by Marina St. Clare
(03/10/10)
It's 1 a.m. and he's still practicing. Jazzers are night owls, or maybe vampires. I slip down the back stairs and stand in the doorway of his music room, hoping for some attention.
In my best seductive voice, I say, "Can I blow your horn, sweetie?"
You need to understand about serious sax players. They obsess about their instruments. They think everyone understands the significance of the makes and model numbers and the years of manufacture. Some of the older horns are very valuable. His latest acquisition is an outstanding vintage tenor. And right now, he's in the zone, entirely wrapped up in his private jam session with his prized possession.
So, completely missing my meaning, but eager to show off the horn, he says, "Sure, it's got a killer low register, and it just wails in the stratosphere."
I decide to improvise. "Show me. Play for me." He settles back into his chair and starts into an old standard.
He gets through the intro before I kneel down just inches in front of him. He glances up before the music takes him again and his eyes close in concentration. He thinks I'm just an appreciative audience member with a front row seat.
Slowly, I put my hand on his knee and slide it up his thigh. My hand glides inward, until my fingers are stopped by the seat of the chair and enjoy a brief nuzzle against the warmth of his balls. I rest my head in his lap and listen for a moment. It's soon clear, from the melody he's caressing and the rise in his pants, that I've gotten his attention. When I look up, I see the fire in his eyes inviting me to sit in and try a few riffs of my own.
I carefully unfasten his belt and unzip his fly. When I free him from his boxers, he inhales sharply. The notes that follow are a bit erratic. I can't help but giggle. He shoots back a look of determination to match the firmness of his hard-on. He continues to blow.
I wrap my embouchure around his cock and take him in. At first, I'm tentative, careful not to get in his way or disturb his rhythm. I'm fascinated that he thinks he's going to continue to play that horn during this.
We fall into a pattern of trading licks. He, in the traditional jazz sense, tosses out short phrases, and I, in a more literal sense, put into action what I think he's suggesting by the musical style. He plays a smooth, sensual line, like the great Stan Getz would have done. I weave my tongue slowly, from base to tip, lingering at the top to lap up the introductory drops. He counters with a melody consumed by lush harmonies, reminiscent of the legendary Coleman Hawkins. With my hand curled softly around his shaft, I slide my lips over his head and ride him up and down, in time with the chord changes.
We get some momentum going, each blowing our horns in a hot duet. I can tell he's reaching his limit. His phrasing and technique get really wild -- his buddy Joe Lovano would be impressed. His chest heaves as his length fills my throat. The saxophone growls as my lips pulse their way back up, inch by inch, until, at the top, I suck him down hard again.
His body and soul come together in a frenetic break worthy of Coltrane and a spectacular, shuddering climax. I struggle to swallow, struggle to breathe, overwhelmed by the physical and musical moment. The sax is silent. His eyes are closed as he reaches out to stroke my hair. The chart's not done yet -- there's still a coda being played out in the sound of our heart beats and our breathing.
Finally, he opens his eyes, puts down his horn and says quietly, "Bravo, baby, bravo!"
I smile. As I stand up, I lean in to whisper words heard many times at his gigs, "Thanks for coming out tonight. I hope you're enjoying the show. We're gonna take a short break." And, I add, "I'll meet you upstairs for the second set."
