| return to Trane Station Stories I once read somewhere that the word “jazz” is of unknown origin. Speculation abounds. The first recorded use of the word dates back to 1909. The term arose out of the Black English of the southern states of America, so most attention has been focused on trying to pinpoint a word ancestor in Africa. Perhaps the likeliest explanation is that “jazz” originated in a West African language. For a long time it was a Black slang term in America for “strenuous activity,” particularly “sexual intercourse,” and only later surfaced in the mainstream English language when it was applied to syncopated Black American music, jazz. So, “jazz” has to do with sexual intercourse, making love, fucking, and music. I’m not sure I always knew this about jazz and sex but I do now. I grew up listening to jazz on my father’s lap thinking only of the music. Before my father died he listened to only John Coltrane. We listened together, he and I. Eventually, my mother began to call me “Little Trane.” The name stuck as Trane. The factual connection between jazz and sex has been proven to me many times. One was a few years ago during the summer I spent in Memphis. I was there trying to find work as a studio musician. My bass guitar and I had made the trip and landed a few gigs backing up people like Billy Joel and Bonnie Raitt in the studio. But my love remained the jazz of my youth. I found it anywhere I could playing with friends wherever we could get a booking. That summer had much to do with my ending up in Memphis, owning a bar called, the Trane Station. I still play with some friends on Sunday afternoon. The crowds are always good on Sundays, knowledgeable and responsive. Playing for me was keeping my hand in the music, having fun. One particular Sunday stands out in my memory. The Sunday of recollection still burns strong. My friends and I had been playing through a set of material we had lifted from Herbie Hancock’s CD, The New Standard. It amounts to excellent arrangements of material people know and like but would never associate with jazz. We played and the bar filled slowly, a testament to the warmth of the summer and the confidence of the crowd that a seat would be available in the bar. I noticed her early on sitting at the bar alone. She drank wine by the glass. Her short black hair was casual. Her dark, probably black eyes were alert and intelligent. The smile she flashed only occasionally was brilliant. She wore a short black sheath dress that must have been a chore to wear sitting on a stool. I played and watched her thinking that her blood line was definitely Italian. We finished the set with a Kurt Cobain piece of all things, All Apologies. The four of us began to filter back into the crowd toward the bar and whoever we knew. As I moved slowly by the bar she reached out and put her left hand on my arm. “May I buy you a drink?” she asked with the smile I had watched. The wedding ring on her finger wasn’t hidden. I liked that. “It would be my pleasure,” I asked without much thought. There was no stool near her so I stepped up to the bar and motioned to Jed the bartender. Jed finally brought her a fresh glass of wine and me a cold Red Stripe beer. She introduced herself as Nikki who her friends call Nik. I introduced myself as Trane and thanked her for the beer. “Trane,” she asked with some surprise, “As in the Trane Station?” “The very same,” I smiled and took a swig of my beer. I remember her talking excitedly about Ralph Towner and other jazz she liked. I listened, politely I thought, and wondered what she really had in mind. Eventually she got around to asking what I thought of jazz influences on popular music, such as Sting, she said. I smiled to myself, I had heard this all before. I didn’t really try to answer her question, I just told her nicely that I had to go back to the bandstand for the next set. She laid that same left hand on my arm again and leaned close. “May I ask a favor of you?” she smiled. “You can ask,” I answered honestly with a bit of a smile. “After your next set, during your next break, may I show you something and ask of favor of you?” Her look was direct and more than casually serious. “Of course you can show me something, and you can ask, but no promises, okay?” I answered. “Okay,” she smiled more broadly. “No promises.” During our next set we moved in and out of some classic Stan Getz material. The crowd tried to appreciate it and I think I remember thinking they really did but years later now I know you never really know. The set ended and I caught sight of her standing near the back of the bar. As I stepped down from the bandstand I saw her motion toward the stockroom off the back hall near the restrooms. I followed wondering where the hell this was all going. I stepped into the stockroom and was getting ready to ask her what the big secret was all about but I stopped myself, wisely stopped myself I now know. She was leaning against the wall, smiling at me. “Okay,” she smiled, “Time for the show and ask.” I stepped in front of her and thankfully kept my mouth shut. She smiled at me and slowly began to raise the short skirt with both hands. The movement was slow, maybe too slow, but I stayed there, standing and watching. The hem of the skirt came up to where panties should be but there weren’t any, no panties. Before it could sink in on me, I realized that there was no panties and no pubic hair. She was shaved clean. But the message came when I saw that where her pubic hair should be was a beautifully crafted tattoo. The tattoo was finely drawn Japanese calligraphy. I recognized the symbol for the word “ki,” the essence of being, the essence of a being, the essence of all Being, the Life Force. My eyes rose up to hers and saw her watching me. “It’s a new tattoo,” she said, “One that needs a christening, or a baptism of sorts. Will you help me?” I reached to loosen the