(Happy Thanksgiving, USians! Happy Thursday, everyone else! -ctan)
Turns out everyone but me thought we were going to Jordan’s after The Cat Club. I caught up with the plan quickly, though. I went to say goodbye to Artie and found him talking to Barrett, who I hadn’t even realized was there. “How long you in town for?” Barrett asked me, when it was clear I was leaving.
“That might be up to Ziggy,” I said jokingly but it was the truth.
He held his hand up to his ear. “Gimme a jingle before you leave town, eh?”
“Will do.” He meant give me an answer on the tour gig but was savvy enough not to press me too hard, I guess.
Artie shook hands. “Good seeing you. I’ll be in touch.”
“This was fun. Thanks for everything.” I glanced around. No sign of Mills. I sincerely hoped he’d eaten something bad and was being ill somewhere. Okay, not really, I’m just not that vindictive. I was pretty happy not to have to deal with him, though.
Tony had a limo waiting outside. A stretch limo big enough for a dozen people. We were seven: me, Sarah, Ziggy, Bart, Carynne, Trav, and Trav’s companion.
“Check this out,” Ziggy said once we were all in and the limo was rolling. He flipped a switch and a light show started, with a mini-disco ball and crossfading colors and I don’t know what else because in the dark while everyone was looking at the ceiling lights his hand was rubbing my crotch with predictable results.
Normally I would have said I didn’t like him toying with me, but as it turned out I liked it just fine when I felt confident the result was going to be even hotter sex later that night. I was happy he was in the mood to play like that. I trapped his hand against my fly, though, with a quiet grunt from deep in the back of my throat. Ziggy had pretty much just ensured I wouldn’t have another coherent thought for hours.
Once we got to Jordan’s the other thing that assured I wouldn’t have another coherent thought was drugs and alcohol. Nothing as heavy as acid, and Jordan was vocally anti-heroin you might recall, but there might have been a bit of speed going around and I don’t know what else. I was sticking with alcohol and there was plenty of that. I didn’t drink so heavy that I had whiskey dick, but I did drink heavily enough to get talked into, I kid you not, an orgy.
Okay, no, actually, it was not an orgy. It didn’t even feel particularly edgy or sleazy or dirty, maybe because of how well we all knew each other? Except for the guy whose name I couldn’t remember. By the way, I know his name now but since I never remembered it then I’ll leave him nameless for full effect. Nice guy, though. And it was so nice to be in a group of people where I truly didn’t worry about putting my hands on Ziggy’s shoulders while we were talking, or Ziggy wrapping an arm around my waist. God, it felt so good to just be us without worrying who was looking, and without us having to be any of the versions of ourselves that public life or celebrity or business relationships required.
I shouldn’t even tell you what happened. You know the whole thing about how what happened in Trav’s loft was supposed to stay in Trav’s loft. But then again if what I’ve heard is true, then the blow job contest we held was tame compared to some of the debaucheries that took place there.
Okay, what the hey. The three competitors were Ziggy, Carynne, and Jordan’s beau and I don’t know who had challenged who but me, Jordan, and Bart all dropped trou and sat on the couch, Jordan in the middle, me on his left and Bart on his right. The other three got down in front of us and Sarah was of course the logical choice to be the referee since she didn’t have a horse in the race, so to speak.
It was a race. My horse won, Ziggy gleefully finishing me with his hand to show off the proof and so he could gloat. Trav was only a few seconds behind and I found his hand was squeezing mine, suddenly an iron grip as he came. Bart had his hands loving wrapped in Carynne’s hair and was murmuring soft encouragement to her and she was hmmmming back in total agreement. I think the gist of his words was it was stupid to judge a blow job contest by speed and that clearly when it came to so-called “winning” he was the one who got the best part of the deal. This somehow ended up with Bart going down on Carynne while she went down on Sarah, while Jordan reciprocated to his guy, all of us still sort of mashed together on the couch. Ziggy kept my hand on his fly but clearly preferred to watch the others over getting off just then. Trav’s hand ended up in mine again.
When it was all over he gave me a sly look. “See, now we can say we’ve had sex together even though we haven’t had sex together.”
Ziggy laughed at that and so did I. Alcohol or no, I felt comfortable there. I felt comfortable with all of us being that close. When I thought about it later I realized the reason you couldn’t call it an orgy was that everyone’s boundaries were still there, were still respected, and in my mind “orgy” meant “free-for-all.” This was not that. It was much nicer and more wholesome than a free-for-all.
