Purple, durple, doop.
I’m in a weird repressed mood tonight.
I could have been a contender!
Half the day trying out new material for the tour with Etienne and Jamar, then a quintet, adding the star-crossed lovers, Stacey and O’Leary. I say star-crossed, but they haven’t been dating for 15 years. Neither has moved on, and neither have I. They have a connection, that golden thread that connects all lovers.
I’m standing next to O’Leary, minding my own business, demurely dressed (for me) in cut-offs, open men’s dress shirt (maybe Zip’s – I’ve had it for ages), and lace cammy. Enough skin for the regulars, but I feel exposed next to Stacey’s Finn – that’s what she calls him. His Christian name is Finnegan, although he isn’t particularly Christian, but he’s laced with Irish Catholic blood.
I feel like a fish.
It doesn’t help that we’re playing Green Dolphin Street. I’m a green fish, and I’m sucking on my trumpet. I’m too fucking repressed. I don’t touch O’Leary. I can’t. She’s watching.
She doesn’t care.
I know. I do. Akira’s hot tonight in the front row at my feet in an LBD. Cleavage down to her ankles. My brain is lodged in her short and curlies, and I need to escape. She’s wearing less than I am. The AA’s are busy playing gigs.
The band is hot and I’m a passenger.
Everyone in the band, at least, knows it. Everyone is looking at me. Hundreds of brown eyes staring, thinking I’m an idiot. The other six eyes are thinking the same (Etienne, green, Stacey and O’Leary, blue).
My blue eyes are listless.
I need to find the purple place. I need to let go, take my metaphorical clothes off. I’d start with the dress shirt, but the air is a little cool tonight, Jimmy’s letting too many people in the back. His personal VIPs, sports stars, friends from school.
There are no empty seats, and the place is bursting at the seams, even the balcony. I’m the dog in the pony show, the pig in the dog show. The ca-ca waiting at the bottom of the carriage step. I’m the Cassandra whose prophesies nobody believes, the empty prophet, the empty pitcher, the pitcher who’s lost his fastball.
Everyone has an off night once in a while.
Not me. I’m not making mistakes. I’m just not the Goddess that everyone has learned to expect. I’m so fucking human. The break can’t come soon enough.
Akira hands me a pitcher of Bud. Sticks a hand down my shorts. Penetrates. Fuck. A whole pitcher of beer down my front.
She planned that.
What can I do? She cops a long sensuous feel before letting me off the hook. Damn! Dress shirt off. Soaked cammy and shorts, not to mention panties.
Back to the restroom to sponge-bathe, rinse out my clothes. Akira hands me a beige tank, a little too large. I’m still too wet to put it on, but it is time to go back out. I’ve got a black mini in my bag. (Not sure why.) Commando? Surely not on Thursday, center-stage. No. Wet whities. No bra.
Shit. Beige. Almost the same color as my skin, and soon it will be damp enough to see through. A tiny mini. That’s all anyone will see, punctuated by frequent glimpses of my cotton whities. About as much cleavage as I can muster.
I might as well be naked.
Time to let my hair down. Akira’s brief violation has also started the juices flowing downstairs. I’m wet, virtually naked, and extremely horny. We start with a new chart, Bullseye, one of mine. Lightning fast solo unison to start. We’re flying and I’m dangerously close to Etienne. He may be interested, but he might be getting more of me than expected. (He may not be able to sleep tonight.) I give him a little twerk. O’Leary gets an ass-bump.
Now that’s more like it, you Vixen.
I’m the cunning little vixen, and I’m on the prowl. Solo time, and I’m sitting on the edge of the stage, feet on Akira’s table. Yes, have a look up my skirt, you pervs, or maybe you are more interested in the flames coming out of my trumpet. I’m a dragon. I lie back and belt out a stratospheric inferno. I’m blowing a giant silver erection.
This is definitely an adult club.
Just sayin’. Flamethrower. I’ve just renamed the chart. I hand over to O’Leary. I’m soaked. This tank is hiding nothing. I sit next to Stacey on the piano bench. She makes room for me. I reprise the end of my solo at the top of the keyboard in counterpoint to O’Leary’s pyrotechnics.
Fucking exhibitionist! And I don’t fucking care. Fuck me. You can fucking leave if it bothers you.
Nobody’s going near the doors. Cassie’s giving you the hard on that you came for. Back to the unison avalanche of notes.
I’m taking you out!
I’m featured in a new ballad next. How do I follow that? I give them introspective dreamy Cassie. Cassie fantasizing about sex. Not Pagan. I want pure loving sex, not experimental.
Just sitting on a stool, masturbating in my brain for the crowd. Ooh, yes, that little twitch meant something. Akira would notice it. I’m a little wetter now, and dripping with sweat. Jimmy hasn’t opened the back door since the set began. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
Stacey gets her spot next, leading into O’Leary’s feature.
Just Etienne and me next, one of his new ones – a chance for me to play some trumpet on the tour. I play it for him. Close. No Miles’ wandering around the stage now. I’m giving it all for Etienne. I love this chart. We close the set with Billy Cobham’s Spectrum, giving everyone a chance to air it out.
Akira says I can’t keep the tank on for the last set. We swap clothes. We’ll she puts on my dress shirt, which is now reasonably (but tantalizingly still a little damp – she looks so hot). I’m a little smaller on top than she is, so I’m showing a little more – OK, a lot more, but not illegal. If I bend over, you could probably see my toes.
The last set is electric, starting with a cool version of ‘Round Midnight, an electric Straight No Chaser, and extended Eye of the Hurricane, and finishing with a lightning Some Skunk Fuck, with Herbie’s Chameleon and Actual Proof as encores.
I’m a wet dish rag. It’s time to go home. Akira drives, but keeps her distance. I’m out of control, and she wouldn’t want to get in the way.