"Can't you just try doing a slap bass? We need that percussive snap, more funk feel," I pleaded with Danny.
"What the fuck do you want from me? I told you a million times," he growled, half angry, half frustrated. "I can't slap! YOU fucking play bass if you think you can do it!"
"Shit," I muttered under my breath. "Alright, alright. I'll try'n work out an alternate bass line."
"Wait," Janet quietly interjected. "Maybe there's another way. I went to Sam Ash last week and this audio tech guy was demo-ing an envelop follower. It sounded like a wah-wah without the pedal, and you can automatically set the speed of the tone shift. Sounded really cool on guitar; bet it'd produce a funk bass sound electronically. Anyhow, I got my hands on the schematic, my dad looked it over and he had all the parts, so......."
She reached into the backpack at her feet, and a compact metallic box fitted with phono jacks, a foot switch and control knobs magically appeared.
".......we built one...it was supposed to be a present," she continued. "But... wanna give it a shot?"
We all looked at each other incredulously. Bruce broke the silence.
"Patch it in," he said.
She unplugged the bass and connected her technological handiwork, making some adjustments on the box. Danny plucked a note on his bass, and out came this clipped, funky synth tone; just what the doctor ordered.
"Holy fucking shit!" Danny exclaimed. "This thing is amazing! I sound like Bootsy fucking Collins! Jan! You actually built this thing? You're a fucking genius!"
"Well, the basic circuitry really isn't that complicated," she began her matter-of-fact explanation.
"Maybe for you," I quickly interjected, cutting off the pending hypertechnical oral dissertation none of us could possibly grasp. "But this bunch of morons never got much beyond LEGOs and tinker toys. Come over here, my freckled genius."
Janet strutted her way towards me as I put aside my guitar. I grabbed her by the waist, and in sweeping theatrical gesture she hooked an arm around my neck, tossed back her head, and curved into a graceful supinated arch that should've been impossible, but for her gymnastics training. I leaned forward and our lips locked in a prolonged, blatantly lascivious French kiss. Our 'audience' responded with a raucous ovation.
"Can I be next?," Steve pleaded.
"Hey, I called it," insisted Danny.
"You freakin' eunuchs should just step aside and let the Master gratify her," Johnny smugly declared. "Little Miss Freckles has earned that privilege."
"Gentlemen, puh-lease!," she protested in an affectedly genteel 'Scarlett O'Hara' voice.
"You are impugnin' my virtue. 'Sides, I'm far too much woman for any'a you to handle....'cept of course, this man," she concluded, as we kissed again.
"Yeah," I sneered. "Hands off the merchandise."
"Ok assholes," Bruce interjected. "Time to get back to work. Shit, we have less than an hour before the neighbors call the cops and my parents pull the plug."
So, we dutifully resumed the rehearsal. Steve pounded the skins, Johnny sang lead and played rhythm guitar, Bruce handled keyboards, the freshly 'funkified' Danny on bass, and me - our unofficial musical director - wailing away on lead guitar. Of course, I would be sorely remiss for failing to credit our newly minted and now certifiably indispensable band member. She was a sound engineer, par excellence; electronics wunderkind; and the freckle-covered girl of my dreams.
It had been only two and a half weeks since Janet's official induction into our band, yet she managed a seamless assimilation. At first, I had my concerns. We were a typically ribald group of guys in our late teens, hardly inclined to self-censorship or impulse control. I was worried they might resent or feel uptight around a feminine presence, especially one with whom I had a pointed romantic entanglement. On the flip side, she might easily take offense at the constant flow of lewd comments, sexual braggadocio and cutting - but essentially harmless - personal gibes. It seemed that way at first. Bruce, Danny and Steve appeared somewhat guarded during her initial rehearsal. But naturally, Johnny, who felt compelled to hit on and/or abuse anything from Mother Teresa to a homeless crack head, started in from the get-go with his 'Miss Freckles' routine.
Janet was coyly unaffected, and once the others saw how artfully she parried his ridicule and disingenuous Don Juanism, the atmosphere returned to its normally unrestrained state of productive mayhem. Irrespective of Johnny's pseudo-predatory flirtations, there were no simmering undercurrents of sexual tension. While they genuinely liked and respected Janet, none of my band mates shared my peculiar affinity for girls blanketed with freckles. Conversely, given the historically platonic nature of her relationships with the opposite sex (present company excepted), she had grown accustomed to being 'just one of the boys.' So, for all parties concerned, things couldn't be better.
By ten o'clock, all music making had to cease and desist, or we ran the risk of being permanently evicted from our carport-cum-rehearsal studio. In an ostensible display of progressive parenting skills, Bruce's folks had magnanimously agreed to this repurposing of their garage after they 'accidentally' discovered a single, solitary roach hidden in his room. Now, they were cultivating their wayward son's more constructive pursuit of music, while keeping tabs on him (and his choice of friends) for at least some of the time. Given the less than enthusiastic response our practice sessions engendered from a few elderly neighbors, they had occasion to regret this decision. In any case, it was an ideal arrangement and we didn't want to screw it up, so we scrupulously adhered to their rules.
After we finished cleaning up and storing the equipment, it was still only 10:30 on a Friday night. We were all jazzed up from playing and wanted to chill for a few hours. Since my parents were still basking in the Florida sunshine 1250 miles away, my place was the logical destination. Steve and Danny wanted to pick up their girlfriends, some pizza plus a few mind-altering substances; Johnny would drop by with whatever trophy he bagged on his nightly 'chick safari;' and Janet ran off to pick up Julie, her 'beard,' so she could spend the night with me. We all agreed to rendezvous at my house in an hour.
Unfortunately, Bruce was out; a casualty of parental restrictions, one of the numerous conditions they set in exchange for our rehearsal space. Although nearly 19, he could only stay over at a friend's past 11:00 if a parent or guardian was on premises. In spite of all the temptation, he never attempted any subterfuge. So, once again, he dutifully took one for the team, accepting incarceration in their protective custody. It was truly ironic, since Bruce was probably the tamest member of our crew.
As for me, I was ecstatic that Janet was staying at my place for the weekend. Since my parents left on their Floridian odyssey, my house had become our private little den of iniquity - check that - pleasure palace. We made love at every opportunity, and it still was never enough. But those times when she spent the night and we could wake up in each other's arms, those were the most special. Though we'd been together for just a few months, I could not imagine my life without her. It was love; but love could get complicated.
Tonight, I had to deal with the enigmatic "Julie" factor. It was only recently that the three of us together had gotten very stoned, and our friendly drop by quickly morphed into an evening of carnal firsts. Julie was a virgin. But that night, under the auspices of her best friend - my girlfriend - she'd handled her first penis, given her first blowjob, experienced cunnilingus, gotten rimmed, participated in a ménage a trois and had her pussy penetrated by a cock. I was directly involved in each one of those firsts. Even though the morning after saw no wrenching expressions of regret, contrition or lingering awkwardness, I still felt ambivalent. No denying, the experience was wildly erotic. Julie was a spunky little redhead who, like Janet, had a face and body absolutely inundated with freckles. I was attracted to her, and enjoyed the sex; by all accounts, so did she. But, as much as my 18-year-old libido went into overdrive at the prospect of being the meat in their freckled sandwich, I didn't want Julie, and more importantly, Janet, to get the wrong idea about my intentions or true feelings. It was a slippery slope.
