Gonna Sell The Bitchs Car

This story was inspired by the song by Tinsley Ellis. Give it a listen.

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Actually it was my car, I was just letting her drive it.

There must be a cheaters hand book out there somewhere. My future bride should have read it.

If you're going to cheat and still try to hang on to the man you're supposed to love, flying below the radar should be the first priority. When going to a tryst with your lover you should drive a nondescript vehicle, something that blends in.

A shit brown 2002 Camry would be perfect. There are millions out there, one more would garner no notice.

Too bad you didn't check the oil or get changes like he told you too, maybe you wouldn't have blown the engine.

You should have known driving his vintage car, a 1969 Mach 1 with loud mufflers would get you noticed. Especially since it was the only one in the world painted Carolina blue with a white pearl hood scoop. Dressing down wouldn't have hurt either. People will notice when a tall platinum blond with a killer body, wearing a scoop neck belly shirt and short shorts in bright pastel colors, your signature outfit, gets out.

Really, you should have given the plan a little more thought.

.................................................

We met in a bar. We weren't there to find love. we were working. She was a waitress, I was playing in the band.

I had been a professional musician for eight years. The group I was with now, Sound Wave, was the best group I had ever worked with. We were a party/dance band. Old rock, new country, Motown, blues, we played everything. If the crowd was younger we rocked out. If there was a lot of forties plus in the crowd, we used a slower tempo with a lot of slow songs thrown in. If it was a cowboy crowd we upped the 'yee-haw' factor. We did whatever it took to please the crowd.

Some days you're good, some days you're adequate, some days you're ashamed to take the money, and rarely, rarely, you're damn near perfect. Tonight was an almost perfect night. The band was tight, the crowd was well behaved, the sound was mixed perfectly. Musicians feed off energy like that.

We talked about it after our first set, and decided to take it up a notch. We had a set just for situations like this. No slow songs, no pauses between, just 45 minutes of hard fast music. We had to work the crowd a little to get them in the mood.

Although I wasn't the lead singer, I was the talker for the band. After returning to the stage I yelled out.

"YOU GUYS READY TO PARTY?"

A little applause a few yells were all we got.

I looked over at the keyboard player.

"I don't think they want to party Al, we must have a bunch of lightweights here tonight."

He nodded a played a few bars of slow, mournful organ.

"Let's try this again. YALL WANNA PARTY?"

They got a little louder.

"What, did you bring your mammas? Don't you want to have a good time? We do."

Much louder, they were starting to get into it.

"That more like it. We're not going to stop for 45 minutes. Think you can keep up?"

Now they were crowding the floor. I loved giving

alcohol fueled people a challenge.

"Tell you what, if three couples can keep up, we'll give them each a band t shirt and a bar t shirt."

I held up a shirt. It was a picture of a donkey with the logo 'We danced our ass off to Sound Wave', it was always a crowd pleaser.

"All right, here we go. Time to run with the big dogs. If you can't keep up, just lay on the porch and growl. Two, three, four..."

We started up with an old southern rock song, Flirtin' With Disaster, by Molly Hatchet. Fast, loud with double lead guitars, shifting smoothly into Should I Stay Or Should I Go, by the Clash. Then just to confuse them, straight into Too Proud To Beg, the Rolling Stones version. By now we were about 16 minute in and had them sweating.

We really threw them for a loop when we went to Cotton Eye Joe. After 30 minutes there were about six couples who had been on the floor continually.

Only one couple made the whole set, and they looked like they were going to have heart attacks.

We gave them their shirts and the owner comped their drinks for the rest of the night. We threw shirts and bar vouchers randomly into the crowd.

Every body thinks that fifteen to twenty minute breaks between sets is to give the band a rest. We appreciate it, but the real reason is to sell more drinks without yelling over the music. There was over 400 people there, with just five waitresses and two bartenders. They were being worked to death. The owner had a huge smile on his face. This was our first time there and I was sure we would be back.

We did two more sets. We slowed down during the last set. It's better to send them out feeling mellow than wired up. After the last set was over I teased the crowd one more time.

"Wanna hear one more?"

There was a lot of "hell yeahs" and "go for it" .

"Well, you have to ask the boss. Buy another drink, that'll get him in a good mood."

I had preapproved this with the owner. He was all for it. Most clubs stop the music 30 to 45 minutes before last call purposely, to allow the crowd to wind down. Amid the yells and the drink orders he pretended to reluctantly give the nod.

We had all gathered in the front of the stage without our instruments. Crowding around the mikes, we launched into an accapella version of the old doo-wop song Goodnight Sweetheart. It only about two minutes long, but they loved it and left in a good mood.

It was a three day gig, so we didn't have to break down the amps, drums, or sound system. Hard experience had taught us to take anything small and portable with us. While we were packing up we talked to the customers. You never knew when the guy thanking you for playing his favorite Tom Petty song might call you up to see if you were available for a company function.

