It's a long story, but I wound up being in punk bands at an early age, and then I kept falling back into it, sporadically, as the decades flitted past.
I found myself facing the final show of what I was hoping was my final band. The band was having to dissolve because of near tragic health circumstances, so the night would be thick with compassion. There would be a merch table highlighting our brand new last album. Plus a lot of other stuff, so I decided to print up ten copies each of a couple of my books and make a little money for myself.
I'd learned how to upload stuff to this place where, for pretty cheap, they'd mail you back your book. And it would be as handsome a book as you designed. And all the crap that you'd written would look like real books. I had my vast decades-long oeuvre in boxes of typescripts and print-outs, basically hogging a 3-shelf thing up in my studio area. It's what I did, and a delight to behold. But it was nice to have it all quantified in actual volumes. Hogging barely half a shelf downstairs among the real books in the case.
I was satisfied.
And in a quick retrospect, I felt stupid for loading up my credit card to order more copies of all this crap. I spent several days in near panic-mode. Until the boxes arrived. Inside were so many copies of some of my pretty books.
As the night built, I noticed Nikki and her girlfriend in the audience. She'd lived a scramble of houses down from us for over a decade. I remembered back when she had a live-in man. We'd chatted walking dogs a few times in more recent years. Back when she was with a man, I referred to her as the unfriendly bitch. Nowadays, the rest of us on the block call her the most beautiful lesbian in the universe.
I wasn't that surprised to see them at the show--she was old friends with the singer from way back in the days. She also worked for Lilac Press, a local publisher of good repute. I'd learned that fact when a friend got a book of poems published. Yet another singer turned scribe. We'd gone to the reading, and there was Nikki, shilling some books, displaying her girl, Lisa.
Back in the present, I lost sight of them as the crowd swelled and it was time for us to play. We did ourselves total justice, and then some. It was a crowd totally stoked to be at the final show, so we certainly fed off the energy. Everyone quickly moved beyond the too-cool-to-move stance, dancing and thrashing a dozen deep from the stage. Camera flashes were blinding me, and nearly inducing an epileptic fit, even though I didn't have the disease. Among the flashes, like distinguishing planets from stars, I counted the constant lights of at least three digital video cameras. It was gratifying and exciting to know this night would enter the local lore as one of the best shows. With proof. We sealed that deal by choosing the perfect song for the encore: a fast chunky song where we pounded through the verse/chorus structure to hit the rave-up outro that just kept going and going. I was at the point where I was just playing feedback, and going about it enthusiastically. A little too much, perhaps. Suddenly my strap slipped off and my guitar jumped from my hands. It flew into the wall of dancers, drawing some blood, and rebounding to catch the neck against the stage edge. I watched the guitar explode into three distinct pieces.
It was a beautiful thing, how, as the guitar went on its journey, the sounds it made, bouncing here and there, totally fit in with the beat. Lying there completely broken, the guitar gave off the prettiest feedback ever. I let it linger after the song ended, finally going back to the amp to do the fade-out on that knob. I wasn't touching the guitar until all the electricity drained out.
It was as I was risking a multiple hernia hefting my amp off the stage that Nikki ran up to me, flapping one of my books in my face.
"Quit selling these," she insisted.
"What? Why?" I rested.
"Because Lilac Press is very interested in publishing it." Meaning she'd flipped through it pretty seriously.
"Show me the money," I laughed. "Until then, I'll choose to keep making a little coin on the side." Last I'd checked with the merch table, I was just breaking even on the books. Any further sales would be pure gravy, all couple bucks of it.
Nikki went out to her car and came back with a standard contract. I was surely flattered, but I just laughed. "I'm not signing anything tonight--tonight is for bathing in my rock star status!"
She gave a little huff. That miffed me a bit. "I'm tired, I'm trying to load-out, and it's not like you don't live like, what? four, five houses down? We can talk all you want later, even tomorrow, though maybe sometime after lunch."
