You know, I'd always tried to remain faithful to the wife. I don't know why, as things turned out. But such was my way in those days. I tried and I succeeded in limiting my sexual activities to our own bedroom (or backyard on that one occasion)... It wasn't so hard to do because she had a bit of a kinky streak in her that put it all over the top. Many were the times we would make up stories to tell each other while locked in the throes of passion...stories about possibilities, fantasies very close to becoming reality some time soon. My tales of multiple partners always seemed to elicit a more vigorous grinding on her behalf. Her stories of swingers and perverts brought me to the brink of orgasm and then shoved me off on countless occasions. It wasn't until she mentioned a real person's name in conjunction with one of the scenarios that I got scared. All talkin', no walkin' for me. I don't guess it was the same for her. Or maybe I didn't approve of this particular person that she seemed to want to bring in to the party. That was a big part of it, no doubt. But the bottom line remained...I was unprepared to embark upon the depraved, immoral, unclean path she eventually chose.
But I never committed adultery. Don't ever try and tell me I did that. At least not against her. And I wouldn't have done it against ANYONE, were it not for those two gals who were impressed with the band. I tried my hardest to resist on that occassion. I wouldn't have done it, I swear, if it had been only ONE of them. But the prospect of a threesome was too powerful for me to resist. A situation that was made even more attractive by the sheer volume of THC that was coursing through my veins, spreading through my circulatory system like tiny, mad soldiers in a mad dash to kill a few more brain cells.
It was a short hop, skip and jump to their house, where the pipe was produced. If there's one thing I like about marijuana, it's how the stuff settles you in to really enjoy sex. I don't know if it was the dope or the responsibility of pleasing two women, but my endurance was incredible that night. The three of us got about an hour out of it, as compared to my usual 3 minute rut.
Sorry. You don't need to know that. It wasn't what I wanted to tell you anyway. I'd originally set out to fill in a few details that that may have been forgotten (or never known) about the closest I came to messing around on my dear sex-bomb wife (uh...pretty close, if we're calling it "messing around", but you know what I mean).
I was gigging with a rock band...it was the first time I'd had a chance to play the kind of music I actually enjoyed, so I was happy about it. Plus, I was the one who put the whole thing together. That made me the the "leader". With such power comes much satisfaction. I did a damn good job of it, too. I love to give orders. I can't abide anyone telling me I should "do it this way" or "do it that way". They're almost always wrong. Better to let me lay down the various laws that apply to these matters than allow the project to suffer from bad decisions. Decisions that would have inevitably been made even had I exercised the authority vested in me. It doesn't matter if my bandmates sometimes come up with good ideas from time to time. I have to Dismiss 'em. That's all serious man can do. If I spot a really good idea (and I can't help but do so, since I'm incredibly in tune with what's best for the band) I just put it on the backburner until the person who originally suggested it has forgotten. Then I pull it back out and call it my own. That, my friend, will get the job done.
Anyway, some of the ideas I had about this band were incredibly good. The decision to play Devo's "Whip It", for instance. Everybody loves "Whip It", right? It's not really a hard song to play. So why wasn't anyone else in the tri-state area playing it? I'll tell you why...because none of those bands had a leader with such prescient vision as I.
Another song I chose for us, "Centerfold" (as made popular by the J Geils Band), proved to be a real crowd pleaser. They especially liked the part in the song where I produced a copy of Playboy, seemingly out of nowhere, and held it up in front of me so that the centerfold would fall out, and then sang the last verse, with a perfectly frightening sense of lechery, to the reigning Playmate of the Month (April, I believe it was, and the buxom blond with the air-brushed belly was representing the Hefner dynasty quite well, thank you) . It's hard enough to pull off such theatrics, and even more difficult having to do it while playing the bass guitar. I swear to God I don't know how the hell I did it. But I did, and they ate that shit up like sweet honey in the rock.