I had two other post gig duties. If anybody wanted to talk guitars, I was the man. I gave a lot of advice, and sometimes a guy would tell me about a guitar that had been in a closet or basement for years. I would perk up, buying, restoring, and selling vintage guitars was my hobby. Sometimes I got a good deal, sometimes I gave restoration advice and a rough appraisal of value. Sometimes the way they were stored ruined them, but I would pick them up for parts. Deals were getting scarcer, between the internet and collectible shows on TV people are a lot smarter.

Still, every once in a while I got lucky.

The second duty was being the designated slut magnet. All the other guys were married and in their thirties. I was twenty eight, but we had all been around long enough to get over the 'I'm gonna be a rock star and party all night' phase.

If a woman hit on one of them they started waving their wedding rings around and talking about daycare while steering them towards me.

There were always a few that for some reason hadn't hooked up yet so they headed for us. The later it got, the drunker they got, and the more aggressive they became. A lot were married, having a girls' night out, and decided one of us would be the lucky one for tonight. Usually we were from out of town, and the chance of seeing us again soon was slight. I had a wedding ring I used when we traveled. It helped, some.

In all honesty when I was younger I hooked up a lot. The band I was with had a good agency, and they sent us all over the southeast. That all changed when I picked up an STD. You have no idea how much fun it was telling a doctor you couldn't give him the name of your partners because you hadn't bothered to get them. He had to settle for a list of the places I remembered. Management was not happy when they were contacted by the health department and were told to place posters of me in the ladies room saying if you've had contact with this man come in for a check up. The band had jobs canceled and had to fire me for self preservation. I had no hard feelings, but it was years before I played in that state again.

I still played occasionally, But I made sure they looked clean and unmarried. I had a friend who met up with a woman and made regular visits whenever he was in town. When her husband found out he smashed his hands with a ball bat, ending his career as a keyboard player. He works in a warehouse now. I also used industrial grade protection

Tonight I was still on a high from the great session we had played, so I broke my normal rule and decided to have a beer. I usually didn't drink anything after a gig because I always had to drive home at two or three in the morning, and at the first bobble you were pulled. If they smelled alcohol they made you get out of the car and do stupid human tricks. Then they brought out the breathalizer. When you only blew a 1, they usually sent you on your way after giving you a lecture. You just lost forty five minutes to an hour of your life you couldn't get back, and were even more tired when you got home.

It was five minutes for last call, just enough time for one.

I idly eavesdropped on the two waitresses sitting behind me. A tall platinum blond and a smaller but bustier redhead. I had passed them on the way to the bar. I heard one groan.

"They worked us like dogs tonight. I think my feet are gonna fall off."

"Mine too. I worked last night also. I may have to crawl to the car."

I should have left it alone, but my good mood pushed me over to the table. I gave them my best non threatening smile.

"Hi girls, may I sit?"

I could see it in their eyes, two a.m. and some asshole still wanted to hit on them. I saw a flash of recognition from the red head.

"Say, aren't you in to band?"

"Yeah, I'm the bass player. Wiley."

The redhead answered for both.

"This is Sammi, with an i. I'm sandy, with a y. Please , sit, but you'll have to get another chair. All these are tied up."

They had their feet propped on the other chairs. I grabbed one from another table.

"That's why I came over. I can fix it."

Sandy looked me over pretty good.

"How can you fix aching feet?"

"With my hands. You see before you a certified physical therapist, specializing in sports massage. I've got a diploma and a license."

This was true. Music wasn't my first choice as a profession. I played at night to make money to put me through school. I had this vision of helping female tennis and volleyball players reach new heights. When I had to do my mandatory internship, I was assigned to a college football team. After massaging the legs of a 339 lb defensive lineman who was screaming to make it stop hurting right fucking now or he was going to give me enough bruises to require my own therapist I decided not to give up my night job.

I still keep my certification up, just in case.

The blond wasn't buying it.

"A diploma. Really? Can I see it?"

I stood up. I didn't care for the sarcasm.

"Sure you can. It's hanging on my living room wall, twenty miles from here. Follow me and you can look at it. But you can't stay long, I have to sleep."

She had the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"I will give you one piece of advise though. Lose the high heels and wear a comfortable walking shoe. It will reduce the strain a lot."

I was turning to leave when Sandy asked me to wait.

"The boss makes us wear them. He says it makes the men buy more drinks."

I looked at their outfits. A white form fitting scoop necked shirt and black short shorts.

"At the risk of sounding like a pig, dressed as you are how many men in here tonight could tell you what kind of shoe you had on? Let's do this, bring a pair of walking shoes in tomorrow and stash them behind my amp. Wait until it gets busy and slip them on to see if anybody notices. At the end of the night show the shoes to the boss.

I read a paper about the negative impact high heels can have on women who stand most of the time. The doctor visits and absenteeism went down 31% in one retail giant alone. I'll find it and print it out. Give it to him tomorrow. Good night girls."

Sandy pleaded.

"Please stay. I'm in pain, do what you can to help, but I swear, if I find out you're a pervert with a foot fetish a double will accidentally get dumped on your mixing board tomorrow."

I sat back down and gently took her foot in my hand.

