling Stone has tapped into a new audience and drugs have gone mainstream. Now you’ve got the gonzos. Lester Bangs, Hunter Thompson. And me, thinks Simon. Me. Where do I fit in?
Such are the thoughts that pass through Simon’s brain as he puts the finishing touches to a review of the new Cream album for NME. It’s a minor piece of literature but it needs doing before tomorrow and he’s been putting it off. He needs to go through it one more time. For the flow. The trick is to seduce the reader.
Tappity tappity tap and it’s done. Simon pulls the sheet out of the typewriter, yes typewriter, folds it and puts it in an envelope. That’s that. Get it down to Nigel in the morning. If he spikes it I’ll flog it to some Yank magazine thinks Simon. Might do it anyway. Damn I’m a clever bastard. Now it’s time, to quote Joni Mitchell, for the ‘strange new flesh’ I’ve found. Wonder what this little Oriental creature has got between her legs.
She is sitting on the edge of the bed (isn’t it good, Norwegian wood), looking at an album cover. ‘Rubber Soul’. Simon moves behind her on the bed and starts playing with her hair. Should he try to explain the double entendre in the album title or concentrate on getting her bra off? He gets a couple of well-formed tits, one in each hand, from behind and Rubber Soul falls to the floor. So do her jeans and panties in due course to expose a surprisingly hirsute vista. Yummy Yumi. She sits up to watch him run his fingers through the hair and he moves slowly back up along her body to kiss her on the mouth again whilst slipping a finger discretely into her moist little quim. She begins to moan. At which point he decides to slow the action down a bit. He needs to shed a few garments himself.
So East meets West in a resounding climax. Baby you can drive my car. But Simon isn’t ready for sleep. The sex had been inventive. Not sure what all that squealing was about but she seems happy. Might have another go in the morning. Pretty good day when all’s said and done. David Hepworth will be needing writers. I wonder what Wenner wants? That answering machine or ansaphone or whatever they call the bloody things, was definitely a good investment. The car is legally parked. The fridge contains the requisite breakfast ingredients. Yumi is no trouble. I wonder if she can cook bacon? She may even turn out to be a keeper. Yes, things could be worse.
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