Amy knows her jazz, but even more important, she knows how to satisfy five men at once — creating beautiful music without any instruments at all.
For me, one of the best things about moving to New York City from Washington state is the great music clubs. As a jazz lover, I couldn’t be happier. I used to go to clubs in Seattle fairly often, but there are so many more opportunities here. I could go to clubs and sip scotch and listen to amazing musicians every night of the week — if I had the cash and the time.
A year or so ago, I went solo to a show in a Greenwich Village jazz club and wound up sitting at a table with Amy — a sexy, freckled, strawberry blonde with a sweet smile and the kind of body that really turns me on — soft and curvaceous, yet also nicely toned. Amy is a healthy and wholesome-looking twenty-seven-year-old, but she has a little mischief and a lot of intelligence in her electric-blue eyes. I discovered that night that she also knows more about jazz than almost anyone I’ve ever met. She can tell you about musicians from Jelly Roll Morton to Stan Getz to some unheard-of vibraphone player who just signed with a minor label somewhere in Chicago. All that, and she has a set of the most boner-inspiring breasts I’ve ever tried not to stare at.
That first night we talked enthusiastically between sets, and after the show, we went across the street to a coffee shop to talk more music. I was definitely interested in the possibility of getting to know Amy better, but at some point in the conversation, she mentioned that she had a boyfriend, which was a disappointment.
No matter, because that night was the start of a great friendship. We began going to hear music together, and the boyfriend, an accountant named Carl, didn’t seem to mind. He was a rock-’n’-roll kind of guy, and he didn’t really enjoy listening to jazz. I met him a couple of times, and he was friendly enough; he apparently saw me as no sort of threat at all. I guess he figured I was an asexual nerd whom Amy had no possible interest in. Or maybe he thought I was gay. In any event, he didn’t protest when I escorted Amy to jazz clubs throughout Manhattan, two or three times a month.
Then, early this year, Amy told me that she and Carl were taking a break from each other. She hoped they could patch things up eventually, but they didn’t seem to be going the way she desired. “When we try again later, I hope we’ll be a better team,” she said. Of course, I hoped she’d never see the fucker again, but I didn’t tell her that.
Several weeks ago, I heard that a Seattle-based quartet I was familiar with was going to be making its New York debut. This group was just starting to make waves in the West Coast jazz scene when I left four years ago. I had met their keyboardist, Zeb, a few times and even had drinks with him and Jimmy, the band’s drummer, one night after I heard them play a late set at a local club.
When I learned that the band was soon coming east for some dates, I immediately called Amy with the news. She had downloaded their first album, and said that Zeb’s keyboard work was some of the most impressive playing she’d ever heard. I agreed. Zeb’s bandmates are first-rate, but he’s a big part of the group’s appeal. He’s a virtuoso musician, and he also has strong, dark looks and wavy hair that would make women want to see his shows, even if he played elevator music. Amy and I made plans to go to the show, and I mentioned that I’d contact Zeb and find out if he wanted to hang out for a while after the opening-night gig.
Zeb was pleased to hear from me, which surprised me in a way. I half-expected him to say, “Donald who?” But he said the band was pumped up about the New York engagement and that they would be happy to invite Amy and me to a party after the last set of the evening.
The big Friday night came around, and Amy and I decided to go to both shows — at 7:00 and 9:30 p.m. We met at the club and took seats near the stage. We were among the first to arrive. Amy looked really hot that night. She wore a black cocktail dress with a low neckline that showed off her amazing breasts. Her gorgeous legs and shapely ass were making me feel hopelessly horny. And I wasn’t the only one. Whenever I was out with Amy, I noticed a lot of men stared at her. But that night it seemed that every man stared, and some of the women, too.
Before the first set, Zeb came over to our table to say hello. He gave me a bear hug as though I were a long-lost family member, and I introduced him to Amy.
“So, you’re the beautiful girl who knows the entire history of jazz,” he said.
“You two have been talking about me, I see,” Amy said.
Zeb was trying, not very successfully, to tie his tie while he stood talking to us. “Donald told me you’re a walking search engine,” he said. “He also told me you were drop-dead gorgeous. I can already tell he’s right on one account!”Amy glanced over at me with a slightly puzzled look. I felt myself blush.
Zeb said that he and the band were going to hang out in his hotel room after the show for some drinks, and he invited us to join them. We said that sounded like a great idea.
He went back to his dressing room, and we sipped our drinks, quiet for a moment. “Nice guy,” Amy said. “Even better looking in person than on those Internet clips,” she added.
“His hair is longer now than it was back in Seattle,” I said. I wasn’t sure what she was getting at with her conversation about Zeb’s looks.
There was an unusually long silence, which Amy finally broke. “Did you really tell him I was drop-dead gorgeous?” she asked. I muttered something that must have been incomprehensible. I blushed again. Amy smiled a big, devilish smile as I squirmed.
The band’s first set was excellent. Zeb and his band sounded better than ever. The house, though not packed, was quite full. Amy leaned over to me at one point and whispered, “They’re terrific.”
They were. And they were even better during the second set. Most of the improvement came from Zeb’s bandmates. For one thing, he had a new guitarist — a tall, well-built black guy named Powell, who could play with delicacy or with fire, depending on what a song required. And Jimmy, the band’s drummer, had matured as a performer. He’s a twenty-three-year-old, smoothed-faced kid who never quite lost his baby fat; he’s such a friendly, goofy guy that you can’t help but like him, though he’s not quite Buddy Rich caliber yet. The bass player, nicknamed Thumps, is a quiet, almost aloof, intellectual kind of guy, tall and skinny, with glasses and a scraggly beard. If this were the 1950s, people would label him a beatnik. He’s an accomplished musician, but a bit idiosyncratic. He’s always been the strongest player in the group, next to Zeb.
After the show, we met the guys back in the green room, and it surprised me that Zeb flirted openly with Amy. I noticed his hand lingering at her waist, and I thought he even might have touched her ass for a second. She didn’t seem to mind. The guys still had to do some business at the club, so Amy and I left and went to have a drink at the bar of the hotel where the guys were staying. Zeb agreed to call us when he and the boys returned.
When we arrived at Zeb’s suite, the guys were already knocking back shots and unwinding. Zeb still wore his tuxedo pants but had stripped down to his t-shirt. He poured us each a scotch, and we began talking about how the evening had gone. Zeb flopped on the king-size bed. Powell and Thumps were perched at the foot of the mattress, while I sat in a chair at the nearby desk. Amy reclined in a big armchair on the opposite side of the room and nursed her drink. She was getting a good buzz. As for young Jimmy, he was so excited about how well the evening had gone that he couldn’t seem to sit still anywhere; he moved about, refreshing people’s drinks.
After about a half hour, I noticed a turn in the conversation. Amy was becoming more and more overt in her flirtation with Zeb — and with the other guys, too. And they were becoming bolder with her, as well.
“Amy, darlin’, don’t be shy. Come over here and unwind,” said Zeb, patting the mattress.
“You think I’m going to fall for that?” she said with a tipsy giggle.