"Please don't do that, it's exactly where we want it. I better do a good job so I don't lose a $3400

piece of equipment. Hold still."

Massage is alignment. If the muscle is properly aligned to the tendon, and the tendons are safely aligned to the bone then the pain should go away. Two days of running around in high heels on a concrete floors had her feet in terrible condition.

At first she whimpered, three minutes later she was sighing, and five minutes after that she was moaning lightly. Another five and it was time to change feet. I placed her foot gently back in the chair and waited for her to change positions so I could get to the other foot.

By now all the waitresses were gathered around our table. Sammi nudged Sandy.

"Honey, wake up. He still has to do your other foot."

She shook herself and turned a bright red.

"What did you do to me? I think I had an orgasm!"

The room echoed with laughter while I tried to tell her I hadn't massaged that part of her body.

The end result was me giving a foot massage to all five waitresses and the female bartender. The girls nagged me to do the male bartender in the interest of fairness. He was married to the oldest waitress. I looked at her and she said "please".

Sexual innuendos had been flying since Sandy.

"All right, I"ll do it. But Linda, if he gets an erection, I'm done. And tell him to get some odor eaters."

As I worked on him I noticed the girls talking to Linda. After a minute she nodded yes and the girls crowded around Mike. I had his foot up and he was half reclining on the chair so he couldn't really move. If he moved his head he would hit a breast, and the girls were talking trash to him.

Telling him Linda talked about what a great lover he was, how good his stamina was, how well endowed she said he was, the whole time rubbing their breasts against his arms and face. He was wiggling around hard when I noticed the bulge in his pants. I jumped up.

"Whoa! Massage over. Linda, he's all yours."

Linda had a wolfs' grin on her face.

"Yes he is, and I intend to make good use of him. Girls, let him up before one of you pokes his eye out with a nipple. Come on honey, give me the keys. I don't think there's enough blood in your head right now to fire more than three brain cells, let me drive. Let me get you home. Between both massages I think we need to relieve a little tension."

The girls followed them to the door, whispering and nibbling in his ear. They wouldn't need to turn on headlights for a mile or so, Mikes' glowing face would light the way.

By now it was 3:30 and the cleaning crew was arriving. I thanked them all for a great night and was leaving when Sandy announced that we were all going to breakfast at Dennys. They were going to treat me to breakfast, and to make sure I showed one of them would ride with me.

My every day car is a Chrysler mini van. It was functional. If I had to carry equipment I could take the seats out. If I needed to carry band members I put the seats back in. Right now it was in equipment mode, with the seats out. It got kind of embarrassing when I realized Sandy and Sammi wanted to ride with me and everybody else had left. They decided to share the front seat, it was only five blocks.

When we got a booth Sandy ended up on one side of me and Sammi on the other, they never offered to change places with any of the others. We had a great time at breakfast but soon it was time to go.I thanked them for breakfast and they all kissed my cheek except Sandy, who gave me a brief but very satisfying kiss on the lips. For some reason Sammi seemed pissed. I got home at eight, five hours later than usual. I crashed and burned almost immediately.

I didn't wake up until 4:30. After a shower and my second breakfast in ten hours I felt much better. Such is the life of a musician.

We all met two hours early at the bar to set up some new equipment and rehearse a couple of the newer numbers. The waitresses were already there and there was a pile of bags behind my amp.

At odd times the girls would come up and give me a hug and a kiss. Each would tell me how well they slept thanks to me. It was driving the rest of the band crazy.

Jimmy, our drummer, couldn't take it any more.

"All right Wiley, spill it. I know you didn't get home until after eight this morning. My wife saw you pull in when she took the kids to school.

All the waitresses have been all over you. Which one did you get your hands on?"

I kept a straight face when I told them I had my hands on all of them.

"All of them?"

"Yes, all of them, even Mike. He was last but he didn't last long. Linda had to take him home, he was too drained to drive."

I didn't know it but Linda was behind the amp slipping into her sneakers and heard the whole thing. Just before we started playing Mike brought me a coke. He kissed me on the cheek and before anybody could speak he said-

"Thanks for last night, I know I couldn't hold still for long, but it was great. Maybe tonight you could finish me? I'll make sure the girls behave."

I never batted an eye.

"I'll make sure I do you first tonight. We'll let Linda watch."

The guys were standing there with their mouths hanging open. I grinned.

"Two, three, four..."

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We became the house band, three nights a week. I never told the guys the whole story of that night. Every once in a while one of the waitresses would ask me to do her, saying she needed it bad, or throw up the fact that I had done Jill twice, it was her turn tonight.

They were really torn up when I started dating Sammi and Sandy. I liked them both, but I could tell neither liked the fact that I was dating the other. The problem resolved itself when Sandys' mother got sick and she had to move 900 miles away to take care of her. By the time she came back ten months later, Sammi had been living with me for seven months and engaged for two.

If she had stayed maybe I would have been living with her instead. I don't think she would have stabbed me in the back or turn into a total screaming bitch.

END OF PART ONE.