Newport Jazz Festival, three nights with Etienne and Jamar on the first, trumpet with Bob Becker’s Cloud Nine on the second, and in the Festival All-Stars on the third. Mitch was quiet and unassuming. He had the ear of the festival organizer, and was a big financial backer. If he wanted someone, he got them, and he wanted me.
He wanted Cassie being Cassie.
At least on the first night. Tonight’s Cat-Suit Cassie might be a better fit on the other nights. No Yorick or Zip. Yorick wouldn’t travel anyway, but they thought that Jamar would be a bigger draw.
The new Cassandra Sommer Trio.
CST – Central Standard Time. I groove with Etienne and Jamar, and I think Etienne might like to get to know me better. (Taps nose.) Sleeping with band mates is rarely a good thing. I’d be better off sleeping with Asami.
Did I say that?
I have slept with her, of course, but not had sex. Her sex was with Akira in my bed. She admitted it. They have an understanding with Aoki. Asami confessed it this morning when we met for brunch before Akira joined us. No Aoki. I haven’t seen her since Wednesday morning.
Akira oozed sensuality in her leather pants and white spaghetti-strap halter, a white bra visible through it, a crystal pendant dangled precariously above the mounds of her breasts. She wore her hair down, as was usual when she wasn’t working, metallic scarlet lip gloss with her nails painted to match. Everything about her said fuck me.
I’ve landed you a great gig, so you owe me.
I don’t usually wear lippy, but had painted my (very short) nails to match tonight’s outfit. Tonight, Asami and Akira are at the front of my side of the stage. Asami has donned black leather, tight and sexy, with a scarlet bustier. She and Akira dance very close, inches apart, or closer at times. Akira looks up at me to make sure I’m noticing, her hands on Asami’s shoulders, Asami’s on her hips, eyes closed.
I bop around and flash her my shiny red ass.
I hang with them at the first break, both sweaty and horny. Asami lays on a kiss, tongues, laden with need. Soon, I’m the filling of an Akirasami sandwich, clenched with Akira, grooving to the recording they play during our break. Someone’s hand finds my sex. I’m helpless.
I’m not sure whose.
Someone (Asami?) has unzipped my zipper, and her hand is inside, inside me. I’m trapped between them, doomed. Oof!
Who did that?
I’m a bystander trapped between two people having sex.
Ugh! Akira squeeks. The dance floor is packed. No one notices. I can’t control myself. Asami is already unzipped whem my hand finds her, slips in the open door. I come hard and deep, just as Asami releases. Akira, a second time, maybe.
I was ambushed.
I enjoyed every second of it, but I am not that person, and I am slow to release myself from the clench. Very slow. I don’t want to let go. I need to wash my hands. The next set is about to start.
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. Cassie’s a lesbian.
Fucking Johnny Evans used shout that at me full voice in middle school. He didn’t even know what it meant. With my dry hand, I zip myself up. I so could have gone another round.
Alas, no, I am not a lesbian. Borderline pansexual maybe. I just love a lesbian, and another lusts after me. I am so the murky corner of a love triangle. I need to get out of here, but I’ve got two more sets to play. Wash my hands. Tidy up down below. Regain composure. Akira’s bold knee-grope on Thursday may have relaxed me, but tonight I’m unsettled.
I don’t understand myself anymore. Now I really know Aoki. A love quartet? And I stand opposite of Aoki?
Hello, I’m loco Loki.
Zip it up kid! Keep that cat-suit on. No prizes for commando here. Hell, commando? I want it all off. Must wait until I’m home. They just fed the fire. Asami leaves before the final set ends. Why?
Akira is driving me home tonight. Parks, follows me up to my apartment without my invitation. God help me. I don’t desire her, but I can’t resist her. I can’t, and I probably won’t.