Lightning in a Bottle
This is a time travel, coming of age story involving a middle-aged man who suddenly gets sent back in time, to find himself a teenager again. There are many excellent examples out there of stories like this. I'd like to mention three in particular which inspired me to take a crack at exploring this particular genre on my own: "Doing It All Over" by Al Steiner, "Once More With Feeling" by The Night Hawk, and "Rewind" by Don Lockwood. If you haven't had a chance to read them, and you enjoy this theme, they are well worth checking out.
So, admittedly, I'm traveling on well-trodden ground here. It's difficult to write a story like this without rehashing some of the same themes. However, I believe I've thrown in enough twists to make my story unique. The lead character doesn't particularly want to relive his teenage years. He's plenty content with his middle-aged life (or so he thinks). I've devoted the first three full chapters to his life prior to his being sent back in time. Predictably, at first he isn't happy about his recycling. On top of that, he soon finds that the teenage life to which he has returned is not exactly the same as the one he lived through the first time. This brings about a whole new set of challenges for him.
The story is more romantic than sexual, although it does contain sex scenes. There is no S&M, no incest, and no cheating.
I actually started writing this story back in 2007, finishing chapters 1 through 5 way back then. Real life took over, forcing me to put the story in mothballs without publishing any of it. I recently got the urge to pick it up, dust it off, and continue onward. So that's why the initial, pre-time-travel chapters are set in 2007 and not closer to the present. I decided to leave everything as is, rather than move those chapters up a few years.
Thanks for reading!
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Chapter 1
August 30, 2007
Secaucus, New Jersey
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the roll of duct tape flying in my direction, and flinched just enough to avoid getting clocked upside the head. "Hey!" I barked in Dave's direction. "Are you trying to knock me out cold?"
"You asked for it, didn't you?" he replied, feigning nonchalance.
"You sneaky ingrate lowlife," I shot back. "Never trust a drummer. Now I know why they always put the drummer in the back."
"Well, I can assure you it's not because I want to check out your ass." I just grinned and shook my head.
Such repartee was the norm between Dave Mancuso and myself. We'd been friends since childhood, growing up in the same suburban South Jersey neighborhood. We were both raised by traditional Catholic parents, his Italian, mine Irish. Although we were the same age, we'd gone to different high schools, but attended college together. Since graduating more than twenty years ago, I'd done well for myself, at least professionally. I'd landed a job with a manufacturing firm right across the Hudson River from Manhattan. I'd put in the requisite 80-hour work weeks and pushed my way up to a middle management position. I'd invested well, and was able to afford a nice home, on two acres of land, in an upper-middle class neighborhood out in Morris County. This was in spite of the insanely high property costs in North Jersey, and the fact that I was paying alimony to two women.
Ah, yes, my personal life. At 44, I was a two-time loser in the marriage department, and had been single by choice for the past nine years. My first wife, after two years of marriage, up and left me for another man. Well, there was more to the story than that. This "other man" claimed to be a "cured" homosexual; he unceremoniously dumped his male lover in much the same way that Melissa had dumped me. Melissa fell for his story hook, line, and sinker, and declared it true love. Of course, the predictable happened. Mr. "Cured" turned out to be not cured at all, and eight months after our divorce, Melissa begged for me to take her back. But the soap opera ended there, for I was already engaged to Michelle. I never believed in pining away after lost loves.
Michelle and I made it to our sixth anniversary, and no further. The problem, in a word, was children. She wanted 'em, I didn't. Of course, I told her that going in, but she figured she could change me. Silly girl. Since then, I'd had my share of female companions, but I allowed none of those companionships to get too serious. Shannon, my current interest, seemed bent on tying me down; I was trying to find ways to discourage her without chasing her away. Hey, the sex was pretty damn good.
Dave, meanwhile, had had his share of ups and downs. He was a second shift supervisor at a chemical plant in Linden, a short hop down the turnpike from where I worked. He had never married, although he went through women like an office laser printer goes through paper. His close friendship with the liquor bottle was a constant source of concern for me. He'd done two stints in rehab, seemed to be doing better nowadays, but because of his past, I was determined to do all I could to see that he didn't get carried away with the booze.
I walked over to the other side of the room and picked up the errant roll of tape. Ripping off a long piece of the ubiquitous shiny gray stuff, I used it to secure the cords springing forth from my keyboard and sprawling all over the floor. Years of working in an industrial setting had taught me all about tripping hazards, to the point where I'd become paranoid. Of course, Dave saw fit to point this out.
"Well, look at Mr. Safety Conscious. A bit anal, aren't we? Isn't this just a practice?"
I didn't favor him with a verbal response, instead hurling the tape back in his direction. As he went into a pitcher's windup to re-deliver the tape roll directly at my person, a voice yelled at us, "Boys! Boys! No horseplay on the job!" followed up with a hearty laugh. It was another long-time friend of mine, Paul Li, and three-fifths of our somewhat makeshift rock and roll band was in the house. He was accompanied by his wife, Jasmine, who was the brains behind putting this whole gig together.
Paul and I had gone to high school together. Our paths remained joined through college, and the duration of our professional lives up till now. He was an engineer who was employed by the same company as I. He'd been married to Jasmine for seven years; they had a five-year-old son. In many ways, he was your stereotypical Chinese-American nerd; brainy, somewhat introverted, mathematical, with old-style values. But not entirely ... he could play a mean bass, and if our company ever gave a best-dressed award, he'd win it, hands down. Right now, he was sporting a starched and well-ironed tan shirt, a sharp pair of dark brown slacks, and perfectly polished dress shoes. His hair was slicked back and meticulously groomed. All for a band practice.
Jasmine, meanwhile, was a small wisp of a woman who was the embodiment of "perky". She'd caught the tail end of my facetious exchange with Dave about safety, which provided a perfect segue into what was on her mind.
"Hey, guys," she said to Dave and I, "speaking of workplace safety. Since my employer is sponsoring this event, I need you to sign off on this liability waiver." She worked at a nearby accounting firm.
"A liability waiver?" crowed Dave. "For a freakin' talent show?" Nonetheless, he took the paperwork from Jasmine and scrawled his name on the dotted line.
"Yup, and you, too, Pat," she replied, pushing the papers in my direction. Grabbing the pen from Dave, I signed "Patrick O'Malley", or rather, its equivalent in chicken scratch. I noted that Paul's signature was already there, and there was space for two more.
"Two more signatures?" I muttered.
"That's right. Evie and our mystery performer."
"Christ," I commented, "All of us have to sign this? Bureaucracy at its finest. Since this a work related event, why don't we just bring OSHA in here to run a full inspection?"
"Hey now," Jasmine responded dryly, "I don't make the rules, I just follow 'em."
