Smooth + Groove

“I’ll fuck you ‘til you love me, faggot!” Roscoe, the tenor saxophonist screeched from the stage of the café lounge with a handful of band mates holding him back.

Homer, a bass player, who wasn’t performing that night and sitting next to me on the far end of the room jumped to his feet causing his chair to fly from under him back towards the window shouted, “Don’t mistake me for your daddy, you dick-sucking horn blower!”

“C’mon, then, bring it, motherfucker!”

“Guess what, motherfucker–fuck you and the horse you rode in on, motherfucker!” Homer howled, shooting Roscoe the bird.

“Your mama!”

“Fuck you and your ho-ass mama and your bottle-chugging daddy, you reformed prison bitch! Is it true what they say? Cocksucker’s anonymous is like drug rehab–one less dick at a time? At the rate you’re going you should be down to a hundred and twelve by Christmas!”

Roscoe tried his best to come off the stage in spite of the crowd steadily holding him back. Homer tried storming the stage with an emerging crowd trying to hold him back. I was left shaking my head, trying to find the quickest way out of the room.

How did I end up at a jazz lounge with two mediocre jazz musicians fighting over me? The simple answer would be my interest in jazz. The truth, however, was that I fell into a heap of shit that started long before I stepped foot into this world.

A short time after my twentieth birthday, I came to the painstaking realization that I knew everything about the world of hip-hop and rap and nothing about any other kinds of music. After dealing with this embarrassing epiphany publicly, I took it upon myself to expand my musical palette. I was pretty much floating around when my size thirteen feet led me to this Latin Jazz Festival downtown. I liked what I heard, but then again, I didn’t. I loved the beat. It was sick. It was just the lack of vocals to the instrumentals that began to wear thin. It seemed sort of sad there wasn’t somebody singing, in any language, to the various crescendos.

Towards the end of the night, it all started to make sense. The music was so good and so pure in its own right that any sort of lyrics would have tainted it. I was so lost in euphoria at this revelation I didn’t even bother to see the man stumbling towards me until it was far too late.

He was obviously a bit tipsy, but far from tore up and drunk. It was obvious he was the kind of man that best operated on the excuses of liquid courage with a protruding bulge from his windbreakers.

“This shit ain’t no real jazz,” he said in a deep resonating voice that could only reek of alcohol.

He was a tall man. The same shade of black as I was with a similar thickset frame. The difference ended there, however. I had a full head of hair with a clean-shaven face, and he had a clean-shaven head with a full gruffly beard. People would call me a pretty boy, and he was simply attractive in a rough masculine way.

“I said this shit here ain’t no real jazz. I don’t know what the fuck kind of music this is, but it ain’t jazz.” He spat.

I knew if I did the subtle thing and slowly removed myself from the situation, he would’ve followed me. If I manned up and told him to back off, he probably would’ve caused a commotion throwing off some of the musicians on stage. I was too far deep into the groove to let that happen. So, I stood there, and let the man speak his peace.

He didn’t get loud like I thought he would. He just talked it out, talking to me about what real jazz was, and that he played with the last of the great jazz giants as some sort of musical protégé. It wasn’t until he started talking about his music career that I even noticed the shiny saxophone in his hand. He then told me his name was Roscoe, and that he was tore up on the inside. Down the street, his visiting band played real jazz and barely got a spittle of an audience. He came down here to find that everybody and their families were supporting, in his words, a poor imitation of his craft.

He carried on for about a good five minutes more before he told me that he could play some real jazz for me. He handed me his business card and everything. Roscoe then started talking about this club I never even heard of and its popularity down in New Orleans. He quickly caught on that he wasn’t in New Orleans and that his band was only in town for one night, offering to play me a set in his hotel room.

I knew what he was up to long before he even started talking. He just simply verified it for me then with his invitation. I was quite sure that Roscoe heard that my city was good for picking up men that messed around that weren’t so easily to clock. Roscoe had to have been a good twenty years older than me, a bit mature for my taste. Looking at his rough hands, however, and his big feet, and the things they say about musicians and their whorish ways, I figured why the hell not? More to the point, I had spent the entire day listening to good music that put me in the mood to get laid.

We got back to Roscoe’s hotel, which was about a couple of blocks up and across the street from the festival. If I wasn’t so pumped with hormones, anticipating what was about to go down, I would have otherwise been at awe at the boutique hotel that he and his band mates were staying. It was the kind of hotel that the young hip people with money hung out in. That just only added to my energy, and I thought it was doing the same for him.