Then came the most controversial decision I ever made for the group. I let Jay "Funk Daddy" Hollen stand up on the stage, where he would pretend to play the synthesizer. Truth was he couldn't play hardly a note on any instrument at all. He had absolutely no musical talent whatsoever. But damn, did he look cool standing there in his New Wave get-up...he sure enough LOOKED as if he was playing. As far as I was concerned, that was enough. In those ground breaking days a band were given a great deal of serious attention if they were more than just a guitar-drums-bass trio. A synth was a basic requirement if you wanted to make some money simply because no one else had that sound. Of course, we didn't have that sound, either, but we DID have a guy in a suit doing a boney maroni dance behind a micro-Moog. Nobody said the synth player had to actually be PLAYING, right? Perhaps I'm not being fair. He did have an uncanny knack for sneaking in an odd quarter note here and there...but these were hit-and-miss shots-in-in-the-dark and he was just as prone to screwing up even that novice-level technique.At the risk of being redundant, I must comment once again on the absolute coolness of his fashion sense. He had a button pinned to his lapel which showed a photo of Joe Strummer with the words "THE CLASH" directly beneath. It was my button. I let him wear it because it worked so well with his dress jacket. Odds are he had absolutely no clue who the Clash were.
We didn't consider him and "official member" of the band. But he was in the mix with us on the day we played the Pep Rally. It took place at a school that was too small to have their own band...and they were fine with that, too, at least for now. They were about to be entertained by an ass-kicking rock band. New spread on their little grapevine that this band...gasp... actually had a synth player!!! We could not fail.
The show went well, for what it was. They might as well have been a captive audience. They loved everything we did, everything we said, the whole she-bang (especially when the Playboy was produced from out of nowhere). The boys were rockin' hard. The girls, however, were thinking of more than just "rockin' hard". There was a love light shining brightly in the eyes of practically every little chickadee in the house. To my surprise, few of them were trained on Funk Daddy, whose lack of musicianship had gone by unnoticed by practically everyone there, which left him to concentrate on trying to look cool. He failed miserably andI was actually blown away that all the sweeties were gazing at meME with their doe-eyed invitations to invade their clean-sheet beds and conquer their individual virgin worlds.
The choice was mine to make...I suppose that's one of the perks that come with being a natural born leader.
Now, normally I do not like cheerleaders. I can't stand their routines. I can't stand the snobbishness that characterizes so many of them. I can't stand the way they think it's so goddamned important. So much so that they neglect things that really matter. I abhor the way they think cheerleading must automatically bestow status and high regard upon their pretty heads, with chants and spells ejaculated from grotesque smiling mouths and the infinite variations of Jumping Jacks that they put their bodies through in an all too often vain attempt to get the crowd in the bleachers to yell along, the spirit of which enthusiasm believed to instill new found courage and skill in the young gladiators on the field. Each one knowing that the REAL reason they do it is more about bedding down those warriors. That's a m fanning the flames of spirit.
But most of all I just hated the way how, in the past, every single one of them wanted nothing to do with me. My luck was about to change...and maybe it was BECAUSE of this change in universal policy that I chose a fiery little sprite of a girl, one who just happened to be wearing a cheerleader's get-up, to enter into conversation with after our show was over.
Oh, man. She was really cute. After a modicum of words were exchanged and I'd become convinced that she was nominally capable of speaking the language, my suspicion was confirmed: this little girl wanted to know me better. She wanted to know all about my dreams. She wanted to get the chance to understand my hopes and my ambitions. She wanted to know where I came from and where I was going. Was there a place in my life for one such as her? Most of all, she wanted to know what my cock felt like in her hand. Probably a few other things, but, sordid as it may sound, this was first and foremost on her mind.
From the moment I read her mind and ascertained her intentions I decided I would go to the game later that night and to the homecoming dance that followed. I told the guys in the band what was going down. I begged them to come with me. They all declined. Chickened out is a better way to describe the way they seemed almost afraid of any potential consequences that could arise from the aftermath of what I had in mind. I looked at them with disbelief and they returned a gaze of scorn and disgust (they knew I was married, so maybe that explains that). Fuck 'em, then. Right? It's as if they were starving and someone gave them a cornucopia of food...and they refuse to eat it. Idiots. Why not?