Shortly thereafter, Paul was helping Dave set up, while Jasmine was nearby, still fumbling with paperwork. I was in my own little world, fiddling around with my keyboard, making sure it still worked the way it was supposed to. After all, it had been in mothballs for at least a decade. There was an entrance to the room not far from where Dave and Paul were setting up, and all of a sudden, I heard a loud scream emanating from that direction. Startled, I looked up from my keyboard. The person doing the screaming threw her arms around Dave, then Paul.
"It's Evie!" Dave proclaimed. "The gang's all here."
I raced over to join the hugfest. Damn, I was happy to see Evie. What had it been ... ten, eleven, twelve years? When she approached me, I told her, "Uh uh hon ... a hug isn't gonna cut it." I squeezed both sides of her face and planted a big wet kiss right on her mouth. By now, Dave had hooked up a microphone, and he bellowed into it, "TESTING-HEY-YOU-TWO-GET-A-ROOM."
I stepped back while Paul introduced Evie to Jasmine. Once that little formality was taken care of, Dave piped in, "So, Evie ... how'd you talk hubby into springing you loose for a few days?"
"Actually," she replied, "Vince wanted to come. But he had to fly out to Seattle yesterday on short notice. You know the life of a salesperson."
"And the kids?"
"Staying with the in-laws."
Evie (rhymes with Chevy) Haines was a peach of a person; she hadn't an enemy on the planet. A self-professed "black rock chick", she could play one hell of a mean saxophone, and was a pretty fair vocalist as well. This was in spite of her being scarcely five feet tall. The intervening years had treated her well physically; she still had the same rich cocoa complexion and the same compact yet slender figure I remembered from our college years. She had on a form-fitting pair of jeans, a white T-shirt that was cut low enough to show a hint of cleavage, and two-inch heels. Her dark brown hair fell loosely down around her shoulders, highlighted with caramel and honey hues.
Back in college, Evie had pretty much been my closest friend. She'd gone to high school with Dave, and only knew him casually at the time; I didn't know her at all till college. When we were in the process of putting together our band during freshman year, Dave recalled watching Evie wail away on the sax at some high school variety show. He had heard she'd gone to Rutgers as well, and had hunted her down. She'd been ecstatic to join us, and as I got to know her, she became my sounding board, even after the demise of our band. Although neither she nor I had any long-lasting romantic involvements while in college, our friendship remained platonic, and I always felt like it was for the best. I didn't want anything to jeopardize that friendship, because it meant too much to me. But as often happens with platonic male-female friendships, when one party finds a significant other, the closeness quickly evaporates. In this case, it was Evie who struck gold; shortly after graduation, she met the man she would marry, and moved out to Illinois to be with him. She managed to parlay a bachelor's degree in communications into a high-profile job as an on-air reporter for one of the Chicago TV stations. We talked often over the phone at first, but as the years went by, our contact slacked off until our only means of keeping in touch was the annual Christmas card.
As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I pulled Evie aside. "You're looking great," I told her sincerely. "While you're here, we need to get together and catch up."
"Hmm," she demurred; she was a humble woman and didn't take compliments well. Scanning me over appraisingly, she replied, "You're looking good, too, but where did that come from?" She playfully gave my middle-age paunch a backhanded swat.
"Not enough sex, I guess."
"Yeah, right. Who's this Shannon I keep hearing about?" she grinned.
Well, with my fair complexion, it doesn't take much for me to blush noticeably. "Ah. I see Dave has already opened his big trap."
"You'll have to fill me in later," she winked, "and yes, we do have to get together for lunch or something. But tell me something else. Who's this mystery guest who's allegedly joining us for this little show?"
"Now that," I snorted, "is the sixty-four dollar question. I really have no idea. Jasmine knows, but she isn't saying a word. Paul knows, too, but if he gives away the secret, Jaz will cut off his balls. Basically, you, me and Dave are in the dark. I've deduced that she's probably female, but beyond that, I haven't the foggiest."
"Hmm ... I guess we'll find out soon enough."
"One thing, though ... this person insisted on choosing our material. That's part of the deal. I've been made privy to one of the songs we'll be doing. I'm not at liberty to disclose it yet, but I'll tell you this much ... I do not care for this song choice, not at all."
"It could be worse," Evie pointed out. "It could be worse. At least there's no Bud McMillan this time around."
"True," I replied, my thoughts turning back briefly to an earlier point in time. Bud McMillan. A first-class asshole. There was little doubt that he'd been responsible for the ruination of our band back at college. In fact, in my opinion, he'd doomed us to failure as soon as we got started.
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Dave, Paul and I had started jamming together, strictly for fun, in the garage of Dave's house, during our last year of high school. After Evie started playing with us early in our college lives, we realized we were one competent lead guitarist away from being able to put together a pretty decent band. And so, I posted a notice on the bulletin board in the student center: LEAD GUITARIST WANTED.
Enter Bud McMillan. He was the only one to reply. He was an arrogant freshman who'd just been accepted into a fraternity, although he didn't live in the frat house; he stayed in a dorm his freshman year. Despite his obnoxious and thoroughly unlikable personality, we found him to be a pretty good guitarist and a passable vocalist. But he couldn't sing as well as he thought he could, and here was where the first problem came in. Up till then, Evie and I had handled the vocals. I felt strongly – and Dave, Paul and Evie had privately agreed with me – that I was at least his equal as a vocalist, if not superior. But Bud wouldn't hear of it. He was a rock god, and you know why? Because he said so. And he was never wrong. Before too long, Bud was calling all the shots. And we were dumb enough to allow it.
Another thing about Bud ... he was physically imposing. He stood six-foot-four, had played football in high school, and worked out like a demon. He was one large, well-sculpted, muscular dude. Height-wise, he had six inches on me, and back then, I was all skin and bones. Being at a physical disadvantage isn't the problem in college that it is in high school, but even so, I didn't want to push him too far. Dave, a first-class wise-cracker even back then, nevertheless was a non-confrontational follower at heart. Paul was terminally reserved. Evie, in her quiet dignified manner, often got her point across, but when muscle was needed, there was a silent understanding among us all that I would have to provide it. And where Bud was concerned, it didn't seem as though I was up to the task.
Personality issues aside, our band lineup was set. We had Bud as lead guitarist and male vocalist, Paul on the bass, Evie alternately handling the sax and female vocals, Dave on the drums, and yours truly on the keyboard. We would have liked to have had one more guitarist, but we made do pretty well with what we had. Before too long, we were playing at dorm parties and the like. Bud managed to wrest even more control from us by using his fraternity connections to secure us a place to practice. One of his frat brothers had a close relative who managed a warehouse; this business had recently been "downsized" (to use a word that was not in vogue at the time), and as a result, over half of the building was empty. We were offered unlimited use of a vacant store room in the unused part of the warehouse. The quarters were a bit tight, but it was functional, and above all, it was free. At least in the monetary sense. It was Bud's doing, and as distasteful as it was, we all owed him one.