After that Trav made everyone grilled cheese sandwiches and then the party broke up. The five of us got into the limo–the main reason we didn’t just all end up asleep all over the loft–and we took Sarah uptown to drop her off at her place.
After we’d said effusive good nights to her, in the car on the way to our hotel, Carynne turned to Bart and said, “You’re sure Michelle’s okay with it?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay with it? I embraced my slut-positive nature long ago.”
“So did I,” Carynne said with a laugh. “Still. This makes Chris the only one of you guys I haven’t slept with.”
“I think he’s single…” Bart said and was rewarded with a playful–but forceful–slap from Carynne. He caught her arm and they wrestled a little and I clued in that they weren’t, um, done.
“Why don’t you come back to my place,” Ziggy murmured in my ear. “Pick up your stuff and you won’t have to check out in the morning.”
“Good plan.” When we got there I alerted Carynne to that plan and she agreed it was an excellent one. I hadn’t unpacked or anything. Bart took the cello under one arm and Carynne on the other and Ziggy and I watched them saunter away together like that.
He snickered a little. “Did you and I have a bet about whether they would get together or not? If we did, pay up.”
“I don’t think we had such a bet because I would not have bet against that. Those two have the least feelings of guilt over recreational sex of anyone I know.”
His voice was in my ear again. “Newsflash, Dear One, there’s no reason to have guilt feelings over recreational sex.”
“In a perfect world, maybe,” I said. He was right about this one, though. There was no compelling reason for them not to have sex so long as they were safe and all that. And so long as it didn’t turn into something neither of them wanted. Carynne wasn’t even his manager anymore.
“So then why the concerned look?”
“Eh. Bart said he and Michelle are having some problems. So I worry.”
“They’re grownups,” Ziggy said. We stood there a bit longer, watching people walking to and fro from the elevators. “My only question for you now is why are we still standing in the lobby?”
“Because I’m trying to remember my room number and I’m not about to interrupt Bart and Carynne to ask what it is,” I said. “Here. Let’s go to the front desk.”
The front desk didn’t seem at all perturbed by a tipsy rock star who didn’t remember his room number, especially when I was able to produce room key card and ID. I would be willing to bet it wasn’t the first time it had happened.
Upstairs I grabbed my backpack and clothing bag and left a dollar on the dresser as a tip for the maid who was probably going to be really confused about why the bed wasn’t even mussed. I had a thought then. “Wanna fuck here where we don’t have to be responsible for cleaning the sheets?”
“No. I mean, good thought, but not this time. I’ve got plenty of clean sheets.” He took my backpack from me and slung it over his own shoulder like that would ensure I followed him back to the limo.
In the limo he teased me again and I decided to reciprocate the couch scene although without the hurry.
“Do you feel like a slut?” he asked seriously, though.
I had to pause to answer with my mouth. “Not really. I mean, it was kind of fun, you know? Not really what I’d call dirty. A bunch of friends having fun.”
“You’re a lot less hung up about sex than you used to be.”
“After some of the stuff I’ve done it’s starting to seem kind of silly to be. I mean, this is the thing everyone gets so freaked out over. Who touches whose dick? Who’s allowed to touch whose dick? It’s just a…dick.” I may have licked the part in question at that point. “A very nice one, I admit.”
He laughed. “You’re so funny when your inhibitions are down.”
“You’re funny when your pants are down. Now stop talking. My mouth wants to do something else.”
When we got to Ziggy’s, he said goodnight to Tony. Once we were upstairs he turned off both his pagers and put them into charging stands, and then unplugged the phone, as well. By then it was late, very late, and as I sobered up I was starting to feel the fatigue of not sleeping catching up with me.
Zig could see it. He pushed me onto the bed. “Do you have fantasies about being fucked while you’re asleep?”
“Because if you fall asleep while I’m fucking you I’d like to think it’s still good for you.” He grinned wickedly.
“Let’s get all our clothes off before they become a liability,” I suggested.
He was tricky. He took it slow. Languid. I did doze off a few times, lulled by his warmth and his rhythm. Completion was inevitably reached, though, and then so was blissful sleep. Apparently sex and drugs and jazz went together just as well as rock and roll.
(Last chance to vote on who you want to see in a Christmas or holiday story! Details in previous post! -ctan)