"How'd you like to be in a band?" said the smoky voice on the receiver.
I was still dribbling out the last bit semen from an intense orgasm brought about by Julie's smoldering voice, when I picked up form the machine.
"Sure." I said, wiping myself off with Bonnie's panties, and forgetting that I'd been working solo for over a year now, and was way out of touch with the whole "band dynamic" thing. "What happened to Dean?" I asked, carefully.
"Oh screw him." she said. "We're practicing tomorrow. 'Kay?"
"'Kay." I said.
The band practiced on the hill next to Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. The next day was bright and sunny, but the grass was still wet, so we didn't have too many listeners, which was fine - we weren't working for quarters, we were rehearsing.
I fit in pretty well with the band, taking over on keyboard while Pete picked up the sax. He was actually better than Dean.
I got the feeling that the whole group was glad Dean was gone. By the end of the day Mr. Biceps was forgotten, and Freddy Blue was the new boy in the band. They were going by the name, "The Dean-a-rinos" ("Which sucked." said Tyler), but Julie came up with "The New Blue News" and everyone liked it enough to give it whirl. And so, for the first time in 400 days I was working with a band.
For the next two weeks we played assorted rooms around town, dipping out into Brooklyn and Jersey quite a bit, frequenting rooms I used to haunt back in early days. It was a bit like starting over, but this time I felt more secure, more prepared to handle drunks and thieving club owners. We did well, and I wrote nearly ten new songs. I got the feeling that we might actually get someplace.
The weather turned all Indian Summer, and the leaves were changing big time now, turning the park into an autumn festival ablaze with color. More and more people came out to hear us rehearse, laying out blankets and sandwiches, and buying purple-berry snow cones from the vendor who took to joining us every day to take advantage of the crowds we drew.
One day some kids watching our show set off an M-80 in a tin can near the fountain. The police appeared and quickly hustled them up. They were taking no chances with The Mad Cracker still on the loose, and they had proclaimed zero tolerance for copy cat crackers. The fireworks fiend had gained new popularity since a letter he sent to the papers was published, wherein he confessed to the spontaneous fireworks displays (which were appearing now all over the city) as an attempt to get the attention of the "girl of his dreams", and he promised an enormous display in a couple of weeks, on the girl's birthday. "It's All For Love!" screamed a Post headline over an explosive graphic of a cherry bomb. Rock on, I said.
Bonnie didn't call. That ship had passed, and all that was left were some sweet, erotic memories and the inspiration for a couple of great songs. Julie asked about her only once. When I said Bonnie was getting married she dropped the subject.
Julie wouldn't talk about Dean, and the other band members didn't really know why they broke up. They thought it had something to do with the fact that she wanted me in the band, and old Dean-a-rino probably felt all threatened. So they had a big blowout, she chucked his shit out the door ("Something she should have done months ago!" said Tyler) and he took off in his van for the warmer climes, the headier women and bigger clubs in Florida.
I had a very distinct feeling that Julie was interested in me. Oh, I had all the usual clues - the touching of the arm, the batting of the eyes, the laughing at the jokes, the sucking of the dick ...(kidding)...and I was definitely interested right back at her. But she was hesitant around me, always eyeing me suspiciously, trying to decipher something in my eyes. She liked me, but I don't think she trusted me. Maybe she didn't trust any man.
Hell, I wouldn't if I were a woman.
Julie and I got along famously, and found that we were great writing partners. Every song I wrote, including "Jazzy Girl" was based on her stuff. Her music was erudite, complex, beautiful, and I found myself working harder than I'd ever worked before. We spent long hours at the piano, sweating and agonizing over just the right lyric or phrase, giving up and retreating into Chinese food down on Lafayette, then zipping back up to my place refreshed by King Pao chicken and pot stickers, ready to create another jazz/blues masterpiece.
One night she invited me up to listen to some old tapes of hers. Her music was great, but her lyrics sucked (she said it, not me), and she was wondering if I could do anything with some of her forgotten material.
Her place was on Mott Street, a cool little fifth floor chick flat with sharp art deco prints and a couple of cats. Piled high in a corner was a lump of men's shirts, magazines and assorted shaving toiletries. "The Detritus" she called it, the jumbled remains of Dean's one-time male residence in her heart and home. The rest of the place, though, was totally girl, including, hello, an actual girl, who came stumbling out of the bathroom, towel on head, wearing a ratty old bathrobe.
"Hi!" she said, laughing, covering herself up and ducking into a bedroom.
"That's Christie, my roommate." explained Julie, then added, whispering, "We split the rent. It's $900, but I charge her $500. Don't tell her!"
We laughed. "What's so funny?" asked Christie, stepping out sans towel and robe. She had slipped on a pair of shorts and oversized t-shirt. And Goddamnit if she wasn't built.
"Christie's a dancer, so she shows off her gams a lot." said Julie, smirking at her friend's leggy display.
"Gams!" mocked Christie, rolling her eyes. "You're so thirties! This Freddy?" Christie asked, getting herself a beer. "He's cute."
"Is he?" said Julie, checking me out. "Son of a bitch, he sure as fucking hell is! Goddamnit boy where you been hidin' your fine self?"
I'd never seen Julie in this good a mood before.
"Well," said Christy, throwing a taught leg over a chair and stretching, "I guess you're over Dean."
"Dean Schmeen." said Julie, "Give me a beer."
So we boozed it up a bit, nothing too debauched, just a few friendly brews and a lot of laughs. Christie danced off to bed while Julie and I listened to her tapes. I loved them, and told her so, and she beamed.
She was feeling giddy and kissed me on the nose. "So, 'kay, take the tapes. Do what you will with them."
"Ooo." I said, "that sounds naughty."
Then she looked at me again, trying to figure something out. "Freddy..." she said as if gearing up to deliver a big, long speech. "Ah fuck it." she said, waving the words away, and kissed me on the lips.
She was a little drunk, and I knew that, and as Ol' Blue Eyes once intoned, "There are rules about that." I stopped the kiss.
"Uh-oh." I said, scolding her with an accusatory finger, "Somebody's been drinking."
She scowled, "Ah. come on. Let's fuck."
Whoa! This was not Julie talking. I had half a mind to throw her over my knee and spank her, and told her so.
"Okay." she said slurrily, unbuttoning her jeans and sliding them off her ass. She wore an old pair of white panties, with a couple of holes exposing a wisp or two of brown pubic hair. She lay over my lap and said, "'Kay. Go to work."
So I spanked her. I know! I know! It was too strange, too fast, too not like her. But it was fun. We were both punch-drunky, and at the time it just seemed silly. So I spanked her. Not too much, just about ten, not-too-hard slaps on her bottom. Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Like that.
She complained about my soft touch, "Come on, ya' pussy!" she chided, pulling her panties down, exposing her skin, "Give me a good one!"
So I gave her naked ass a good, ringing SLAP!