And then, there was the matter of a name for our band. One Saturday afternoon, we all were sitting around, trying to come up with one we could agree on, and getting nowhere. We were starting to get frustrated and pissy with each other, when Paul, our resident intellectual, tossed out an innocuous remark that sounded like it was paraphrased from a chemistry textbook. "Come on, people. We need to muster up the activation energy to get over this barrier."
"I do believe we have a winner," I exclaimed.
"Huh?" the others all chimed in, confused.
"Activation Energy. That's perfect!"
Everyone, Bud included, concurred. And thus was Activation Energy christened.
To start with, we built our song list up to about thirty or forty songs. This was 1982, and we stuck with what was popular at the time ... stuff from artists like The Police, Journey, The Go-Go's, Billy Idol and the like. Personally, I always considered the music of the early eighties to be rather lightweight, and in the beginning, I lobbied to include older stuff from the sixties and seventies. But I was outvoted on that point, four to one, and we would remain a contemporary cover band.
But we were decent, and as we practiced, we got better. Our reputation spread, mostly through word of mouth, and by the end of the spring semester we were doing a party somewhere almost every weekend. That summer, all of us stayed in the area, and we ended up doing some off-campus gigs, and even a couple down the shore. Paul and I handled matters on the business end. Things were looking up for us.
But the end came swiftly, in the early part of sophomore year. Bud moved into his fraternity house. This event, as insignificant as it seemed, had a far-reaching effect. His frat brothers began to give him crap about the amount of time he was spending with us scrubs. But more importantly, his frat-related connections, which had come to our rescue the year before, turned out to be toxic this time around. The culprit: alcohol.
You see, Bud began to use said connections to tap into a practically limitless supply of booze. The drinking age in New Jersey had been raised from 18 to 21 a few years previously, so we were all technically underage. And don't get me wrong, we didn't all turn into a bunch of party-animal alcoholics. Bud, however, made sure to bring along a couple of six-packs of beer to each practice, and often brought harder stuff too. Evie and Paul rarely touched it. I might have had one beer per practice, but that would be it for me. The three of us did take our music seriously. But Bud would typically be shitfaced by the end of each practice. And Dave, whose affinity for booze would haunt him in later years, generally was not far behind. Our practices became less and less productive, and the quality of our music began to suffer.
And so, one day, I'd had enough, and I called Bud out. On the spur of the moment, without talking to the others, I laid into him verbally, telling him to keep the booze away from our practices. He fired back at me, calling me an ungrateful little prick, and accused me of trying to undermine his position as front man.
I have a temper. I always have, although I've learned to control it much better. And nothing pisses me off more than having my integrity unjustly brought into question. I took a swing at him, and before we knew it, the punches were flying. And did I mention that Bud was much bigger than I was? Before Dave and Paul were able to break us apart, I'd suffered a nasty cut on the inside of my mouth which required stitches. I also needed some expensive dental work (which didn't sit too well with Mom and Dad), and sported a nice shiner for a few days. Bud pretty much emerged from the fistfight unscathed.
Sadly, that was curtains for Activation Energy. Bud completely blew us off; I never saw him again after that, and I can't say I was too upset about that development. But for a time, I lost both Paul and Dave as friends. Paul felt I had acted on my own, and even though he agreed with me in principle, he felt that my temper had ruined it for all of us. Dave? More than anything else, he was upset that his supply of beer was gone, and he sided with Paul. Evie, bless her heart, stuck by me. But it wasn't until senior year that I was able to fully patch things up with Paul and Dave; eventually, and thankfully, both came around to my way of thinking. The remaining four of us occasionally played together during our final year of college, for fun, but we never got serious about it. And then we all graduated, and as so often happens when one leaves college and enters the real world, other things took precedence.
And so it was, this Thursday night before Labor Day weekend, Evie, Dave, Paul and myself were about to reunite musically, as middle-agers, for the first time in over twenty years. The occasion was, as Dave had put it, actually nothing more than a talent show. Several local companies and other organizations had come together and organized this event. Each entity put together a musical act consisting at least partly of its employees or members. A panel of judges was to select the winners. First place would take home a thousand dollars, the runner-up would get five hundred, and third place was good for a hundred. Admission would be charged, and all proceeds were to go to charity.
The four of us, and the mysterious unknown fifth person, would represent Jasmine's employer. All we knew about the fifth person was that she (?) was a co-worker of Jasmine's, a talented singer and guitarist who had no one else to perform with. With no other musically-inclined co-workers at her disposal, Jasmine had quickly recruited Paul, Dave and I to help out. On a whim, we gave Evie a call, not really expecting her to fly in from Chicago to join us. But when we asked her, she was delighted at the opportunity to relive our college memories.
Bud McMillan's participation in the reunion performance was not in the cards. (Not that we would have asked him, anyhow.) After graduation, Bud had gone into high finance and landed a position on Wall Street. A few years previously, he'd been the centerpiece in a major financial scandal. We're talking insider trading, kickbacks, hush money, the whole shebang. It had been a front-page news story, and our friend Bud had landed himself behind bars for a good long time.
The show was this coming Saturday night, which pretty much gave us 48 hours to start from scratch, shake off the cobwebs, and put together a decent ten-minute set. We all had planned to take Friday off from work, and expected to spend most of the day practicing. For this short Thursday evening warm-up, we'd actually set up a practice area in a conference room in the basement at Jasmine's workplace.
Jasmine, who'd stepped out to take a phone call, returned and called us over. "Okay, you guys. I'll end the suspense now. Pat, Dave, and Evie, I'm sorry I had to keep you in the dark, but I had no choice. Your mystery guest made that request. I know her pretty well, though, and she's a very good singer and guitarist. She is, however," Jasmine hesitated, as if to consider her words carefully, "a little hard to get along with."
"Oh great," Dave blurted out. "Bud McMillan, distaff version."
"Shame we couldn't have gotten Buddy-boy in here to meet her," I cracked. "I bet they'd make a nice couple. But I don't imagine he's doing a whole lot of singing these days."
"Oh, I bet he is singing," Dave chortled. "In soprano, into a pillow, while his new friend Bubba plows into him from behind."
I cracked up. Paul and Evie both shook their heads and laughed. Jasmine just squealed, "Oh my God," and buried her face in her hands. Dave and I both liked Jasmine, and she thought we were the salt of the earth, but she just didn't get our humor.
When the laughter died down, Jasmine continued, "Her name is Inez Trujillo. She's been with the company for two years. She was born in Puerto Rico, moved to Florida as a child, and moved up here to North Jersey to take this job. She's had a tough life, and her attitude reflects that. Got pregnant right out of high school and never married. Despite that, she now has four grandchildren, and she's the same age as you guys. Graduated from high school the same year."
We all looked at each other, digesting that for a moment. A grandmother of four at 44? "So when do we meet Ms. Congeniality?" Dave asked.
"Any minute now," Jasmine replied, glancing at her watch. "I just spoke with her on the phone. She's on her way."