Mary, my wife, assisting with the transfer of my stuff to our car, witnessed the exchange with a wry smile. We finished filling the backseat, and then she said, "You certainly bumped that bitch off her well-worn comfort path."
"I think she's sweet on you!"
Packed up, I was ready to go home. But we both wanted to stay for the band in the final death slot. The night ends with you playing for ten of your stalwart friends, so bless you those who stay until the bitter end.
The music wasn't as engaging as I really wanted, so I kept slipping out for cigarettes. Mary kept on my heels. Remarkably, Nikki kept running into us, whether we were out front, one the sidewalk, or out back, in what passed for a biergarten. Bumping her hip against mine as she made her way through the not-that-crowded crowd, always turning to give a coy little wave. As her girlfriend stared daggers at us all. While my wife smirked in return.
I had another beer, and then I wanted another one, persuading my wife to have another as well. We were out back as the place emptied from the other end. The extra beer worked its trick--we were nuzzling and giggling and Mary was stealing drags from my cigarettes she didn't smoke anymore.
Like a vapor, Nikki materialized out back to join us. She watched us, nibbling one another's necks. She sort of cleared her throat. I paid her little attention--Mary kept on making me want to fuck her. No encouragement was really necessary; we just needed to get the car back in front of our house first.
Nikki got embarrassed and started babbling about how some of them were heading out over to another bar and blah de fuckin' blah. Her girlfriend found her and rescued her, guiding her away to said bar.
"Who wants to go to another bar?" I asked Mary.
"Certainly not us," my wife declared, showing her teeth.
We cleared out. No sooner were we in the car then Mary was rubbing the front of my pants. "What are you doing?" I sputtered.
"That's obvious: rubbing your hard-on." My wife smiled so sweetly as she continued doing so. I hadn't even done up my seat belt when she was undoing my pants belt. "That girl, that Nikki, is so hot for you--even dull old you noticed!"
"Wooing women with words, you've always been good at that. You have to know she likes you.
She had me out and in her hands. She bent down to kiss the plum head of my cock with her split plum lips. She spat on me, and it was so sexy. And then her wet tongue tailed out. And made everything very special.
"I don't mind sharing us with her," she whispered. "In fact, it gets me kind of horny. I want to."
"Because of them? Because of her?"
"No. Because of you, and you only."
We were playing in fantasyland, which was where she sometimes spun us. Nikki was a way cute gal, but I knew the only thing we'd be sharing would be quick hellos maybe four months from now when we all happened to cross paths in the alleys while walking our dogs.
And then my cock disappeared. Mary's mouth was all over me. The gear shifter didn't get in the way. I was getting this tremendous blow-job while stuck in Park. I hadn't even started the car; we were just sitting in it. I'd put the key in the ignition, but then I'd gotten distracted.
Mary must've gotten a dusting of sexy dust. It'd been months since our last blow-job. And she went at it like she'd been missing it bad.
All I knew was that we were still at the curb. I still hadn't managed to start the car. Shadows of guys carrying instruments to further cars kept flashing past the windows as my wife made me come in her mouth.
She kept me in there as I melted, getting every last drop. When she let me go, she still hovered, doing this thing she sometimes does. She took several long swallows, and then she huffed a couple breaths in and out, deeply and quickly. The exhales were aimed directly at my softness, and sort of tickled! But the real purpose was to dry her lips. "Let me dry that baby off." She used her dry lips to squeegee my flaccid shaft. It was a very effective technique, but then it started feeling better than effective. Though I'd just come, I started feeling affected again.
"Oh my goodness! Mary, you better stop doing that, or you'll be doing it all over again."
My wife sat up in her seat looking so smug. She gave my crotch some safe breathing time, then tucked me back in my pants. "I think I want to take this one home with me, if you don't mind."
"Mind? I have no mind. You just blew my mind."
"Then shut up and drive! Because you have no idea."
"No idea about what?"
"How soaking wet I am for you right now." Never a shy one, my wife grabbed my far hand and thrust it between her thighs, cupping my hand against her mons.
.... There is more of this story ...