My Fetish for Jazz Musicians

I COLLECT MY SCARLET LETTERS WITH EACH JAZZ MUSICIAN I’VE FUCKED. Nobody else counts. I understand it’s limiting to typecast a subgenre of people. Even morally wrong. But other types of musicians just don’t do it for me. There was a stint with a Blues guitarist, but even he tipped his hat to Jazz. What’s the point of countless hours of practicing an instrument if it doesn’t lead to satisfying pussy? I become consumed by watching my latest romance on stage. Sipping shit beer at a dive, or drinking a cocktail at Lincoln Center. Each instrumentalist knows how to arouse you like how they know how to play their instrument. The touch of a pianist or the lips of a trumpeter does wonders, turning your body into a waterfall. Men who play brass instruments: trombone, tuba, flugelhorn are the most skilled at eating out pussy. They know how to maneuver their tongue. While those who play strings: upright bass, the violin, and even guitar know how to use their fingers. Their touch can induce you into a state of electricity, more so than reading the Kama Sutra.

I’ll pretend to know nothing when they talk about the greats Count Basie, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong, Thelonius Monk. Oh, are you the next Dizzy Gillespie? Tell me which big band you’re in as you nibble on my ear. Am I gonna hear about how Ken Burns did Jazz wrong? Negative reviews are the ultimate turn on. My glamorous friends joke over Sunday brunch about all the time I spend off with my next musical genius. Another Monday night at Father Knows Best out in Bushwick, scoping my next conquest. I know I’m not the only blonde freckled girl who frequents there to catch good dick. Two weeks ago, I had the most disappointing cock appointment. I went home with a saxophonist, and he was the worst sex I ever had. Maybe it had something to do with already having slept with all of his friends?

My escape plan is always in the middle of the night, while they’re getting that post-orgasm sleep. I tiptoe out the door, usually leaving my bra or panties as a memento of our time together. When they text to return my stuff, I typically like to leave them on read. It is a waste of my energy to even send a response. Our dalliance has already faded from my imagination. I’m already taking the Q line home to feed my cat. My flirtatious ways have given me a little bit of a reputation. This doesn’t bother me; I like my name being talked about all over the city. And so it goes, because soon there will be another I will be temporarily insatiable for. A craving that needs to be indulged and then suppressed.

It was a Thursday night, and I was up at W 116th street. A middle eastern restaurant called Silvana hides a hole in the wall bar underground. A bunch of cats invited me to check out their Afro-Cuban gig. On the drums, I saw a girl I’ve never met before. She christened me with her walnut shaded curly q hair. We briefly locked friendly eyes between her first and second set. As if we were exchanging unlawful notes during math class. I’ve never had eyes for a woman before; now, I’m holding onto my heart palpitations just in case they lead me to a trap door.

A shoulder tap disrupted my conversation with a guy I’ve seen a few times around. She cleared her throat and said, “So, you’re the girl who likes cats?” She’s calling me on my bullshit. Her dimples were stars undiscovered by astrologers. I was taken aback as I found myself slowly saying, “I guess that’s what they say.” For the next three hours, I didn’t realize the people had come and gone. She was adamant as she insisted that pickle juice martinis were the best cocktail known to man. Though I was disgusted, her resolute manner piqued my interest and made me want to try the bloody drink. Twenty minutes away from closing time, she brushed my knee with her left hand. Now my nervous system is squealing. We cash out, and we walk the twelve blocks to my apartment, skipping.

I pour her a glass of Tempranillo that I have for unannounced guests. We’re sitting on the couch as she inches closer and twirls her fingers in my tangled hair. I’m not used to being someone else’s conquest. She has me like a deer in headlights. Soon we make our way to my mattress on the floor. I gently push her down as she unzips her mom jeans and takes off her plain white t-shirt. Kissing all the way from her cheeks to her inner thigh, I found myself electrified on a tablet of LSD. I’m tasting her juices, the first sacrament I’ve ever had. Georgia O’Keefe never got to paint the curves of the rosebud I’m seeing. I held her hand after she reached a climax. For her to then make me her little spoon as we dozed off to counting sheep.

In the morning, we went to the bodega down the street. To grab some bacon, egg, and cheese bagels, and hot coffee. She talked about more than Jazz, which for once, I found refreshing. She is fluent in three languages and designs her own clothing line. There is a birthmark on her chin that is alluring. Her laughter echoes the city as if we’re isolated on a mountaintop. She left to go home and change for her day job. I sang in the shower before taking the 6 train to the office. Twenty-seven years and nobody ever told me that I could feel like this. We are now each other’s weekend plans and dinner reservations. Whenever I now leave the house, I don’t forget to cuff the bottom of my jeans.