Jasmine pulled Paul aside for a moment to talk privately. I walked over to my keyboard, and began absent-mindedly pressing the keys one by one, listening to each note, hoping the thing was still in good working order. The others busied themselves similarly. I happened to look up, and I saw a woman entering the room who looked to be at least sixty years old. She had a guitar, in its case, slung over her shoulder. My first thought was, holy crap, is this Inez person such a bitch that she makes her mother lug her guitar around?
I approached her. "Can I help you, ma'am?" I said, sounding a little more formal than I really intended.
"I can take care of myself, thanks," she scowled, with an intonation that suggested, don't fuck with me.
I figured, okay, you attract more flies with honey. "Does that guitar belong to Inez? We're expecting her," I said in the most pleasant voice I could muster.
That got a laugh out of her, but a short, abrupt one dripping with sarcasm. "Yes, it belongs to Inez. I am Inez. Who'd you think I was? The cleaning lady?" Her voice had just the slightest trace of an accent.
A cleaning lady might have been pretty high on my list of possible identities for this obviously bitter, life-weary woman in front of me. Jasmine had said she was the same age as me; I couldn't believe it. She stood about five-four, with a pear-shaped body. She had droopy bags under her dispirited brown eyes, with saggy cheeks and a wrinkled forehead. When she opened her mouth to speak, one's attention was immediately drawn to a very prominent front tooth chip. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her skin tone was darker than tan, while lighter than dull brown. Her short hair, mostly transitioned over to gray from light brown, was disheveled in a matronly manner. She had on a University of Miami T-shirt with saggy, loose-fitting jogging pants. Basically, she wasn't much to look at. And she was figuring to join our rock and roll band? As lead vocalist and guitarist? I thought to myself, this does not compute.
Maintaining a friendly demeanor, I introduced myself. "I'm Pat O'Malley ... I'm the keyboardist. Let me introduce you to a couple other members of the band." I called over Dave and Evie, and made the introductions. Inez barely acknowledged their presence. I said to myself, oh, this just gets better and better. I looked at Dave, just to gauge his reaction; the expression on his face said, "Are you kidding?"
Paul and Jasmine returned; it was time to get the practice underway. After bringing in her own amp, along with another guitar (an acoustic), Inez got herself all plugged in. The rest of us assumed our positions. Then Inez spoke up, assuming the role of dictatorial front person without a vote from her constituents. "Okay, people. You're products of the early eighties, right? I take it you know 'Heartbreaker' by Pat Benatar?"
I looked at the others, and we all nodded slowly. We'd experimented with "Heartbreaker" back in the day, but we'd never gone beyond practice with it. The song was tailor-made for Ms. Benatar's magnificent opera-trained voice, and it just didn't mesh well with Evie's sultry, growly vocal style. So, we'd axed it.
Finally, I spoke up. "In fact, we used to mess around with it in practice. Be patient with us, though ... it's been a long time."
Inez just sighed dismissively, with the air of someone being forced to share a stage with a bunch of hacks. "Okay, people, I'll start it off. You," she said, pointing in Paul's direction, "and you," she motioned toward Dave, "jump in and try to keep up with me." Presumably, that left Evie and myself on the sidelines for the time being.
And then, she began to play. And sing. And the result? Pure magic.
Turned out, she was an outstanding guitarist. But that wasn't the real eye-opener. It was her voice ... startlingly powerful, yet achingly mournful. She blew through the song as if it had been crafted for her and her alone, merely toying with the high notes. It was the female equivalent of what I like to call the Jim Nabors Effect: That voice comes out of that person?
And when she was finished, as the rest of us exchanged looks of amazement, it was as if the light switch had been flipped back off. The blank, sullen look returned to Inez's face as she reached into a bag and pulled out a bottle of water. I glanced once again in Dave's direction. "Holy crap!" he mouthed silently, still flabbergasted at what had just taken place.
I finally spoke up. "That was ... pretty good," I said, understating the truth by a fair margin.
Paul chimed in, "We've got one song. If we polish it up, and work in Pat and Evie, that one will knock 'em dead. Color me impressed, Inez. You can really sing." Dave, Evie and I all nodded in agreement.
His words of praise appeared to go in one ear and out the other. "No," Inez replied firmly. "No. That was just a warm-up. We are not doing that song at the show."
"Huh?" I blurted out unintelligibly. Her attitude was already starting to wear on me.
"But that was pretty damn good!" Dave protested.
"How old is that song?" came Inez's reply. "Twenty-five, thirty years? Let me tell you something. The audience doesn't want to hear oldies. Neither do the people who'll be giving out the prizes. They want something contemporary, and that's what we'll give them."
The debate went back and forth for a few minutes. Soon, with no resolution on this issue in sight, a new topic of contention emerged. I – along with Paul, Evie and Dave – believed that a ten-minute set left plenty of room to squeeze in three songs. Inez, however, insisted on just two. "It doesn't matter if we don't fill up the entire ten minutes," she declared stubbornly. "When I do a song, I do it right. I don't do a half-assed job, trying to squeeze in as much material as possible."
The four of us all began to speak at once, in protest, our tone of voice walking the line between irritation and anger. I motioned for the others to let me speak, and they quickly piped down. "Look, Inez," I implored. "We're all supposed to be working together here. But there's one of you, and there are four of us. And the majority has a pretty good idea on how we'd like to approach this. Why don't you quit being such a stick in the mud, and let the majority rule?"
Inez's dead-fish eyes grew as wide as saucers. Her nostrils flared, and it appeared an eruption was imminent. "Listen, buddy. We are representing my employer, aren't we? I didn't ask you guys to do this. Jasmine did. And unless you want to have your little reunion concert without me, somewhere else, in front of an audience of zero, you'll do as I say. Got it?"
She had us, and I knew it. For Jasmine's sake (and Paul's, too), we had to go through with this, and that meant we had to accept her terms. But I wasn't about to back down against this withered little bitch with a bug up her ass. I steeled my gaze against hers, and held it for several very tense seconds. Finally, she muttered "cochino," and then broke the eye contact. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dave, who knew a little Spanish, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
Without any further elaboration, a short break followed, and I made my way over to Dave. Out of earshot of the others, I said to him, "So what the hell does 'cochino' mean, anyhow?"
"She just called you a pig, sport."
Shortly thereafter, the practice was in full swing. Inez, naturally, had chosen the two songs we'd be performing. I'd mentioned to Evie earlier that I'd gotten advance notice of one of the songs, and that I wasn't thrilled with the choice. Aside from the point that we were an eighties band and wanted to do stuff from "our" era, this type of a show called for something fun, rocking, and upbeat. So what did Inez pick for our opening number? Jewel's "Foolish Games".
I'd been tipped off ahead of time so that I'd have a head start on getting the keyboard part down. And that's pretty much everything "Foolish Games" consists of ... vocals and keyboard. This reduced Evie to a backing vocalist, and essentially left Paul and Dave twiddling their thumbs.
