The Junk Bar Incident

The Junk Bar Incident

By Jade Blackmore

This Story Originally Appeared On Justus Roux.com

It didn't snow my first winter in New York. After 29 years in my hometown of Chicago where literally tons of dirty slush piled up outside the shiny, see-through offices along Michigan Avenue, no weather could faze me. The snow and cold were negligible, and a fifteen-minute subway ride got me to the Village. All I knew about the Village was that Blondie and the Ramones got their start at CBGBs, and Beat Poets hung out there in the '50s. But the only place I knew of in current nightlife was a sleazy yet trendy bar, appropriately called The Junk. I hadn't made any friends during the first few months I lived in New York. I had just started to mingle with my fellow employees at the small music publishing company where I worked, but we weren't on a going to lunch together basis yet. My roommate was an academic with little understanding of the drudgery a nine to five office drone endured, and was unsympathetic to my plight.

So I sought comfort the only place I knew-in music and musicians.

The Junk was a sliver of a bar tucked away in a bunker type building, ostensibly an old warehouse, by NYU. I'd read about the bar in various rock magazines and gossip columns, and I figured I'd be among my peers. After a long day at work I was too tired to dress up, so I slipped on a pair of jeans and a low-cut angora sweater, buttoned up my fake leopard coat and headed to the subway station.

Luckily, the bar was crowded, so if I didn't meet anyone interesting I could slip right out again without being noticed. I ordered a tequila sunrise and drifted around the place, looking for someone interesting to talk to. I pushed my way to the bar, ordered another drink and sat down.

Tipsy but still coherent, I looked at the guy sitting next to me - or I should say, looked up. Even though he was sitting down, he was taller than the other longhaired musician types packed shoulder to shoulder in the crowed bar. Emboldened by drink, I slouched over the counter to see if he was making some bim. No sluts had gotten to him yet. He was talking to a geeky old guy. I leaned back and avoided making eye contact with the geek. As I did my bare shoulder brushed against the studmuffin's hair. Fire!!! I touched a strand, amazed by its perfect dishwater blond crimps.

"Like my hair, do ya?"

Woah!!! I almost fell off the barstool. It was shocking enough that the tall guy had spoken to me - I usually only attracted geeks. But his accent was amazing, sort of like a cartoon. A dim-witted British accent-Cockney - that's what it was. I had never heard that accent in real life before and it floored me. I had no idea that he was, if he was indeed, someone, i.e. famous. All the metal genre guys I knew where from California, graduates of the Poison-Ratt-Motley Crue school of bad hairdos.

He looked at me full-force, not quite knowing whether to look at my face, hair or bra-less little bosoms. Damn, he was handsome, though his nose was a bit too long for his face. Other than that, he was God's perfect creature made flesh. I wanted to eat him up. He was so handsome I blushed just from looking at him.

"Yours is nice, too, blondie, he said, referring to my hair. His accent again! Argh! I was probably red as a firetruck. He took the liberty of tousling my hair by patting me on the head like I was a toy poodle. I caught a glimpse of his hand as he rested it on my head. A big, warm hand, like a basketball player must have, I thought. Not like deformed or like a giant hand, just big. Sadly, I thought, one of his hands could cover booth my boobs.

"You're a pretty little thing. Shy, too. I can tell." That embarrassed me. I hated it when people called me shy, and took it as an insult. "Let's go where we can have some privacy." Oh, no, I thought, he's taking me to the dreaded john where all the groupie sluts and their boy toys went. I relented. He was beautiful and it had been a year since I'd had sex. "No, not there love. You're better than that." We walked up a flight of stairs to a door marked employees only. He knocked on the door "Hey, Roger! "You wait out here," he told me. "I'll be right back." I waited squeezing my coat til I thought it would shred it in my hands. Should I disappear, I wondered. I had time to get away without anyone noticing. I wasn't a very good slut, I guess. This guy was good-looking, but he could be a creep. How did I know? But I couldn't move. I just stared at him and thought, "Fuck, he's gorgeous."