drawstring of the baggy black gi pants I had worn. I had worn them working out that morning and left them on. I loosened the gather at the waist and let them drop. I pushed my briefs down and let her see my cock. Her left hand held the hem of the dress high on her stomach as her right hand moved to the space between her legs. I watched as her middle finger disappeared between her legs. I knew she was finding something special. Her hand came out and move up to my lips. The scent on her finger was strong as I let her move it into my mouth. I sucked her finger clean before stepping close to her and pressing myself against her. Our mouths pressed hard against each other, our tongue fought each other for some advantage neither of us understood. My cock pressed against her stomach feeling the warm firm flesh I had seen. I reached down with my left hand, pressing my hand between her legs. Her right leg came up and I lifted it onto my left forearm. Bending my knees slightly I let the head of my cock slide between her legs. I felt the warm wet suction of her pussy pressed against me. With another dip of my knees I got lower and felt the tip of my cock position itself at the mouth of her wet pussy. One thrust and I was inside her, another thrust and I was working my way deeper. “Oh, God, please fuck me, please, please,” she began to moan into my ear. The lobe of my right ear was in her mouth. She sucked it and bit it, doing whatever she pleased with it while I pushed my cock harder into her pussy. I was as deep inside her as I thought I could get with our position. I lifted her higher with my left arm under her right leg, feeling her lift herself to her toes on her left foot. I reached down with my right arm and took her left leg, holding her now in my arms impaled on my cock. Holding her in my arms I began to fuck her as hard as I could. She sucked my ear lobe harder into her mouth and took me deep inside her pussy. I could feel her breath thrusting against my ear, hot and insistent. I held her weight on my arms, my fingers spread wide under her ass. My cock pounded her pussy, fucking her for all I was worth. Her shoulders against the wall caught each thrust. The sound of the jiggling empty bottles stored against the wall was a background music we ignored leaving it for others to understand and appreciate. She was biting my earlobe harder now, running her tongue into my ear. I could hear her talking to me but I can’t remember anything she said. I moved my left hand under her toward her pussy and asshole. My middle finger ran along her lips stretched around my cock gathering her wetness before circling the muscled ring of her ass. I pressed the wetness over her and pushed the tip of my finger inside her ass. She bit me harder and began to almost shout her breathing into my ear. I could only hear her moan, asking, I thought, for more. I pushed my finger deeper into her ass and almost immediately felt her stiffen in my arms. Her pussy gripped and released my cock as her ass did my finger. “Oh, My God,” she whispered as I felt her cum running down my finger and my cock wetting my balls. “Please,” she whispered, “cum on my tattoo. Will you? Please?” I slowly lowered her right leg to let her stand. My cock slipped from her pussy as she lowered her left leg. I stepped back a small step, my cock was straining for release. I gripped it and began to stroke it. She leaned back against the wall holding her dress up around her middle, staring down at my hand working on my cock. The head was red and angry. The slit widening as if to speak. I could feel the cum boiling in my balls. With one lurch the first shot leap out hitting her high on the stomach, successive shots hit her lower, all running to her shaved pussy, her tattoo. With her right hand she almost ceremoniously rubbed my cum over her tattoo. Her left hand circled by neck and pulled me to her. My throbbing cock pressed against her belly feeling the wetness of my cum. She broke the kiss and chuckled a laugh. “I’m going to need a towel or something,” she said. I stepped back and pulled my t-shirt up and over my head. I handed it to her and watched her begin to wipe up the fluids on her stomach, pubis, and between her legs. I was pulling up my briefs and gi pants knowing I had only a minute to get back before the next set. I kissed her and told her I had to get back. She only smiled. She was still leaning on the wall with her dress up over the Japanese tattoo when I stepped out of the door. Jed gave me a fresh Trane Station t-shirt to wear from behind the bar. The next set of music is a blur in my memory. Some Chick Corea, I think. I caught sight of her in the corner of my eye as she moved through the tables toward the front door. Before she opened the door to leave she paused for a moment looking at me. When she knew she had my eye she raised my wadded t-shirt to her lips and kissed it. Then she was gone. ************** Epilogue The night was over before Jed approached me where I sat at the bar relaxing and remembering the day. “Trane,” he said, “I’m sorry, man, but I forgot to give you this note. That woman you disappeared with into the stockroom left it for you.” He had turned to walk down the bar but stopped and came a step or two back with a smile. “By the way, Trane my man,” he grinned, “the next time you use the stockroom for fucking, lean on one of the other goddamn walls. Your fucking knocked every goddamn picture off the wall in the office next door to the stockroom. Even the fucking autographed picture of the Killer, Jerry Lee.” He was laughing as he walked away. The note read only this. “The hair will grow again to hide the tattoo. But it will come again when the time it right to shave the hair and release the energy of the tattoo. I hope to find you again when that time comes.” The note wasn’t signed. I still hope she finds me again. So far, she hasn’t.
copyright 1999. |