Inez, meanwhile, sang this haunting but starkly depressing song with the kind of conviction that could only be demonstrated by someone who'd lived the lyrics word for word. She seemed to want to make it her own public primal scream therapy. There were a hundred reasons why "Foolish Games" was entirely the wrong song, but one of them was not that Inez couldn't sing it well.
I had to admit, however, that our second selection (again, as decreed by Inez) was a much stronger choice ... KT Tunstall's rollicking "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree". It wasn't necessarily the song I'd have picked, had I been in a position to do so; but it was certainly upbeat, and better highlighted our individual talents. We actually had a lot of fun working it out. It allowed Paul and Dave to become more involved, and Evie and I shared the backing vocals, repeatedly grinning at each other through the numerous "woo-woos". As for Inez, once again, her guitar work and vocals proved to be first-rate. For the first time in twenty years, I began to feel the indescribable rush associated with making music.
As we worked to polish up "Black Horse", I happened to catch a figure out of the corner of my eye, moving sensuously to the music. I looked that way, and there stood Shannon, clapping and dancing. I'd told her about the practice, and she'd said she would try to drop by. And here she was, and with the way she was smiling at me adoringly, almost groupie-like, I began to suspect that I was in for a good time later that evening. Indeed, a tent began to form in my pants in anticipation. Luckily, my keyboard shielded me from the others.
Before we all knew it, it was almost ten o'clock, and we decided to wrap things up for the evening. I decided to make one final appeal to Inez to add a third song. "If we do 'Heartbreaker'," I pointed out, "that will give us one ballad, one mid-tempo number and one hard rocker. It makes sense." But she dismissed my suggestion with a wave of her hand, seemingly not wanting to expend the energy required to respond to me verbally.
Shannon sauntered up and greeted me with a peck on the mouth, looking as though she wanted to devour me on the spot. I'll confess to having similar thoughts toward her. Slender yet well-built, with long, free-flowing dark brown hair and deep blue eyes, she had on nicely-fitting white slacks and a pink top. Her open-toed four-inch heels (and I've got a thing for high heels) made her nearly my equal in height, and I'm just a hair over six feet.
"You guys were awesome!" she gushed. "I didn't know you were that good."
"Neither did we," I deadpanned. I decided to discreetly edge the conversation toward more carnal matters. "So what are you doing now?"
No dummy, was she. She got the hint; her expression turned from giddy to smoldering. She leaned in to me and whispered, "Let's meet over at your place."
She was very forward; I liked that about her. I pretended to be carefully considering her offer, which caused her to giggle and playfully whack me on the arm. "Okay ... I'm convinced," I grinned. "Give me fifteen, twenty minutes to wrap things up here."
Shannon didn't bother with a spoken reply. She gave me a look that could have melted a glacier, and then slinked her way across the room and out the door. Dave, of course, had been watching that whole exchange. "Whew ... it's hot in here," he grinned, fanning his face with his hand. Evie was standing nearby. Her sly smile said, "You and I have a lot to talk about, don't we?"
Somewhat embarrassed, I changed the subject. "You know ... it would be kind of trite to say 'we still got it', but we sounded way better than I expected."
"I had a blast," Evie gushed. "I'm so happy I flew out here to play with you guys. It was like the years just melted away."
Even Dave appeared to have been moved by the experience. "I know. It was like I was back in college again," he offered, atypically sentimental.
But leave it to Inez, the human wet blanket, to douse our enthusiasm with a few well-chosen words. "It's good you had your little trip down memory lane, people. You really think you sounded good? Well, get the wax out of your ears. I beg to differ. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow. I'm not getting up there on stage and making an ass of myself because the rest of you are too wrapped up in your own midlife crises to notice that you aren't playing worth crap." She finished packing up her guitar, and then left without any further acknowledgment of our presence.
"Is she for real?" Dave asked rhetorically, shaking his head.
"Did she even bother to remember our names?" wondered Evie, her voice uncharacteristically distasteful. "Among other things, I'm getting sick of hearing her constantly refer to us as 'people'."
-------
Chapter 2
The night air was surprisingly cool for late August, with a slight but persistent breeze adding to the chill. The usual late-summer chorus of crickets provided the background accompaniment as I strolled briskly up the long, winding walkway, toward my front door. Shannon was pressed up against my side, with my arm around her, more as a means of keeping her warm than an act of foreplay. I could feel her shivering against me. As we approached the door, a motion sensor triggered a spotlight I'd rigged up, illuminating much of the front of the property. Even though I wasn't Howard Hughes, I was well off enough to be paranoid about home security.
As we stepped inside, the warm, windless interior of my home providing a welcome respite, Shannon spoke up. "So, what's the problem with Inez, anyhow?"
"I have no idea. Jasmine said she's had a tough life. But if you ask me, she seems to be on an all-out campaign for Bitch of the Year," I snickered.
This elicited a giggle from Shannon. I poured us both a glass of wine. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she gave my place the usual cursory scan. I noticed how her gaze lingered for a second on the expensive painting, hanging conspicuously on the wall. I saw how she longingly beheld my state-of-the-art home entertainment center. And I took note of how she affectionately ran her hand across the plush oriental sofa, caressing it the way she'd be caressing my nether regions before too much longer. Oh, don't get me wrong, I knew Shannon was no thief. But as I got to know her better, I became more and more convinced that she was drawn more to my money than to me.
A few days earlier, I'd bounced this idea off of Dave. His response, while not exactly astute, was nonetheless memorable. "Who cares if she's a gold-digger? She is one hot piece. Personally, I'd eat a mile of her shit, just so I could lick her asshole."
Dave always did have a way with words.
Shannon was, shall we say, frisky by nature, even without the introduction of the wine variable into the equation. Before I knew it, her glass was empty, and she had one hand up my shirt, with the other hand in the process of unbuttoning it from the outside. In a flash, the shirt was off, and seconds later, she'd dragged me out of my pants as well. There I was, on the sofa, in nothing but my briefs. I knew then and there that we wouldn't be bothering to head upstairs. I looked at the windows; the shades were drawn, but anyone positioned directly outside could easily peer around them. And they'd be able to witness quite a show. Oh, well.
"Mmm ... Mr. Rock Star," she purred, kissing my chest, her long, dark hair brushing against my bare torso. "Can I be your groupie?"
Who was I to deny her that fantasy? I reached out to pull her to me, but she had other plans. She slipped away from my grasp, standing before me, regarding me with her azure eyes afire.
I watched in fascination, my arousal rapidly increasing, as she lifted her top up and over her head, tossing it aside to reveal a bra-encased set of orbs. I'd seen them before in all their glory, of course. I'd run my hands all over them, several times, and tasted them to my heart's content. But it was apparent that she'd cooked up some kind of scenario this time, and it had my libido in overdrive like never before. I still had my briefs on, but I felt as though my erection would drill a hole through them.