The guy walked out followed by a thin, black-haired man whom I recognized as the club owner from photos I've seen. "Hi," I said, my voice hiking up an octave. He winked at me. "He's all yours, honey." I turned around and 2 long-haired kids, barely old enough to be in the club smiled and called to him. "Wow, Tom! Dude, what are you doing in New York? Are you playing a gig at Bitty's? "Yeah, tomorrow night. We're on at nine." I looked at him, confused. I didn't recognize the name and I felt too stupid to ask "Excuse me, are you somebody famous?"

Tom took me into the room and we sat down a red velvet couch. He lifted me up on his lap. I shrieked, letting out a cry of delight like a baby that had just been tickled. His cock, still sheathed but growing hard under his jeans felt good rubbing against my bottom. "You make the sweetest cooing noises. You're getting me hard." "I can feel that." I giggled, kissing him swiftly on the cheek. "I like it." "There, peace and quiet. What's your name, luv? I couldn't hear down there." "Gina." "Gina. Ah, nice name. Don't hear it that often." Damn, he smelled good, like expensive cologne and sex. "Well, what do you want to do next? Ladies choice." I smiled a big, horny smile. Judging by the way his face lit up, I could do whatever I wanted. Funny. I was in charge. The other times I had collaborated with musicians in non-business related matters I had been the last cut of lamb in the meat market. Girls with big tits went first. If they exuded stupidity and had big tits they went even before that.

I ran my fingers through his hair, scrunched it up, and then rubbed some of it. I pulled up my sweater off and rubbed it against my tits.

Tom stared at me amazed by my every move."Horny wench."

I undid the last button on his loose white linen shirt. Greedily, I brushed my hands over his toned, tan chest. A few sparse hairs interrupted the perfect skin, nothing to worry about though. Then I kissed him from the nape of his neck to his nipples, plunking at them and giggling. "Yeah, you let yourself go, little one. Let yourself go."

Before he could gently push my body down between his legs, I knelt. Holding onto his knees, and keeping my gaze focused on his face, I unzipped him, and lovingly freed his cock from his boxers. I licked his beautifully erect cock as it popped up to tickle my lips, and savored it, as though I had never seen one before. I pushed his legs apart to get to his balls, licked them and took them in my mouth. As I heard his moans reality kicked in--or maybe the tequila had worn off. Didn't matter. If it was a dream I'd wake up at some point. I lost track of time and sucked him til my jaws ached. But his moans spurred me on, as did the warmth of his hands on my shoulders rocking my body as I serviced him. When he came I tilted my head back and swallowed, taking in his cum like a magic elixir. Some of it trickled down onto my breasts.

"Yeah that was good. So nice of you to swallow, my dear. I hate it when girls spit. That's so rude." He patted the cushioned divan. "Sit down next to me."

I cuddled up next to him, then grabbed a stick of gum out of my purse, acutely aware that my breath smelled like cock. I liked the feeling. For one night, I played Whore of Babylon right there on MacDougal Street. In my heart I knew the title fit me more than the role that I would return to, inevitably, the next morning.

Someone knocked on the door. "Hey, Tom, ya finished yet? I need my office back-the Tyrants are here, we gotta settle up."

Well, time for porno Cinderella's glass slippers to turn back into Reeboks, I thought. I grabbed my coat and purse, frantically checking to make sure my apartment keys and wallet were still intact.

"Yeah, Roger, we'll be right out," Tom called. He slipped his arms round my waist and pulled me flat against his chest. "Hey, not so fast, Gina. I'm not through with you." He kissed the side of my head through my hair. "Would you come back to my hotel with me?"

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Tom took me downstairs, leading me through the haze of Aquanetted and spandexed barflies like royalty leading his queen through the peasant village. He inched up to the bar, where his friend was chatting up some Jersey bimbo with dyed black hair stacked three inches high on her head. Tom's friend exchanged phone numbers with the girl, and then led us outside, hailed a cab and sat in the back seat with us on the ride to Tom's midtown hotel. "This is Al. He's my New York tour guide." While Al gave the cab driver directions, Tom and I carried on a conversation between kisses. "You ask for Al tomorrow night at Bitty's. He'll let you in, OK?" Tom and I indulged in a long, slithery wet kiss. It must have lasted for ten minutes, because by the time I answered him, the cab pulled up in front of the Marriot. "Yeah. I'll be there."

