October 01, 2009
Fiction
Open Chords
It’s in a dive of a bar that I find Johnny Tyger. What a stupid stage name. His ridiculously long and thick digits form chords in the most awkward ways. And yet, as I watch him play, I lose sight entirely of the vivid discussion, an emerging and innovative system for rating oral sex performances, that my girlfriends are engaged in.
“Yeah, sure,” I say when I hear my name.
“Did you even hear what I said?” Bess’ brow lifts high above her dark eyes.
“Uh, guess not.”
Bess follows my line of sight and grins. “Claire’s got the hots for Johnny Tyger.”
Annabelle and Zoe laugh.
“Do not,” I protest like a six year old, but as he transitions through simple open chords, G Major to E Minor to C Major, the awkward splaying of his hand transfixes me.
I close my mouth.
I’m usually content to watch my friends strip away inhibitions like a Chippendale’s g-string. Drinking is a spectator sport, me sipping club sodas with a twist of lime. Let Bess or Zoe make fools of themselves. But tonight Zoe insisted, almost to the point of Tarantino violence, that she take her overdue turn at the designated driver thing.
Work has been monstrous lately, and the draft beer is going down easy. The sensation of the stress washing out is palpable. I take another washy gulp.
I try to join in the conversation, but my vantage is straight to the stage. I look right through Annabelle. Johnny Tyger thanks the one guy who is clapping, then starts into a classic blues tune plied out with the touch of a bowling ball rolled down railroad ties.
My eyes remain riveted to this strutting rooster of an under-talented musician. Nine parts stage presence and one part musical talent. Damn, my pussy slides just a little when I cross my legs. I force my gaze back to Zoe and make feeble repartee.
When the set finishes, Bess calls out, “Come on over, Johnny! I’ve got someone you should meet.” Bess is as hot as a chemical fire in July. Most any man that hears her smoky voice and sees those Polynesian-tinged features will respond. Johnny is no exception. I should run, not walk away, and catch a taxi home.
God I hate you, Bess.
Stop grinning, Zoe.
Johnny’s pants are tight like Robert Plant’s from the Led Zeppelin movie “The Song Remains the Same.” They outline a long, circumcised phallic shape in faded denim. Does anyone remember laughter?
“Johnny, this is Claire. She plays guitar too.”
I’m a good ten years older than Johnny. Probably more. Johnny looks at me and his eyes light up. What a disgustingly cute curl of a smile. I’m glad I chose to wear practical, thick cotton panties.
Bess pours a beer in her glass, hands it to Johnny. He grabs a chair from the next table, turns it around, and sits down, legs sprawled around the back, eclipsing my view of Annabelle. “Don’ mind if I do!” He forces a neo-realistic Elvis sneer. He leans close to me. “So, what kinda stuff do you play, sweetie?” His tone is clearly patronizing.
“I studied classical until I was fourteen, then I moved into jazz. I love to improvise, but I’m pretty good with sheet music too.” His eyes widen and he nods respectfully. He leans away from me a little. Yes, Tyger boy, I could mop up the place with your entrails on the guitar.
He is indeed a strutting rooster; suddenly I’m feeling a bit the fox. I slide my chair a little closer to him and press my knee against the slats of the chair, back between his outstretched thighs. He takes a long gulp from Bess’ glass, deliberately turning away the thick lower print of bright red lipstick.
His fingers are covered in garish rings. His middle finger is probably longer than husband Number One’s cock at full extension, but that’s another story. On that big middle finger is a school ring that looks like a foreskin with a blue stone in it.
I drain my glass. The women at the table have subdivided into conversations. They appear completely unaware of Johnny and me. His shocking blue eyes match the middle finger foreskin stone. Fuck.
Fuck.
Yes, the girls seem unaware, but I know they’re watching me like the clock two minutes before quitting time on a Friday with the boss hovering nearby.
How many times has one of them gone off with some stud for a little fun? Right now I just don’t care what they think. That swirly washy feeling in my waist is focusing. I’m wet as a hot spring and feel a soft, needful pulsing between my legs. But I know that the desire I feel, the need for a man’s touch, will ultimately be unsatisfying. Really, it’s not a reflection of the men I’ve been with. I’m just painfully hard to bring to orgasm. It’s a long, complicated trip, and I’m better off attending to it myself.
Simple fact.
But the beer is conning me masterfully. I grab the three- quarter- full pitcher of beer in one hand and Johnny’s palm in the other and lead him to a booth in a dark corner of the bar. I wait until he sits on the inside, then I sidle up tight to his hip.
I study his left hand, then grip his fingers. “When you play chords, try to keep your hand like this, perpendicular to the fret board. You’ll get a better reach, and more control. Your chords will come out cleaner and tighter, too.”
“You dragged me over here to give me a fuckin’ guitar lesson?” He grabs the back of the booth and the Formica table top as if he will spring over me, quick brown fox over lazy dog style. I don’t budge. He glares at me, willing me gone. I pat his hand. Easy, Tyger boy. I savor the uneven texture of his malformed calluses. He relaxes, and I reward him by stroking his chest. My palm drains down his stomach slowly and he moans.
I’m usually such a nice girl.
His dick escapes its crime-scene outline and stretches up his zipper into the cradle of my palm. I stroke along his zipper until his cock is as hard as the big silver leg supporting the table.