When the time had come I slipped into my tight blue jeans and pulled on my black Talking Heads long sleeve t-shirt (it was a little nippy). If anyone at that little school doubted the breadth and scope of my hipness, they would have to concede, when they took one look at my "The Name of the Band is Talking Heads" tour shirt, that I was one cool, smooth motherfucker, that's for sure.
The trip to the game was uneventful, unless you count the huge, ever-growing erection that pressed my ying/yang against the tightness of the jeans I was wearing. The myriad possibilities which presented themselves in the situation had kicked me into a state of arousal I had not experienced since first seeing Linda Blair in "Born Innocent". It was a very real concern of mine that the "moment" would occur before I arrived at my destination. So I cleared my mind of the erotic fantasies I'd been entertaining and fixed my thoughts on Nancy Reagan. When this only seemed to further the intensity of my excitement I tried very hard to meditate on the mental image of Madonna (not the performer...the Mother of God). That seemed to work, so I put 'er in overdrive and motivated towards the football field.
I tried not to betray the negative feelings I harbor for cheerleaders in general as I watched her trying really hard to get the apathetic crowd to display just a thimble-full of school spirit. It was easy to conceal the awful notions that kept playing themselves out in my mind, when I noticed that she had her eye on me almost the whole time. When a break came she would climb up the bleachers to sit by me. I didn't have to say anything. I was already in the door.
The game wound down and the home teal lost. Yet, even in the midst of sorrow and disappointment, there were many, many players (and other students) who came up to me and praised my band's performance. Some worshiped me because of the leader I am. Others were jealous that I had a fine looking cheerleader on my arm. Not a single one knew that I was a married man. Some secrets, I learned, are best kept in the closet with all the other skeletons dancing around in there.
All the kids who had been at the pep rally were asking me, "Are you coming to the dance?" To which my response was a leering glance at "cheerleader babe", followed by a lecherous,"knowing look", a wicked smile and a smirk that let them know that I had a plan. Apparently that approved, even the ones who were hot for this particular cheerleader I was in the process of seducing.
"Hell yeah!" they said. "We should have known! ...oh, by the way, did any of the other band members come up with you?"
"No", I replied. "Just me. Those killjoys turned out to be rat bastards."
"That's too bad," said a stocky 17 year old who had been staring at hottie chearleader. "That synthesizer player you've got is ace."
See what I mean?
I danced with my cheer leading sprite on almost every song. Popular boys would step up to us and ask to cut in. She looked offended . She's very sternly say "No!" In nursed some sincere compassion for the poor young 'un, knowing how difficult it must have been to muster up enough courage to ask... Indeed I did feel sorry for him...still I told him to fuck off and die. I didn't have time for that bullshit. I wanted to get what I came for and get the hell out of Dodge.
My expectations for this night were really not all too unrealistic. I wanted to get a good feel of this gal before making the decision whether or not I'd give her the dynamite. It very well could be a week or two before that decision would be made, because there were just too many angles, too many aspects, too many possibilities. On the other hand there were too many things that could have gone wrong. So it was not without caution that I approached this initial session.
Everything turned out for the best, though. I became even more convinced that she was an apple not quite ripe enough to bite into. It wouldn't be long until her need would blossom into a wild weed, but, alas, not on that particular evening.
