The Junk Bar Incident
First story from the 2007 collection of erotic short stories, Seduced and Abandoned
Available from Amazon.com
Copyright 2003, 2007 Jade Blackmore
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 played at clubs there in the '70s, 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 close 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 way 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 long-haired 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 time. 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, 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 fire truck. 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 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. I headed toward the restrooms.
"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!" He turned to me. " You wait out here. 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 two 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 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 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. 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, not letting my gaze
stray from 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 and licked them. 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 his cock '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.
"Fuck, 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?"
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 goodnight 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?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna take a quick shower." I scampered into the bathroom.
Amazing. Within two hours, I had metamorphosized from a wilting, bedraggled secretary into a sex goddess. A rock 'n'
roll Cinderella.
Nervously, I jumped into the shower. Giving him a blowjob 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 that alarm clock hadn't signaled my death rattle 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 company owner, an ex-showgirl who had married into a Tin Pan
Alley fortune, grew agitated when I was five minutes late. work I'd be short on my share of the rent.
I sighed and kissed him on the cheek, his 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.
* * * *
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 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.
We grabbed sandwiches and drinks at Blimpie's, 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."
Jackie scanned 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 Bitty's 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 graffitied 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.
* * * *
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 and I 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 sound check. 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 bartender said, "You're with Tom, right?" and introduced himself.
"Tom will be here just before show time," 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. Again! 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. Restless and the slightest bit tipsy on half a Heineken, I wandered to the back door to wait for Tom.
He 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 nowhere 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 thebus. 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. Blowjobs, of course, were the backstage currency for female wannabes.
That's enough, I thought. This is bullshit. I walked to the club entrance and bummed a cigarette off a Teamster walking past t and smoked it
while listening to the rest of Unloved's set. Then I took the subway home.
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."
Available from Amazon.com
Copyright 2003, 2007 Jade Blackmore
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 played at clubs there in the '70s, 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 close 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 way 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 long-haired 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 time. 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, 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 fire truck. 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 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. I headed toward the restrooms.
"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!" He turned to me. " You wait out here. 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 two 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 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 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. 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, not letting my gaze
stray from 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 and licked them. 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 his cock '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.
"Fuck, 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?"
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 goodnight 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?"
"Yeah. I'm gonna take a quick shower." I scampered into the bathroom.
Amazing. Within two hours, I had metamorphosized from a wilting, bedraggled secretary into a sex goddess. A rock 'n'
roll Cinderella.
Nervously, I jumped into the shower. Giving him a blowjob 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 that alarm clock hadn't signaled my death rattle 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 company owner, an ex-showgirl who had married into a Tin Pan
Alley fortune, grew agitated when I was five minutes late. work I'd be short on my share of the rent.
I sighed and kissed him on the cheek, his 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.
* * * *
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 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.
We grabbed sandwiches and drinks at Blimpie's, 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."
Jackie scanned 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 Bitty's 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 graffitied 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.
* * * *
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 and I 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 sound check. 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 bartender said, "You're with Tom, right?" and introduced himself.
"Tom will be here just before show time," 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. Again! 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. Restless and the slightest bit tipsy on half a Heineken, I wandered to the back door to wait for Tom.
He 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 nowhere 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 thebus. 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. Blowjobs, of course, were the backstage currency for female wannabes.
That's enough, I thought. This is bullshit. I walked to the club entrance and bummed a cigarette off a Teamster walking past t and smoked it
while listening to the rest of Unloved's set. Then I took the subway home.
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."