When we got back to his room, Roscoe peeled off his shirt as if we were about to get it in, and then he flipped the script moping about his wife leaving him and that this certain “friend” left him as well right about the same time. It took him a good three hours for him to confess that this so-called friend was actually his longtime lover, and that this lover was a man that happened to be a crack fiend that took him to the cleaners during their three-year relationship.

The next morning, I woke up next to Roscoe and his sour alcoholic-stained breath on the sofa. Nothing happened. And, despite the horrifying stuff Roscoe told me the night before about his past, my dick was still back up and hard from what I thought was about to go down the night before. Without waking up ol’ boy, I snuck off to the bathroom. I didn’t come all the way up here for nothing, I thought. The least I could do was make sort of claim to fame in the luxurious hotel by jumping in the shower for a quick jerk-off.

My hand found my dick hard raring to go. I had just begun to settle into a nice stroking rhythm under the running shower head when I saw the tattooed forearm wrap around my body. Roscoe was pressed close behind me. Warm breath rolled off my neck, and his sleeping dick slowly arose against the top of my crack with his hand firmly against my hard stomach. I was feeling it. I was feeling him. I wasn’t in the mood to have sex with him then. We just made out in the shower and jerked each other off until our nutts washed down the drain.

I got dressed and left shortly thereafter, feeling seriously cheated out of a good night. My energy was soon renewed when I got off the elevator and locked eyes with this phyne Creole dude in the lobby. Though, sadly, I just went about my day.

Six months later, I found myself down in New Orleans attending (of all things) a jazz festival with one of the venues being the club Roscoe said he infamously played. And not knowing anything about in his neck of the woods other than him, I called him up wanting to get the hook up on some of the hot spots around town. Roscoe obliged, looking incredibly good. Why didn’t I have sex with him before? I was just about to make my move when he introduced me to his former boyfriend, the crack fiend.

I wasn’t even mad. I was mildly relieved I was spared from the yolk that could’ve been on my face. Without much choice, I decided to spend most of the festival as a tagalong to several different groups I met in passing. On my last night in New Orleans, I joined these strangers for dinner. I look up and there is that Creole dude I saw in the lobby that day a half-year back. I knew it was him because there were very few people in this world that could genuinely be called yellow along with sporting a weird five o’clock shadow that somehow worked with his face.

Homer and I didn’t talk much through dinner or dessert. When we did find a way to have a conversation, as he walked me back to my hotel, it was pretty much where he thought he knew me from, other than somewhere. He tried jogging his memory, hoping I would make the connection. I could’ve easily spared him the torment and told him where he knew me from, but it was sort of fun to watch him put the pieces of the puzzle together. He never did–that night. He instead promised to continue to work on it. In the meantime, however, he enjoyed my company, and we exchanged cell phone numbers to stay in contact.

Homer played it absolutely cool for the first three weeks. He kept the conversation going without going there. He soon gave way to his master plan by hitting me up everyday, and then with a few lines to bait me, to see if I was down, he pulled the reel, promising after another couple of months that he was going to come to my city to visit me. I told him about a sweet hotel he could stay at, and then he remembered precisely where he first laid eyes on me. He asked me if I always knew. I came forward with the truth. Of course, he asked why I didn’t tell him before. The best answer I could give to that was, “If I did, we probably wouldn’t be here, now, would we?”

Once Homer came up, I already made up my mind that we weren’t going to have sex for awhile. I figured he come up here, I’d go down there. We’d do a few trips like that and take it from there. He was on the same plane, which made dinner more delectable and dessert much sweeter. The biggest surprise to come from that night was to learn that Homer was older than Roscoe. At a glance, Homer barely looked to be out of his twenties. As I zoomed in for a closer look, I could see a very fair thirty-seven or thirty-eight, but not fifty-three. I guess old dick was in season, I laughed in my head as I walked him back over to his hotel.

He went in, and I left.

I was about a good two blocks down before I decided that if anything was going to happen between us it needed to go down that night. Homer was an incredible guy. He was somebody I could see myself kicking it with. Our conundrum was that he lived down there and I lived up here, and I wasn’t about to go through the hassle of a long-distance relationship knowing I had a very high sex drive. With the help of the valet and the concierge, who saw me walk him to his hotel, I was able to go up to his room.

