Flesh to Flesh

Making Heat, Jazz and Love

By LM Ross

There was a cool blue-hue to the room, as the assembled jazz crowd sipped their martinis and smoked their cigarettes. I was slowly imbibing my Courvoisier and slyly checking out the place. This was my scene, my haunt, my NYC Jazz dream, and the elements felt just right. I perused the locals and the few heads who boldlynodded in my direction. But this was a typically straight crowd. I made sure Idid nothing, said nothing that would arouse unwanted suspicion. I’d many friends in the city, but a scant few really dug Jazz with the same fervor as I,so it had become my style to usually roll on the solo tip. That night was nodifferent. So, there I sat, sipping and waiting for the show to begin as afeeling of anticipation rose in the air. I could almost taste it, feel it buzzing on my skin.

I needed this escape. I’d been dealing with some deeply emotional stuff that comes withresidual heartbreak. Steven, my lover of almost seven years, had fallen for thecharms and assumedly the younger dick of a co-worker. I’d suspected somethingdeveloping between them, but Steven chalked it up to my “crazy insecurity.”Well, a few weeks later, I arrived early from a business trip, and my crazyinsecure ass caught them, going at it, in the bed Steven and purchased and shared.They jumped up, naked and ashamed, with apologies and explanations trippingfrom their lips. I’d never once cheated on Steven, and there he was, in ourbed, fucking some acrobatic bitch on the slide. That betrayal ended it for us.I mean, what good was a relationship if the motherfucka lacked trust?

I had, for alland intents and purposes, given up on men. I denied all temptations from thatpoint onward, and trust, there were more than a few! I needed to work on me. Ineeded to love me again. I needed to spoil me, and accept all my good, bad andbullshit parts. I had been doing just that… for months. My only reprieve was alittle entertainment, by way of Jazz.

Showtime: Thepiano player appeared in a shaft of golden light. Brotha with dreads, andattired in a natty blue suit, his long nimble fingers caressed the keys slowlyas if he had at his disposal, eighty-eight different lovers. He played and thecrowd swayed to the strains of his smooth Bossa Nova. Gradually the lightincreased, and in the corner was a stout cat, on bass. He began to thump inslow and sultry jazzy tones, and soon he and the pianist were grooving in song.I dug the vibe they manifested. I nodded my head to their potent fusion. Soon,the drummer appeared, beating those snares in a nasty counterpoint that madesomething inside us jump as everyone tapped their feet. The sound the three of them manifested was sweet, tangy and saucy to the point of sounding sexual. And then, in a brazenly blue neon glare, the man on the sax appeared.

The bleat of his horn transformed the room. I detected the sighs and swoons. I heard a woman release an orgasmic cry of: “Damn that brotha be fine!”

I must admit that the Sista didn’t lie. Brotha was fine, in a winter-white turtleneck sweater andmatching trousers. Tall, bald, madly broad-shouldered, he had a presence and agravity that could not be denied. He played like quiet fire. He played soooooslowly and soulfully that he conjured up visions of hot Nawlins nights, the cryof alley cats, the bite of bourbon on the tongue, and sweet caress of anamorous lover. He played as if he’d crawled between my thighs and discoveredthe clue to my carnal paradise. I felt both shook and hooked on this sound hemade. And still he played, as the jazz-heads nodded and ladies swooned. Butsome part of my senses made me think, he was blowing for me, just me…and thatblue bruised hurt lodged deep within me.I flashback toall of those hot and sensuous times Steven and I shared when our bodies wouldgrind in perfect sync, and it seemed we’d shared one mind. Damn! That Brotha onthe horn, killing jazzily with his song! And the more he played, the more of a towering Black Adonis he became.
Sometimes insideof his performance, I swear he’d made serious eye-contact with me. Not thepeople at the first few tables, not those women he given a case of thescreaming thigh sweats… but to me! The whole setfelt like I was sitting in a den of audible sex. It made me moist. It made mydick harder than the Empire State. After the performance,the band was signing their latest CD for all who purchased it. After the moodI’d just experienced, there was no way in hell I could resist copping it. Infact, I asked for three, one for my stereo, one for my car, and one for myportable CD. The brotha who blew smiled as I approached the table where he andhis band mates were seated. I glanced causally over my left shoulder to see ifthat luminous smile was for someone else. But no, it was a smile directed atme. As I drew closer, I felt something strange and warm, and familiar, too. Ididn’t know him, but it was if we both knew each other’s core secret. Odd,sometimes, how you just simply know. This Brotha was family. And what a big bald and finely talented addition he made to the brood! “Tight set. I was really digging the vibe, yo.” These were my first words to him.

“Thanks, mon. Guess ya be a fan. Three CDs?” he asked with a smile brighter than a noon day Jamaican sun that him even more intriguing.

“Ummm… yeah… When I dig something, I mean reeeeeeeally dig it, I don’t wanna be caught some place without it.”

Damn! That sounded like I was trying to come onto the cat! I wasn’t; at least, not consciously. But then he set his slow sable-eyed glow-in-dark ray on me.

Oh shit! It was a look I knew by heart. It was that‘Yes-I-like-men-and-if-given-chance-I’d-love-to-fuck-the-shit-outta-you’--look!

“I’m Colin,” he said, still flashing that mega-watt smile… “Colin Elliot,” he added, and my dick jumped inside my suit pants as he said it.

“I’m Lance,” I uttered.

He extended his large dark jazz-talented hand. I took it, and in that moment, I almost heard music. The wail of a faraway trumpet, the beat of torrid congas, and the sounds of jungle music played in my chest.

T H E O F F I C I A L S I T E