I'm a stim-junkie, I admit it. The thrill of going where I shouldn't go, up a fire escape behind an old hotel, onto a shopping center roof after dark, into a fenced lot without being spotted by cameras, I live for that.
Combine this with a strong exhibitionist streak and I was destined to be a tagger.
Stamping, styling, marking, branding, whatever you call it, painting your chop-mark in some roost up the side of a tower or tall building is the shits!
My first tag was in High School. The jolt it gave me. Off limits! Illegal! The heights, climbing the narrow skeletal ladder and walkway! Seeing the whole town spread out below, the sheer drop to a certain death. I shiver just remembering it, fear and thrill mixed with a kind of sexual excitement.
My boyfriend and I wrote Sappers Suck! before the Senior Year final game, letters six feet tall, on our rival school's own tower! Right in the middle Liberty City, really a small town, whoever named it had big plans.
I signed it, wrote my initials, a newb move, folks might have guessed it was me from that.
We did the deed, got out of there. Went to his basement, his parents were off at the game, I fucked him silly. Sucked his cock, jacked in and banged him like I wanted to screw it off!
God I came! Best sex ever, which wasn't saying a lot, I'd only ever done it with him.
I was hooked. Went out in his pickup after that, watched the lights come on as the sun went down, rode him in the bed of the truck to another mind-blowing orgasm. Not because of him, he just lay there with a stupid look. No, because I was outside, naked, fucking!
Not a problem, letting him cum in me, Sandy always had a morning after pill, my big sister, about all she was good for. She had been off to college, didn't do anything but party, grades were not even bad, all Incomplete. The folks brought her home after that, now she just smoked weed and screwed randos she met at the mall, a checkout clerk at Sport Stuff.
But she always has my back when it comes to sex, I gotta give her credit there.
My boyfriend was done with tagging after that, just did it as a Senior Prank. Didn't want to risk any more trouble, jeopardize his scholarship.
I could understand, he had a future. Me? Not so much. Bad grades, could never give a shit. I could get A's if I tried, but that wasn't gonna happen.
Except art, I did amazing in art. The teacher said I should apply to art school. I couldn't see myself toadying up to teachers and collectors and galleries, doing mundane stuff to please the old folks with the money.
The folks retired to Florida, left us the house, I don't know for how long, they might sell it at any time. Their last good deed for their daughters, not headed to college so we gotta get a job and move out, the clock is ticking.
I got a job at the lumberyard, stocking. They had every kind of spray paint. The colors! The finishes! Satin, High Gloss! Metallic! I'd never shoplifted, that was for little kids, not the kind of thrill I need or want. But the temptation is awful.
So a couple weeks in, the assistant manager (another High School graduate from my sister's class) says "Haul these to the dumpster out back, we're switching brands, and this stuff is expired."
I take it home, a frustrated art dropout with an entire case of enamel glitter paint, sixteen-ounce contractor size, whatever am I gonna do?
The bridge down by the river, railway bridge, been tagged a thousand times so I add my own. Go over a couple of tags, but they are faded and peeling.
Had to come up with my mark, I invent a Batman-style oval with a Zorro kind of letter. Most folks just riff on a word, their name or alias, mono. Some even use stencils! Mine has always been free-hand, every one a little different, only my style lets you know it's really me.
Then I do some ordinary stuff, in an alley or on a dumpster, doing it for the excitement of getting caught! Come home after, jill in my room, reliving it.
I do a roof after that, metal warehouse on the airport flight path, anybody who looks down taking off or landing will be sure to see it. Just my tag but like ten feet wide, framed and some artistic flair, shaded and 3d!
The thrill is good - getting up there, walking on metal that made noise like a drum! Risk of getting caught, sliding off, hitting the pavement, getting seriously injured keeps the blood pumping.
No sex after that, I am done with boys, kinda knew I went the other way ever since I was little. Didn't wanna play with Barbie but I sure liked looking. That smooth crotch confused me for a long time.
Don't know yet what I want. Happy jilling and taking risks, that'll do for now.
Anyway rubbing one out on the roof of the lumberyard after suits me. Alone, looking down on the mundane world, panties in my pocket, fingers up my cooch. Just watch the world do it's boring conventional safe thing while I am above it all, screwing myself. I fancy I am screwing all of them too, saying "You know what I think of you? This!" and spray my cum out on the shingle.
That roof tag gets mentioned on the news, the announcer kind of likes it, calls it 'guerilla art'.
Which leads to my first attention from the tagger community.
A local group contacts me shortly after, overpaints one of my tags with a cipher, I figure it out - a phone number, all the digits stylized and inverted, reversed.
Pissed because they'd soiled my art? Excited to be noticed? A little of both, mixed. I call it.
"Hello?" Not giving anything away.
"Hey! Z-girl? This is Greg, maybe you've seen my tag? Green and black, wild-style, inverted final g?"
I have, not impressed much but excited he notices me. At least now I know what that style is called.
"We're having a meet at the switch yard behind the steel recycling plant, Saturday afternoon. You're invited!"