Shannon favored me with another searing glance as she stepped out of her high heels, and then smoothly lowered the zipper on the side of her pants. A quick shimmy of her hips, and those slacks were in a puddle at her feet. She unhooked her bra, and threw it aside as well, fully exposing her firm, round, creamy breasts.
"I want you to make me your groupie," she repeated, her voice a low growl. "Play my body with your fingers, the way you do that keyboard. Take me, like I'm some floozy who flashed her tits at you from the audience."
She then ditched her panties, and stood before me in magnificent nudity, I didn't get much of a chance to ogle her in the raw, however, for she had one more preparatory step in mind. Smiling at me devilishly, she stepped back into her high heels. We'd discussed my heel fetish on more than one occasion. And few women could wear heels like Shannon, for her long, firm, toned legs were her best feature.
I wanted to draw things out a little more, so I laid down flat on the sofa, my back facing upward. With my rampant erection pressing into the fabric, this was quite uncomfortable; but I wanted a massage from Shannon at this point, and past experience told me she wouldn't disappoint.
She took the cue and straddled me, pressing her soft fingers into my exhausted flesh. Every so often, she would lean over and whisper into my ear, telling me how much musicians turned her on, and how she'd always dreamed of having her pussy ravished by a rock star. I, of course, just lay there, for now, and took it all in.
Suddenly, I felt the back of my briefs being lowered slightly. I was momentarily startled as I felt the soft moistness of her tongue making intimate contact with the top of my butt crack. From that starting point, she proceeded to run her tongue tantalizingly over my tail bone, straight up the center of my spine and between my shoulder blades. She continued her journey upward, reaching the middle of the back of my neck, before veering off to the right, encircling my ear once with that talented tongue of hers, and darting it fleetingly inside my ear canal. She tugged at my shoulder, indicating that I should flip over.
The instant I rolled over onto my back, she hooked her two index fingers under the waistband of my briefs and did away with that undergarment. My cock, free at last, pointed skyward while her face hovered inches above it. She knelt at the side of the sofa, right before my crotch, and wrapped her thumb and index finger around the base of my cock, and began a slow, repetitive up and down motion. It was all I could do to keep from erupting prematurely.
"Mmm," she purred contentedly. "I like this one. Could I make a plaster cast of it, Mr. Rock Star, to add to my collection?" As distracted and turned on as I was, I was still able to find humor in that remark, and broke out laughing.
But before I could get carried away with laughter, Shannon proceeded to reclaim my full undivided attention. She lowered her face down onto my cock, and just slurped it up like water from a drinking fountain. "Ahhh!" I moaned as she took the entire length through her mouth and into her throat, all in one smooth movement. As she began to enthusiastically deep-throat me, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. Moments later, I painted her tonsils with my love juice.
Shannon moved to straddle my head, strongly hinting that she'd like for me to return the favor. Her light brown trimmed bush hung there, just inches from my face, as I moved upward and traced the line between her labia with my tongue. As I picked up the pace, she lowered herself fully onto my mouth, grinding herself into my face. I gave up the licking part, letting her do all the work, something she was quite okay with. When I deemed it the right time, I brought my tongue back into the action, finding her clit and making a quick pass directly across it. This set her off like a firecracker. "Oh Pat!! Ohpatohpatohpatohpatohpatohpatohpatohpat!!!" she wailed as she came, her juices running down onto me, wetting my cheeks and my chin. When she came back down to earth, she resumed her all-out quest to turn my face into a glazed doughnut, and got off twice more in short order.
By now, my penis was once again rock-hard and ready to get involved once again. Shannon, taking note of this, moved back down toward my crotch, squatted over my erection, and lowered herself down onto it. She'd told me she was on birth control pills, so there were no concerns there. But I pinned her legs with both hands, preventing any movement on her part. She looked at me quizzically.
I realized that up till now, I'd taken far too passive a role in the proceedings. Earlier, she'd demanded that I take her. And so, I took.
I pulled myself up into a sitting position, facing her directly. In response, she pressed her mouth against mine, trying to force her tongue into my mouth. I blocked its entry, instead wrapping my arms around her. I slid both of us off the couch, and then stood up. "Ooooh," she cooed, in surprise, wrapping her legs around my torso, my cock still buried within her. "What are you planning to do to me?" she wondered.
I didn't respond verbally. I squatted down, still supporting all her weight, and then pitched forward, basically falling right on top of her. As we hit the floor, the force caused my cock to bottom out within her. "Oooooh!" she purred. I pulled out part way, and then re-entered her, realizing I'd lucked into the perfect angle for deepest penetration. With her two legs pointed diagonally skyward, one high-heeled shoe resting on top of each foot, she squealed her approval as I began to fuck her in earnest. Since I'd come earlier, I was able to pound into her for a good long while. Finally, I shot my seed deep inside her, and we both collapsed, physically wiped out.
Shannon was the first to pull herself up from the floor; she traipsed off toward the bathroom. I quickly inspected the sofa; surprisingly enough, there were no moist areas to be found. I was glad for that, since it had cost me a pretty penny. There was, however, a good-sized wet, sticky spot on the carpet, right where we'd had our final coupling. "I'll have to break out that new steam cleaner," I muttered as I grabbed a paper towel and wiped up as much of it as I could.
-------
I had trouble sleeping that night; there, in my own bed, Shannon still naked in my arms, asleep like a baby, her head resting on my shoulder. Was it guilt that was keeping me awake? I didn't know. Yes, I liked Shannon, even felt a certain affection for her. But the fact was, even though we'd been seeing each other for a few months, I hardly knew her. The relationship was entirely physical, there was no connection on any other level, and I simply couldn't envision it ever evolving into something more. In fact, finding "something more" was not one of my higher priorities. I knew that sooner or later, Shannon would have to look elsewhere for her sugar daddy.
But until then ... hey, the sex was pretty damn good.
We showered together in the morning, washing each other's delicate areas. Shannon knelt down before me, once again, and sucked me to completion. This time, I didn't bother to reciprocate, and Shannon didn't seem to mind.
Out in the kitchen, I cooked up some eggs, bacon and toast. We had a leisurely and somewhat quiet breakfast, and then Shannon was off to work, leaving me with a quick peck on the lips. I was out the door myself about a half hour later, wondering if Paul, Dave, Evie and myself were up to the task of spending a full day collaborating with Inez Trujillo.
-------
We'd decided to have our Friday practice at the residence of Paul and Jasmine. Upon my arrival, Paul greeted me with a grin. "We've cleared out most of the garage for today's get-together," he told me. "Brings back memories, doesn't it?"
It certainly did provide a jog to the old memory bank. Back during our senior year in high school, Paul, Dave and I used to jam together in the garage of Dave's childhood home. I followed Paul out into his garage. Evie was already there, as was Inez. And once again, any sentimental thoughts I may have had about the venue were quickly dispelled by the prickly peevishness of Inez.