I open his pants. Of course he’s wearing no underwear, so I take his long, slim offering and start turning around it. Johnny Tyger gives up a gasp that’s more on- key than his last song. He leans back, content to savor a skillful hand job.
I lean into his ear and whisper, “I can make you come so hard, you’ll swear off sex for a month.” When orgasms are hard to come by, it’s easy to tire of men’s gyrations. I’ve learned a thousand ways to make a man come quick and hard.
He moans. “Oh yeah, baby.”
I ply my hand along the shaft, trace his balls with my crimson middle fingernail, and his eyes widen. I squeeze his shaft tightly. “But you gotta do your part.”
He grins and leans in to kiss my neck. I push his head back. I point to his fingers. He strokes the front of my Pink Floyd T-shirt, then squeezes his hand down to the top of my jeans. I look out into the oblivious little crowd, then open my fly.
Johnny’s hand descends into my panties, and his fingers swirl in my copious wetness. He grins, then pulls his hand out and sniffs it audibly. “Nice, baby.”
“Don’t talk, Johnny Tyger.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I’m only thirty-seven. I should be indignant, but it comes out of his mouth like he’s a servant or something. Maybe I like the way it sounds. Maybe I have an inner dominatrix waiting to emerge. I coax his hand back into my open jeans.
As lousy as Johnny is on guitar, he’s got a handle on this. I’m not bold enough to dream he could bring me off, but I can always finish the job later, out amidst a field of fresh spring fantasies. His fingers ease deeper in me. Middle finger opens, ring finger steps in tentatively, then index takes a bow. His rings do a little dance; the thick blue stone ring scrapes slightly in the shallow end of my pussy.
I stroke his rod in a slow rhythm to inspire him. I cross my legs like a vise on his hand, the way I like it when I masturbate. Suddenly, he splays his fingers like a snapdragon and I yelp like a dog. I’ve never felt anything like it. His chewed thumbnail works at my clit while his fingers scatter in me like pine saplings in a stiff wind. Johnny’s other hand descends into the top of my T-shirt, stretching the collar wide. It pushes both cups off my small breasts. He tugs my hard nipples, back and forth, back and forth, while his other hand works me like perfecting a Locrian scale on a rosewood fret board.
His dick is draped in generous pre-come. He moans along with my strokes, but he doesn’t miss a beat. His hand steadily shoves in and out, his fingers collapsing and widening, and he finds that magical little spot inside the front of my vagina. “Yes, oh yes, right there. Please!”
Johnny’s long middle finger obeys. He is incredibly patient, works me up slowly, and I keep a steady stroke. He grips tighter and tighter, releases, tightens, pumps, and a deep moan resonates from his Adam’s apple as if he can feel what he’s doing to me. He gulps in a breath and holds it, and I stroke him harder. I try to stop myself, keep his tension at a pique, but his cock feels so smooth in my hand, and indeed he has lasted a long time.
I pump harder.
Great gobs of goo explode over my hand and into his pubic hair. His breath rushes like a beer soaked Chinook.
His right hand falls limp over one breast; his left sits still, buried in my pussy. “Don’t fucking stop!” I really am a nice girl, usually.
Johnny’s eyes widen, then he winks. He resumes his swirl. He does the snapdragon thing and pulses the sensitive walls inside my pussy. My fingers are in his sperm like finger paints. My thighs are so tight, I must be crushing his hand, but he doesn’t seem to tire, bless that Johnny. My body stiffens and shakes while my waist turns over itself. Air crushes out my mouth and nose, and my jaw hurts; I’ve plied it wide like a python swallowing a rabbit. Wave after wave, an orgasm like I’ve never felt, and I fight against my disjointed voice’s urge to scream out. My head flops back to the top of the booth seat. I gulp for breath when my thighs finally relax, as he pulls his hand out from my pants. It’s squeezed to purple red. He stretches his glossy fingers out, then gives them a soft shake.
I didn’t bring my glass, so I take the pitcher in my dry hand and take a big mouthful of beer. I pull a handful of napkins from the silver dispenser and wipe off his thick come. Johnny grins as he starts to clean the remaining white goop from the inside of his jeans.
The waitress’ head pokes from behind the booth and she grins. “You gonna want a glass or another pitcher, hon?”
“I think I’m good,” I say as I zip my pants. Johnny’s semi-erect cock still pokes from his wide fly. He modestly folds his big hands over it.
“Oh, you’re good alright,” she says with a wink.
“What were you sayin’ about playin’ chords?” Johnny grunts as he fights his copper zipper shut.
I lift the pitcher and hold it out toward him. He leans the lipstick- stained glass forward and it connects to the thick body of the pitcher. They sing out in a perfect B flat five.
“Johnny Tyger, you just play those chords any way you like.”
• • •
has been crafting stories since before he could write. During his long career in the Information Technology field he has continued to hone his love for storytelling and poetry. His widely varied erotic stories have appeared at numerous online publications as well as in print magazines and anthologies internationally. He recently completed /Augsburg Diary, /an erotic novel that draws upon his experiences while stationed at an Army Military Intelligence unit in West Germany during the early 1980’s. He is beginning to pursue publication of this novel. Visit Craig online at http://just-craig.blogspot.com/