"I guess I might show." Be chill, don't want to seem like a newb.
"Cool! Don't call this number again." and it goes click!
Z-girl, that fit. The Z, my mark. But wait, how does he know I'm not a guy? Maybe my voice.
And do I want to rub shoulders with other taggers? Dunno. I'd been a loner so far, but for that one time with my ex. Maybe.
Saturday is a long way off; I can't wait that long for my next hit. I decide to do the back wall of the police station, after work, just getting dark.
Wait for patrol shift change, in an alley down the corner from their back lot, away from cameras. Cop cars come in and out then quiet.
Approach from the side. Cameras cover the entrance, cover the lot but not the fence, not the back wall.
Chain-link, easy-peasy, spider up, pull up my pack with a rope, lower it down inside, climb down.
Take a little while on the tag, get it just right. Gotta look good, the whole force was gonna see this one! Fill layer, background, detail. Acrylic coat, anti-overpaint!
I get it done, nobody moving, all quiet. Just as I drop to the ground outside, the back door opens, a desk sergeant comes out.
Shit! That was close. Adrenaline.
He goes to the dumpster, drops a trash bag in.
Turns, I think he sees me but doesn't 'see' me, just a slim girl with a backpack making her way down the sidewalk. Kinda dark already.
He sure sees the tag! Stops like he's been paralyzed, just stares with his mouth open. Gets on his radio, starts talking.
Time to split! Saunter away, my nerves screaming Go! Go! but I walk like I own the street, don't look back.
Get just a block, duck into an alley, boost my pack onto a dumpster, heave myself up. Sit, back to the brick wall, shove a hand into my waistband, two fingers in my cooch, scrub one out. Heel of my thumb on my clit, fingers sloosh in my already-soaked cunt, eyes closed, head back.
Sit exposed in public on a dumpster, a pedestal, jilling, celebrating my bold strike against the establishment!
Close, close, I switch to three fingers, get my thumb right on my cum-button, mash around. Think of my near-thing escape, the cop shows up a few seconds faster and I'd have been toast.
Hell yeah! Grunt, cum, convulse, gush a gallon around my fingers. Gasp, shivering, hand wet, panties soaked, it is showing thru already, my leggings a dark spot on the crotch. Look like I pissed myself!
I pull my hand out, shake it, spatter on the dumpster lid. Have some wipes in my pack, yeah I keep them there to clean up if I get paint on anything. But also for after cumming, I won't stink of pussy juice.
Climb down and I notice my own tag on the brick, I was leaning against it! Sweet.
Like some underground comic book title shot, the wild woman, finishes finger-dicking herself, pull back and she's framed by her own mark, like a logo, like an emblem, Z-Girl!
Walk home proud, not hiding my wet crotch, stalking my turf, flaunting it.
I feel like a superhero.
The news doesn't call me that. They have a camera crew at the station, showcase my work, my mark all shiny and brilliant, my best work!
Boring straightlaced cops with their hands on their hips, look and shake their heads, disappointed.
"This vandalism has to stop! It's getting out of hand. We're tolerant, in an alley, on a fence, we let that go. But disfiguring government property? This is a serious matter."
The anchor isn't very upset, kind of impressed if I read him right.
"Z has upped the ante! Raising the stakes! Where will she strike next?"
Where, indeed. Saturday might give me some ideas.
...
"She's a menace! We'll all be hassled now!"
"She's awesome! Did you see! Right under their noses, like a boss!"
"What was that, clearcote? It was so bright! They'll be like, Why can't I paint over this? Damn."
"They got a crew out, spraying over our stuff! It's a massacre! All gone, took me all year, my portfolio erased in days. Because of her!"
My reception is mixed. I just listen for a while, in my leggings and denim jacket, t-top and backpack. Incognito, they don't know me yet.
Some tall dude, scrap of beard, piercing in one ear, one eyebrow, notices me, smirks. Comes over.
"You're making quite a splash. Gonna take a while for everybody to understand. Give them a minute."
I put out a hand; this is clearly Greg; his leather jacket has his mark on the back. Not really a smart move, anybody familiar can make him from that.
Looks cool though. Maybe I gotta get me one of those.
"Z-Girl." The capitals are clearly there, the way I say it.
"Greg." He shakes, drops my hand, waves an arm wide, encompasses the loose group of individuals clustered at the gate.
"Meet our crew."
And what a crew. Ages from fifteen to forty, mostly just about my age, a little older. More guys than gals, besides me there were three.
One, young, Asian, in a school uniform, J-Pop style with a lolly and weird hair, white skirt, neon top, giant work boots. White makeup, what is that about? Her personal style I guess.
"Itzy, after some band vocalist. Not as young as she looks. Does skateboards, installations mostly."
That means she isn't a tagger, doesn't risk public censure. Does private pieces for the art. And for money, most likely. Whatever; everybody gets to choose what lifestyle to make their own.
Second female, very female, leather with lots of thigh and belly showing, tits like a porn star. But paint under her nails, hair back, streaked now with something stiff and green. Been tagging already today. Legit.