"About time you showed up," she grumbled. "Now where's that friend of yours? We need to get started."
"Let me see if I can get a hold of him. No matter the occasion, he's always a few minutes late." I pulled out my cell phone, and speed-dialed Dave. I was directed to his voice mail; he had his phone turned off. It figured.
Dave did indeed make it a point to show up fashionably late whenever possible. He loved attention, and he relished making his grand entrance when all were present to take note of his arrival. A few minutes later, he came strolling in. He had on one of those T-shirts that read, "Kill 'em all – let God sort 'em out", and sported a Phillies baseball cap. Despite being deep in the heart of the area dominated by fans of the New York sports teams, both Dave and I were products of South Jersey. And growing up in South Jersey meant rooting for Philadelphia teams. As for the T-shirt, Dave didn't necessarily ascribe to the inscription on front. He just couldn't pass up an opportunity to get a rise out of people.
"So which of you losers wants to help me bring in my drums?" he cracked.
"I might, if you ask politely," I shot back.
He replied by batting his eyelashes and blowing a kiss in my direction. "Oh, I forgot. You have Shannon." Paul and Evie, well used to our antics, cracked up. Inez just looked on impassively, fiddling around with her guitar.
I sprang to my feet and walked with Dave out to his van. We unloaded the drums, and I happened to notice a six-pack of beer on the floor of the van, filled with empty bottles. Not a good sign, I said to myself.
Back inside, it only took us a few run-throughs to get "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree" down cold, to the point where even Inez couldn't find anything negative to say. But the rest of the day turned out to be a never-ending exercise in frustration. I'd been expecting a nice, easy, informal practice session, full of reminiscing and pleasant conversation. But I'd failed to take into consideration the presence of Inez, who in addition to being a truly miserable person, took this whole thing far too seriously. By the end of the day, I never wanted to hear "Foolish Games" again. I hated that song. I wasn't harboring too many fond thoughts for Inez, either. And I came within a whisker of blowing a gasket because of it.
The fixation that Inez displayed for that particular piece of music was bizarre. I guess she considered it her own personal mantra, for she insisted that the song be treated with, for lack of a better word, reverence. And the one who bore the brunt of all that was, sadly, Evie.
None of us disputed that Inez, with her amazing vocal gift, was the one to handle lead vocals on that number. The problem came when Inez demanded that Evie sing high harmony during the chorus. Now, Evie was a very good singer, and the chorus in that song is only a couple of lines, but her vocal strength was her smoky contralto. And she was being asked to hit notes that were too high for her comfort range. In the old days, when she was two decades younger and sang regularly, she might have been able to handle it. But she was out of practice, and it was like trying to draw water from a dry well. It just wasn't happening.
For an hour or more, Inez railed on, first attempting to play vocal coach, then becoming increasingly frustrated and putting forth commentary that was on the verge of demeaning and berating.
Finally, I'd had enough, and spoke my piece. "Come on, Inez. Why don't you lay off? You're asking Evie to do something her voice isn't meant to do. Besides, you're a good enough singer to carry the song all by yourself." I figured that since we'd tried just about everything else, buttering her up might work.
However, Inez wouldn't bite. "But that's the way the song should be done. I want to hear that high harmony. And if she'd just try a little harder--"
That did it. I rose to my feet, fire in my eyes. "If she'd just try a little harder? What the fuck is your problem, woman?"
Things were on the verge of spinning out of control. Fortunately for all concerned, Evie moved to defuse the situation. From the edge of my anger-laden eyes, I caught Evie mouthing toward me, "It's okay."
Well, it wasn't okay. After all, Evie had traveled all the way from Chicago just for this event, and didn't deserve to be treated in that manner. But, cooling down ever so slightly, I backed off from my challenge.
"I'm gonna take a walk around the block," I announced. "I'll be back in a little while." Like I said earlier, my temper has gotten me in trouble before. I'd browsed a few anger management web sites, and found that immediately distancing myself from the source of my anger was an effective means of neutralizing it.
I took a good brisk walk up and down the street, letting the adrenaline rush take its course, and expending the energy that had nearly come spilling out in a manner I might have regretted. When I arrived back at Paul's place, the others were taking a break, and Jasmine had come out to join them. I wasn't about to apologize to Inez, but I'd decided to reason with her. Once again.
"Inez," I began, forcing myself to speak slowly and evenly, "why not let Evie sing underneath you instead of on top? That way, she can stay within her natural range, and it plays to both of your strengths."
Evie nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing."
It appeared that there was no limit to Inez's stubbornness. "No. I said it before ... that's not how that song needs to be done."
I took a deep breath, and then continued on. "Just try it, Inez. Just try it. That's all I ask. Let's just try it out, and if it sounds lousy, then we'll scratch that idea. Fair enough?"
And so, we tried it out. And wouldn't you know it, it sounded pretty damn good, in my opinion. I liked it; it brought a different feel to the song. But Inez remained difficult to convince. Evie, a woman who could definitely take care of herself, took the lead at this point, and began to reason with Inez. Sick of it all, I just tuned out. Paul came over to talk with me privately.
"Pat," he began, "we've been down this road before, haven't we?" He didn't have to elaborate any further. I knew what he was talking about, for an angry outburst of mine had partially contributed to the ruination of the band the first time around.
He continued, "After tomorrow, you'll never see Inez again. I know she's a pain in the ass. But this means a lot to Jasmine, so just keep it cool until tomorrow night, okay? Don't worry about Evie, or me, or Dave. We're all grownups, and we can handle ourselves."
I nodded; he was making sense. "I guess what bothers me the most ... is how she is dictating everything we do. This material, this style ... it's not us."
Paul smiled faintly. "But what constitutes 'us' these days? Just keep it in perspective."
"I'll tell you what constitutes 'us'. We're a bunch of washed-up, middle-aged musicians who are playing backup to a dictatorial martinet who's bent on making a talent show her own personal self-affirmation." I laughed, Paul laughed, and thus was the tension broken.
After quite a bit of persuasion from Evie, Inez agreed to do the song our way. There really wasn't any other choice. We'd emerged victorious on that point, but I hardly felt like celebrating. We polished up the new rendition, and broke for the day around five o' clock. As we packed up our things, I approached Evie. "Sorry for that outburst earlier ... and thanks for helping me to cool off."
She smiled. "We'll talk more about it later. Are you free right now? Let's do dinner somewhere."
Well, I'd already promised Shannon I'd meet her for dinner, so that suggestion was out. Thinking quickly, I replied, "I can't do dinner tonight, but I can do lunch tomorrow. How's that sound?"
Her smile grew wider. "Shannon, huh?"
I began to suspect that Evie was perhaps reading a little too much into the Shannon situation. "Yes, I have a dinner date with her. But don't let any misconceptions run through that pretty little head of yours." I affectionately tapped the side of her head with my index finger.