He looked at me. I looked at him. Like a magnetic draw, we grabbed each other and started kissing fervently. We went from one side of the room to the other before finding ourselves naked on the bed with him kissing the rigid contours of my body. I decided with him between my legs sucking my nipples down my stomach to my groin that I should be the one to suck him off.

Homer sat on the edge of the bed with me crawling between his thin yellow legs spread wide. He didn’t possess a long cock. It looked more like an engorged softball. Nonetheless, I cupped the fat stubby monster in my hands, pulling the extra skin back from the head and began to succulently lick up and down along the shaft and lime-sized balls. The head was a beast to get into my mouth without bringing my teeth into the fray. Homer tried assisting me by gently seizing the back of my head and giving me a direct line to his most sensitive spots.

He moaned with delight, stroking his balls pressed against my chin. I got tired of that and started on them. I had the same problem with them as I did his dickhead, trying hard not to get my teeth in any way involved.

“I guess somebody ain’t a virgin,” Homer mumbled. “C’mon up here, son.”

I worked my mouth on his dick a bit longer, tasting everything New Orleans had to offer, and slowly made my way up his slender body where he held me captive in soulful kisses. Homer had me so open that I didn’t remember when I found my way onto my back. He was sucking and licking and kissing and eating me out so ferociously that I was fighting being turned out and bitched out at the same time while grinding my ass back into his face.

Homer slowed the breaks down by slipping a finger or two inside me, stretching me open. I was so ready by then I could’ve taken his sweet dick as is. It was easier said than done, working that huge, sheathed head into my willing hole. I felt like pussy was giving birth except the head was going back in.

“Open up for Big Daddy, son.” Homer huskily whispered.

“Oh, man!” I moaned, not wanting to give into him but I found myself doing so anyway as I gasped my delight in this strange falsetto.

Like I said, Homer didn’t have a long dick, but it filled every nook and cranny it needed beyond satisfaction. It felt even better than some of the men that could have easily dug out my intestines. He started fucking me in ways and positions that I wasn’t going to leave this world without recalling who was putting it down on me like that. He was bouncing me around from piston fuck to spirited lovemaking, with me giving in more with every new stroke.

I was being conquered. I was holding down the fort and surrendering all at once, feeling these constant waves of ecstasy. I was panting. He was grunting, and before long I was in a frenzy rotating my thighs against him and shot off this simmering pearly white jet of paste that came pouring back onto my abdomen. He obviously wasn’t far behind, breaking out with an unruly grunt and sighed as he came in my ass.

That too should’ve been the end of my story except after we had sex our bond grew even stronger. We became a long-distance couple with the two of us wearing the hell out of the highway between our cities and states in between.

We were going strong for a couple of years before Homer proposed that I move down to New Orleans to be with him. I had no problem with it except for the fact Homer wasn’t out at home. Meaning I would have to maintain a separate residence and a separate life in a new city that didn’t interfere with his already established life. Once I started to make my concessions to the notion, he then abruptly aborted the idea and started fixing me up on dates with a variety of beautiful women. It eventually came to light he was pushing me to get married so that his wife wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary now that his jazz band was slowly losing jobs on the road.

I was blindsided by his marriage and his set up that while I wanted to call it quits, I couldn’t. I was too deep into it just to cut him off. As luck would have it, I ran into Roscoe again at his club. He still looked physically better than the day I met him. He was just walking around with a gray cloud over his shoulders. When I caught up with him to ask what he was up to, he told me that his boy went back to his life of drugs and cleaned him out for the last time.

We talked again over a cup of coffee in some random parking lot off from some random park in his SUV. I listened to him talk. I mean really listened. Maybe it was my sour mood at the time or maybe it was his or the memory where it led us the first time, but my hand found its way to his crotch. He was helping me undo it for him. We both helped pull out his growing long black cock, smelling the sex that only he could and my mouth quickly fell into his lap. He took it to a whole new level when he started up his vehicle and started driving around, telling me he didn’t want to get caught up and caught out there. He claimed that I sucked him off for so long that we took a nice little lap around Lake Pontchartrain ahead of any inkling of milk he was destined to shoot across my tongue.

Once again, I should’ve headed back home. That should’ve been the end of the story. Of course, it wasn’t.