Tom escorted me into the spacious, elegantly decorated hotel lobby. An elderly tourist couple shot us dirty looks as we scurried onto the elevator, grabbing each other's butts and laughing like drunken college kids. Of course, he hadn't had any alcohol and I only had two watered down tequilas. Lust, it seemed, worked much better at diluting reality than alcohol. Tom strutted down the hall like a cross between a peacock and a kid anxious to try out a new toy. "See you later, Al. I'll ring if I need ya." He waved good-night to his lackey.

Tom escorted me into the hotel room, a regulation room with a double bed, a desk and not much else. "You want to freshen up before we have another go?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm gonna take a quick shower." I scampered into the bathroom.

Amazing. Within two hours, I had metamorphasized from a wilting, bedraggled secretary into a sex goddess. A rock 'n' roll Cinderella. Nervously, I jumped into the shower. Giving him a blow job topless was one thing, but performing for him naked presented another challenge. He'd probably slept with countless women-models, groupies, porn stars. How was I possibly going to measure up? Didn't matter. I was just going to use him for my pleasure, and be selfish that way. It was the only way I could get through the night without panicking. As I rubbed the little bar of Dial soap over my pubic hair, I heard the bathroom door creak open.

There he stood, naked and grinning triumphantly, that overactive cock of his hard again. Now possessed, but unsure of how to channel the demon within, I let him make the first move. He slid open the shower door and crept in behind me. "Now bend over and let me see that hot ass of yours." He sunk his hands into my sides and positioned me for maximum effect. I craned my neck and looked back at his body. Steaming hot water coursed over him, flattening his hair and fitting it to his skin like a helmet. It accentuated his handsome, sculpted face, and moved the whole experience into a slow, savoring fantasy. Looking at that face erased all my fears about getting hurt, missing work, or my roommate worrying about my whereabouts.

I had this moment in time, and I wasn't going to squander it on doubt. My pussy vibrated, welcoming him in after months of famine. I watched him take me from behind, studying his chest, the curve of his nose, the finely formed muscles in his arms. Damn, how come my alarm clock hadn't signaled my death rattle from this dream yet? All my self-deprecating thoughts disappeared. The man fucking me was real. Deal with it.

We dried each other off, and then slipped in bed, cuddling, kissing and fucking again-this time he made me ride him and stare down at the ecstatic faces he made when he came. He French kissed me deep and slow before falling asleep. Well, at least he fell asleep. I couldn't. First, I sat up and grinned like an idiot. Then, while rifling through my purse for another stick of gum, a Xeroxed dress code memo from work fell onto the floor.

What if he didn't wake up til noon? I couldn't miss work. The owner, an ex-showgirl who had married into a Tin Pan Alley fortune, grew agitated when I was five minutes late. And there was no such thing as a personal day. If I missed work I'd be short on my share of the rent.

I sighed and kissed him on the cheek, his stoic face even better looking in repose. My ploy worked, and he stirred, rolled over and mumbled sleepily. "Hey, baby." He kept his eyes closed and rubbed my shoulder. I peeked at my watch. It was six thirty in the morning. I had to be at work at eight. And I had never called my roommate to tell her I wouldn't be home.

"Tom I..I have to go to work. My job-you know, I need the money." I stuttered sheepishly. He opened his eyes and smiled. "Oh, my good little shopgirl." He tousled my hair. "I'll see you tonight. 9 okay?"

"OK," I whispered.

I grabbed my coat and purse. I wanted to take a shower, but didn't want to tempt fate by staying one minute longer. Already I felt disappointed that he hadn't asked me to skip work and spend the day with him. I took one final look at him, soaking in the map of his face and bounded out of the room, smiling beatifically at the housekeepers making their rounds.

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After my third trip to the company coffeemaker, Jackie, the Jersey girl who typed the licensing contracts, pulled me into the ladies' room.

"OK. Spill it."

"Spill what?"

"What the fuck is going on? Who was he?"

"What are you talking about?'

"C'mon, you're wearing the same clothes you wore to work yesterday AND I saw you over at Duane Reade buying toothpaste and a toothbrush-and a pregnancy test kit."

Someone knocked on the door. "We're having an important meeting. You'll just have to hold it." Jackie ordered.

"Hey! Gina-got a message for you from your roommate. She wants to know why you didn't let her know you weren't coming home last night. She was worried about you." Elaine, the receptionist whispered loudly through the keyhole.