We drove around town for a moment or two in my sweet Chevy Nova . It had a sweet Pioneer stereo with graphic equalizer and JBL speakers pumping Duran Duran. I'd just bought "Rio" a week before and it was fast becoming a favorite (which says a lot about how dismal the state of my musical taste had become in those days). Cheerleader liked it a lot, too. Even if she didn't, she'd still say she did. And she'd never forget each melody, each strain of music, each lame lyric. It was the soundtrack to a very special night in her life. I could tell that, even though I planned on taking it slow, she was hoping and praying to get her hymen busted by a rock star in an unusually rough and tumble manner, and she was too impatient to consider the logic in waiting. She knew I was the closest thing to a "rock star" that she would ever have, so it's understandable that she would get worked up over it. Her virginity was definitely on the line. She was ready to present it to me like a gift wrapped present beneath the Xmas tree. Free of charge. No red tape. No hassles or commitments...the only thing she expected in return for this treasure was permission to spread the news to everyone in that small one horse gossip-fueled town she was born and raised in.
Unfortunately that request backfired when her father finally heard the news (I can assure you that it didn't take long for him to break her into spilling the beans.)
I think I've already mentioned how we drove around for a minute or two. That was plenty of time to see what the town had to offer. Plenty of time to SEE THE TOWN 2 or 3 times. So we parked in front of an old gas station that had been closed down for ages. It was nice and dark. The only light visible was from the stereo, which I'd left on in hopes that we'd still be pitching woo by the time "Hungry Like The Wolf" came around.
As it turned out, we wound up hearing "Hungry Like The Wolf" a couple of times. In the cramped confines of my automobile I managed to get a good idea of her bra size and she found out the answer to her question about how my penis would feel in her grasp. She seemed to like it. At least she did when she could actually hold it all in her hand. If there's anything bigger than my ego, it's my ju-ju.
Best I ever had, she was, and too fuckin' gorgeous. Too cute for words. Now that I think back on it, she was also too young to be daydreaming about a man of my age. As the night darkened she asked me to take her home. She showed me how to get there, all the while snuggling up against my side, her angel's face illuminated by the dashboard light's glow, a glistening gleaming spider web thread of saliva dripping from her lips to my shoulder.
After it was all over, said and done, I began to feel increasingly guilty as the days went by. It was so hard to lie to my wife. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. I also kind of figured she wouldn't mind so much, what with all our epic love-making storytelling.
I did wind up confessing. I told her everything I thought was necessary to tell her. I felt like shit. I was glad to get it off my chest, even though it hadn't been there long enough to really matter. She was a little pissed, I remember. I slept on the couch for a few nights...that's fairly typical punishment for a transaction so relatively minor. I told her, trying to mount what was to be a desperate and hopeless defense, "I didn't fuck her, okay? So what if I'd hoped to? So what if I WOULD HAVE eventually, assuming that she do something about her cottonmouth, which was dry as the tundra and didn't help her kissing technique? But I DIDN'T. We didn't even take out clothes off. That's what counts, isn't it?"
She told me not to see, to use her words, "that little cheerleadin' firecracker" anymore. Actually I think her words were more like, "If I even catch you THINKING about that slut I'll take everything you own and leave you! I'll drag you so far down a pit of misery that you'll wish you had never been born". I didn't think she would ever really do that, though it must be said that this assumption was proven wrong only a couple of years later.
My interest in the dry mouthed cheerleader was PERMANENTLY curtailed a few days later when I got a phone call from her father. I don't know how he got the phone number of the place where I was staying. I don't know how much he knew about what went down. Most importantly, I didn't know how serious he was about confronting me with a shotgun if ever there came a time he found out I was within shooting distance of his daughter. But that's exactly what he said he was gonna do if I ever even looked at his pretty daughter again. At first I thought he may have been angry because she had become a hardcore Duran Duran fan in the days since our rendezvous(for which I felt a considerable amount of guilt for). I was a little slow on the uptake at that point, but looking back I would probably rightly assume that her dad was infinitely more concerned with his daughter's virginity than she was (definitely more so than I was). He spoke with such authority that I had no choice but to take him seriously. Not only that he was pissed, not only that he had a shotgun, but, more importantly, that he would, without a second thought, use it.
I never told my wife about that phone call. No doubt she thought that it was her ultimatum that was successfully responsible for putting an end to the affair. It was not. She may well have been worth breaking up a marriage, but she was definitely NOT worth taking a bullet in the gut for.
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