Roscoe and I started to hang tight giving me a reason to come back to New Orleans. With Roscoe, the icing on the cake was that he was single and out, not giving a flip about who knew it or not. He just wasn’t out in his professional circles. He often told me that with so many whores in the music industry that if everybody started to define who did what in the bedroom it would throw everything off. Then, too, nobody was man enough to ask him head up because he had four failed marriages under his belt and was a known ladies’ man around town, so the rumor mill wouldn’t spin too far with me by his side.

After a few twists and tweaks, it began to shape up like this: Homer would come up to visit me still, and I would go down there to kick it with Roscoe back in New Orleans. And since neither man was looking for a serious commitment, I thought everything was working itself out just fine. Without a doubt, drama was approaching for such a complicated situation. Homer got cold busted when he returned to his wife with the hickeys I left around his neck…and his dick. He decided he needed a change; he wanted a serious relationship with me as we talk about many times before with no follow through, and without many options left down there he came up here to live with me to give us a try.

It was fine for a few months. It soon grew into the same tired story. I was angry with Homer after I thought he was trying to reconcile with his wife. I rebutted by jumping back into the bed with Roscoe. It was only after I hooked up with Roscoe at a nearby hotel up here that I came back to crib to find Homer waiting on me, to tell me that he went back down there to tell his wife everything about us. She sent a handwritten note that if I wanted him I could have him, but I shouldn’t expect that she would divorce him being that she wasn’t going to hand him over just like that.

I was so caught off guard and so turned on by his renewed lust I let him fuck me just a couple of hours after I sent Roscoe back home after he fucked me. I was still tight. I was just unusually wet and slippery with the lube that still lingered inside of me. I could tell by the look in his eyes he knew something was up, but he was so caught up in getting his that he just let it go thinking it was only in his head.

The first time I did that was the worst, if not the scariest time of my life. After that, it sort of became an adrenaline rush fucking both men on the same day, sometimes only narrowing the margins by only a half-hour, with one using the cum of the other as lube without even knowing it.

I was sort of coming to the end of this road of having my fun with either of them, seeing that three of us were getting older. The three of us wanted something a bit more stable, a bit more drama-free. More upsetting was that while Roscoe and Homer were looking at me for a long-term relationship, I was slowly looking to bow out of the complication unscathed.

My successful run started to come unhinge when I decided to expand my musical diversity by listening to a CD that Roscoe passed onto me. I didn’t think noting of it until Homer came home one day, looked at me crooked and asked me where I got the CD from. I told him, thinking nothing of it. He then happened to tell me that it was the accompanying music set that he and his newly formed jazz group were going to sell once they hit the road, playing a pure double bass medley for me.

Homer confronted Roscoe, and thankfully Roscoe didn’t rat me out putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Roscoe instead started digging his heels convincing me I should kick Homer and his crusty ass to the curb and relocate with him back to New Orleans. The ironic thing was that after Roscoe found out about Homer and me, it really turned him on. But Roscoe really got off on the idea that a young masculine bottom kat like myself was wearing the hell out of two old jazz dicks.

I was on the verge of shutting down the production that was my three way when I invited Roscoe over. I decided the best way to cut my losses was to break things off with Roscoe first. And when my lease was up on my apartment, I was going to cut my losses with Homer as well. When Roscoe came over, he was ready for sex. He won out.

The next thing I know, I wake up to Homer standing over my naked frame wondering what the fuck happened. Of course, I altered the truth a bit, telling him that Roscoe came over asking my opinion of the music he gave me. I got us something to drink, which was part of the truth. The part I lied about was that I said I stepped away to the bathroom and after taking a few sips of my drink, I woke up to him looking at me feeling like I got the dick down of my life!

This threw a wrench in my plans because Homer wanted to be my man even more, thinking that his friend had possibly done something to me.

A couple of weeks later, he decided to take me out to a jazz club, only to find out that Roscoe, his band mate was moonlighting as a solo artist visiting from New Orleans.

One thing led to another, and the jazz lounge erupted with the two men going at it while I snuck outside never to look back again.

Our story should’ve ended there. It didn’t.

I was sound asleep when I woke up in the middle of the night with two pair of eyes staring back at me, naked and unclothed, belonging to Roscoe and Homer cupping their engorged members.

“Why didn’t you just say so? Us musicians get down with our muses any way we can!”