‘Round Midnight (17. Collision Course)

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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’m lost.

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.

I don’t.

‘Round Midnight (1. Yorick)

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Photo by Ikon Republik from Pexels

ri mi fa ti re, dum-di-dum

’round midnight, I wept.

Alas, poor Yorick, we never slept together. The poet licked, Ophelia’s breast still slick with his darkness. My sister, her fate he drew, not mine her fame. Yorick’s cassock intervened. His faith trumped his heart, a hot dream away from me.

Cassandra forever yearns.

“What time is it?” O’Leary asked. He propped up the bar, while his saxophone propped open the door. Still ripe from three sleepless nights, he needed a change of clothes, perhaps a change of scenery. Zip stood out back, smoking a joint. I named him that, after we fucked. The name stuck, unlike us. I can’t remember his real one. His lonely kit sat at the back of the stage, unloved.

Scadoo, sciddely poo, shabop, shazam.

“Your tits keep this place open,” Jimmy said from behind the bar. He kept the thermostat up, my wardrobe minimalist, some would say, like my breasts.

I feathered the ivories, my fingers still sticky from beer and Fritos. O’Leary was a genius with a few drinks in him. My tits were second fiddle. Three nights a week, the place filled with men, gawping at me, listening to him.

The hot dream wafted through the smoke.

“What time is it?” O’Leary repeated. “Where’s Yorick?”

The priest’s bass lay on its side, next to me, where its owner belonged. Would that I had shared Ophelia’s fate, but the bard’s ignoble ink dried.

lay sol me fi re si la re si

paradiddle, fiddlestick, gribbity froop

Poop!

“We’re on,” O’Leary announced, his fingers itching with magic, while mine itched for something else entirely.

I wiped them on my tiny skirt. That might give some a thrill. A few notes twinkled. Keep going, the others will follow. Feed them some dolorous dorian, vacuous Dane, from the hills of … the foothills of … the tiny mounds that Jimmy obsessed on. The supple nipples on which he salivated. The forest is advancing.

My skirt flapped in the breeze. Yorick had returned. He could have said mass while he was away.

Pray not, fair maidenhood, lonely maidenhead.

Paradiddle, ba-dump-dump, Zip’s snuffed his joint. His enormous Johnson was flaccid, you know. It always is, even after my X-rated scat.

Scrotaly cunt, de stiffen de dick in de gina

Indigestion, festion

Bless you, in the name of Yorick, his real name is Rick, Yo! Rick!

No pick. Don’t need one. Cassandra de only woman in de place tonight, like every other night. Straight up. (But not Zip.)

Straight, no chaser, we snap into rhythm, rhyme and reason.

This season. O’Leary lights it up. Cassandra is invisible again, eyes closed, so is the piano, as if it plays itself.

Alas, poor Yorick. He meant well.

Planet Ezzie (32. Fear and Desire)

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It’s really distracting … a frantic sex dream, but nothing like what Beatrice inspired. I was something completely different, decidedly unhuman. Exquisite, and my mate mirrored me. Beautiful, and he knew how to pull my strings. I say he, but do I mean he? Was I a she? Was this race binary? As it was a dream, my recollection is imperfect. I would create it if I could remember it well enough.

I’m still Gaia Esmeralda Dryar, but with red hair, blue eyes and perfect. I define perfection. I’m beautiful, if I say I am. There are no beholders to judge me.

Did I create my own image or have I developed over time? What is time?

I define time. I start things and let them go. The less I pay attention to it, the faster it goes.

I stood at the top of the highest mountain today, higher than Everest. Much higher. No human would have enough oxygen to breath there. Over 35,000 feet. Will the people of this world attempt to climb it, or will it recede before these people exist.

I need to have sex, but with who or what? Something tells me that will create the dominant species on this planet, not me creating it. They need to be spawned from part of me, although I don’t know if that is their spirit or their bodies.

Everything, all existence, all my orbs are part of me, but this is different. Is this universe complete when I create this species? Does that set the rules in motion?

Concentrate Ezzie. That’s Tommy talking. I need to know what my capabilities are. Are the rules set, or can I change them now? Can I tweak them? If I can subconsciously change the weather, I must have something I can do.

Trust your instinct.

What is instinct? There are certain things about me that are not in my control, my dreams, my urges. My instinct is an unconscious force.

An unconscious force will solve this problem.

Where will it come from? Deep emotion. Need. Desire. Desire? Tommy knows what desire is, but he doesn’t understand it yet. He’s never met a girl he didn’t like. He would say the opposite, but he liked Brenda Huffman in fifth grade, Sarah Patchett in sixth, and Leane Evans now … actually Leane and her twin sister Laura. He can’t decide between them.

Tommy doth protest too much. I’ve seen what is in his mind. If he lets me use his hands to type, there are some residual stray thoughts that seep through. Puberty is in full flow now. Yeah, Leane. They are identical … very identical … but he can tell them apart. Little does he know. He’s in for a surprise.

I shouldn’t interfere, but somehow I’m knowing a lot more about them and their futures than I should … and Tommy’s future. Is what I see set in stone?

Why is this important? I don’t know. By the way, Leane plays trumpet and, Laura is the last chair horn player (for now).

I know far too much now, and I dread what that might mean.