"And hurry it up-Mrs. B. is puttering around the office, checking up on everyone."

"Busted." Jackie continued interrogating me. "So you said you were going to the Junk Bar last night-did you?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"Give it to me short and sweet. Who, what and where."

Those NJ girls didn't believe in sugar-coating things. I relented. Jackie was a big metal-head, and if I didn't tell her the story myself, she'd go through the grapevine and get shady details from one of her gossiping music scene friends.

"He's English, his first name was Tom, his band is playing at Bitty's tonight, and he was incredibly gorgeous and sweet and great in bed. "

"What's the name of the band?" Jackie demanded.

"I didn't ask. They're playing Bitty's tonight. He said they'd be on at nine." I smiled. "Guess I'll have to go then! Oh, Jackie he was so gorgeous-he had this, like light brown hair-or was it dark blonde, anyhow.." I babbled happily, but she cut me off.

"OK, you're coming me with me to Record Explosion at lunch. There are three Brit bands playing Bitty's tonight. We're gonna figure out who your mystery man is. I can't fuckin' believe you didn't ask what band he was in."

Jackie stormed out of the john, as though my conquest had become hers by the simple act of telling her about it.

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We grabbed sandwiches and drinks at Subway, and scarfed them down at a nifty plastic table. Jackie poured over the band listings in the Village Voice. "Damn. There are no band listings for Wednesday night at Bitty's-it just says to be announced."

I took a final bite of my turkey sub. "OK, let's go upstairs. Maybe there are flyers at Record Explosion."

As soon as we climbed upstairs, Jackie pursued the counter. "Don't you have any for Bitty's ?' she asked the hippie cashier, a fellow who seemed to live in the place.

"No, they're all gone." He answered. "What did you want to know?"

"Who's playing there tonight-do ya remember?"

"Well, I know Tyrant and the Unloved are playing and some other English band-Sinful Dream, yeah, that's it. Sinful Dream."

"Never heard of 'em."

"They have CDs out if you wanna check in the metal section."

"Thanks."

Jackie marched up to the metal bin, but I was already there, scouring through the "S's".

"So you think it was Sinful Dream?"

"I dunno. Sounds like a good description of him." I said. The giddiness hadn't wore off completely yet.

Jackie rolled her eyes sarcastically. "I'll check the "U's."

I found two Sinful Dream CDs. My hand shook before I even looked closely at the band photo on the backs of the CDs. Once I looked closely at the pics, my hands came to a total standstill. The Sinful Dream band members had long hair like Tom, but that's where the similarities ended. "Just a bunch of burnouts who grew their hair long to get a record contract," I sighed. "Let me see yours." I reached for the CD Jackie held in her hand.

"Fuck! This guy is UNBELIEVABLE!" she exclaimed so abruptly that the cashier and a few customers turned our way.

I edged closer to her and looked at the cover photo. It was Tom, all right, made up and stylized, posing against a faux graffitted alley wall. She flipped the CD over. The rest of the band was photographed on the tour bus in a stark black and white photo. Jackie flipped back to the cover photo. "The Unloved? Damn, I'll love you tonight, baby. All you need."

"Hey!! I saw him first-hell, I slept with him first." I said. Somehow, having such a gorgeous creature fuck little old me in the shower had been totally natural and easy to accept the night before. Standing under the blinking florescent lights of a record store with my secret exposed to an overbearing, hennaed co-worker, it dimmed, erased to nothing in the cold light of day.

"You fucked this?" Jackie said, civil enough to lower her voice. "I mean, look at him. He's a stud. Are you sure it wasn't someone else? Maybe you were too drunk to get a good look at him."

"Look," I said, hiding my fury as best I could. "I wasn't drunk. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but that's what happened."

"You don't have to be a bitch about it!" Jackie said, stomping off. "I'll see you back at the office." I sighed. After she left, I bought a copy of the Unloved CD-and a Sinful Dream one, just for the hell of it.

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The office turned into Dante's Inferno that afternoon. Elaine covered for me when I locked myself in the A & R person's office and explained my previous night's activities to my roommate. A good friend, she was happy that I was all right, but yelled at me when I refused to answer her question about whether or not Tom had used a condom, and hung up on me. The owner left the office early, and Sandy, my supervisor, covered for me so I could leave a half-hour early-before Jackie left.