"O-kay," she replied, her voice laced with skepticism. "Anyway, lunch tomorrow works for me."
"I'll pick you up at twelve."
After saying goodbye to the others, I jumped into my car and drove out to Morristown, where I met Shannon at a nice little Chinese restaurant I frequented. Following dinner, we headed on back to my place and went straight to the bedroom. After fucking each other silly for about four hours, we both passed out on the bed, covered with sweat and each other's body fluids.
-------
Saturday at noon, I picked up Evie at the hotel. When we learned she was coming east to take part in our little reunion, both Dave and I immediately offered to put her up for the duration of her visit. She'd graciously declined, however, pointing out that her husband (who neither one of us had met in person) might not think too highly of her staying alone with either of us bachelors, as friendly and innocent as it might be. Paul and Jasmine had also extended a housing offer, but Evie had elected to stay in a hotel. In fact, she'd splurged on accommodations, booking a room at one of the nicer hotels near the Meadowlands sports complex.
We headed straight for TGI Friday's, and were quickly seated. The conversation immediately turned to the events of the previous day.
"Tell me, Pat. If I hadn't said something when you were furious with Inez yesterday, what would have happened?" Evie asked probingly. She had a way of getting right to the point.
"I think I know what you're asking," I replied without hesitation. "I was furious, but I would not have done anything violent. At least not towards Inez. I've always had problems with controlling my anger, but I do not hit women. Never have, never will."
"I believe you. Absolutely. I know you, Pat. But how would you have released that anger?"
I thought about it a little. "I would probably have taken it out on an inanimate object. Thrown something, maybe. Not at anyone, just at the wall or something. In that case, I might have had Paul and Jasmine pissed at me. But I've found that the healthiest way of dealing with my angry outbursts is to just get the hell out of Dodge for awhile. That's why I took a walk around the block."
Evie appeared relieved upon hearing my answer. "That's good. I was a little worried. If you'd seen your face yesterday, you'd be worried too."
"All I can say is that the older I get, the better I am at dealing with my temper, although the tendency towards getting angry easily doesn't appear to be abating."
She nodded. "After you left yesterday, I went out to dinner with Paul and Jasmine. Jasmine has gotten to know Inez pretty well, and she gave us a synopsis of her life and what makes her the way she is. After you hear what I'm about to say, you may be able to understand her a little better."
"Jaz told us that she was born in Puerto Rico, moved to Florida, got pregnant right out of high school, and now has four grandchildren."
"True," Evie went on. "But there's a whole lot more to the story. When the father of her child found out she was pregnant, he split. She had been planning to go to college, but was forced to postpone those plans. According to Jasmine, Inez is very bright, but never had the chance to make use of that intelligence. And you know about her musical ability. She learned to sing and play the guitar at a very early age. She was a natural. She was an only child, and the pride and joy of her parents. They stood by her when she had her baby, and offered to watch the child while she went to school. But when she was twenty years old, all of that changed. She lost both of her parents at the same time. They were killed in an auto accident, coming back from a weekend getaway in the Florida Keys. She loved them both dearly, and quite understandably, she was never the same after that."
"Wow," was the only reply I could come up with after hearing that awful story. I'd been an only child myself, and I tried to imagine losing both of my parents at twenty. I couldn't even fathom it. I now felt quite terrible about my outburst yesterday, and Evie, picking up on that, affectionately gave my wrist a little squeeze.
"And that's not all. College was out of the question at that point; she never went back. She went through a series of bad relationships after that, resulting in two more children, by different fathers. At least one of the relationships turned violent. That chipped front tooth that you see is the result of a punch thrown by one of her boyfriends."
Evie paused for a moment, affording me the chance to chime in, but there really wasn't much that I could add at that point. I nodded in understanding.
She continued, "She had somewhat better luck with employment. From what Jasmine said, she is kind of an IT specialist, a job which generally doesn't require her to deal face-to-face with people. She moved up here to New Jersey a couple of years ago, hoping for a new start, but things haven't improved for her. Her children are sick of her attitude, and have pretty much distanced themselves. She hardly knows her grandchildren. She has alienated most of her co-workers, except for Jasmine, who really is a sweetheart. And you can see that she looks far older than she really is. Her spirit is broken, Pat. That's the only way to describe it."
"A very sad story," I allowed. "But we still have to deal with that attitude of hers for one more day. And just for today, I'll keep all of what you told me in mind."
"We'll all benefit from that," Evie nodded approvingly. She then turned her attention to the other hot topic. "So, tell me about Shannon."
I laughed in response, and then grew serious. "We've been seeing each other for a little while now. We haven't declared exclusivity, although for now, neither of us is seeing anyone else."
"Do you think it might lead to something serious, though?" said Evie, moving into that protective-adopted-sister mode that I remembered so well from college.
"No," I replied with a conviction that startled both of us. "No. I enjoy being with her, but to be brutally honest ... it's all about sex. There isn't much of a personal connection. I can't even say that I know her all that well, outside of the biblical sense."
She then replied pointedly, "So it's just a booty call? How do you know it isn't something more than that for her? Maybe she does have feelings for you. You know how men and women are. Is it really the good sex that keeps her coming back for more? I mean, I don't doubt your prowess, Pat, but..." She giggled, letting that thought trail off.
I joined her in muted laughter. "Thanks a lot, Ev. I don't claim to have that kind of sexual talent. Anyhow, I'm beginning to think there is something else that keeps Shannon coming back. I've talked this through with Dave, and he agrees with me. The sex may be hot, but she's after something cold, not to mention hard ... and it's cash."
"Aah. She's looking at you as a potential sugar daddy."
"Bingo."
Evie paused, measuring her words carefully, as she always did when about to deliver a lecture. "You need someone, Pat. Maybe Shannon isn't the one, but you need someone."
I was becoming uncomfortable with the direction in which this was headed. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Actually, I enjoy being on my own, free to do as I please. Dave is the same way."
"Dave is not the same as you," she corrected. "Besides the personal issues that he has, he's very much an individual, very set in his ways. He might be one of those people who is happier going through life solo. But you're different. You need someone to counter you, someone to keep you in check. You may not realize it right now, but you need someone."
For some reason, Evie's words stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon, even after I'd dropped her back at the hotel. I needed someone? Naaah. I enjoyed my independence. But then, as so often happens, I flip
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Short porn stories : After school
I am a graduate student at a large southwestern university. As required by my department, I teach two sections of introductory psychology every semester. These classes attract, as you may suspect, some of the most beautiful wenches on campus. Last se
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We use fantasies a lot. My husband and I talked a lot about me screwing a friend of his. I did turn me on but we only talked about it for a long time. Then one day when that friend stopped by to see my husband, I mentioned that I was going to paint a
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Rosa, an Asian American who's family came from Vietnam in the early 80s
worked as an executive assistant to the one of the upper level executives
of mid sized agency for economic development. She enjoyed her job, but if
you got to speak with her, sh
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