The subway ride to Bitty's was torture. A homeless guy hassled me, and my contacts watered from all the surrounding eyeliner and mascara I'd applied. For a second, I thought of calling it a night and going home. What was I trying to do anyhow--to see Tom again, or prove to Jackie that I had been with him in the first place?

Well, I had told Tom I'd be there. I made a deal with myself. If I couldn't find Tom or his flunky within half an hour of getting there I'd go back home.

There was no bouncer at the front door yet, and I could hear a band doing their soundcheck. I walked in and stood inconspicuously by the bar.

"Hey, girl, you got here early!" I recognized the nasally Brooklyn accent. Al, Tom's lackey, patted me on the shoulder. He invited me to the dressing room. "Tom's not here yet, but you can hang out." I grabbed a beer and nursed it for what seemed like an hour, hanging out in the dressing room and talking with a succession of roadies and bartenders. None of them tried to hit on me. I almost fainted when the bouncer said "You're with Tom, right?" and introduced himself.

"Tom will be here just before showtime." Al explained, popping into the room. "He had to do a last minute interview at SOU, in Jersey. You can go out and mingle if you want, hon. I have to go for awhile-got to get some new guitar strings. I'll see you." He patted me on the head. What was I, a poodle? Oh, well, at least they weren't sticking trout inside me, like a certain famous band did to their groupies.

Restlessly sipping a Heinkens, I wandered to the back door to wait for Tom.

Tom was nowhere to be seen, but Jackie and a group of big-bosomed Brooklyn girls were there, two of them on their knees servicing the road crew. The same guys that had been so nice to me were brutes now that Jackie and her ilk were present. I slipped back into the building and headed to the dressing room.

It was locked. I knocked on the door. No answer, just some muffled giggles. I walked around the club, looking for Al or Tom. They were no where to be found. The bouncers were letting people in. Panic set in. I calmly reminded myself to act nonchalant, not to let the sight of Jackie and her friends get to me. My next attempt to get into the dressing room resulted in a bouncer threatening me. "You try getting in there one more time, honey, I'll throw you out of the club."

I pushed my way to the front of the stage and traded pleasantries with the construction worker standing next to me. Then the lights went down.

Finally. A local DJ took the stage and announced the band. Tom walked onstage, clad in jeans and a leather vest. That's when someone behind me tugged at my arm. I turned around to see the bouncer who had threatened me. He yanked me out of the crowd and walked me to one of the back entrance. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Trying to steal this young lady's purse? You know I could call the cops on you."

"What are you talking about?"

"If you leave now, I won't call the cops."

"I don't understand."

The bouncer opened the door. "Just walk out and I won't call." That's when I saw Jackie standing behind him, grinning like the Wicked Witch of the West.

"What..I.."

He looked like Brooklyn's answer to Charles Manson, so I had little choice. I walked out onto the parking lot as the band segued into their first song. I hung out in the parking lot for Unloved's set, scoping out their tour bus. I hadn't seen Al hanging out by the stage, so I figured he might be on the bus. The door was open so I walked in.

Yeah, Al was in the bus all right, but he wasn't alone. Jackie was busy at work, sucking him off. Blow jobs, of course, were the backstage currency for female wannabes.

That's enough, I thought. This is bullshit. I bummed a cigarette off a Teamster walking past the club and smoked it while listening to the rest of Unloved's set. Then I took the subway home.

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Jackie didn't come to work the next day. After she had been gone a week, Elaine got a call from her Mom saying that Jackie had gotten another "job" in the music business and was "going on tour with a band." I never saw her again. Elaine and I have kept in touch through the years, and Elaine has seen her a few times. Jackie is married, has three kids, and lives in Queens, where she works at the customer service window at a Kroger.

As for me, I'm a glutton for punishment. I still work in the music business. As a matter of fact, last week my boyfriend and I were in the front row to see a certain ex-hair band singer front his new jazz-rock band.

"You look kind of familiar." The singer asked me when we were introduced after the show. "Have we met before?"

"Oh, I don't think so," I said.

"Are you sure? Maybe when I was based in New York?" he insisted, looking me over even as his pretty young wife poured him a cup of tea.

"No, I'm afraid not." I said softly. " Maybe we knew each other in another life, but not in this one."

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