tagExhibitionist & VoyeurA Quickie in the Commodore's Office

A Quickie in the Commodore's Office


This is an odd little story, almost a one-off, involving the strangely thrilling Halloween that once befell one of Elizabeth Sheely's more minor sexual toys. As always, you can easily enjoy this whether or not you've read any of the rest of my stories. I've posted it here as an entry in Lit's Halloween contest, so please check out all the other entries and vote on your favorites.

* * *

I'd never seen Greg Hicks as jumpy as this, even when I'd known him to be high as a kite on crack, cackling and jittering down the street. No, tonight he was totally paranoid, his beady eyes rolling around in their sockets, like absolutely fucking scared. For a moment I wondered whether he was wearing a wire or something, but no way.

No cop would waste their time wiring up an elderly drug dealer. Greg had to be at least sixty years old, on borrowed time since the 80s, when he'd been starting out and the cocaine had still been expensive.

"Man, just take it," he urged, all raspy and with smelly sweat beading up along his forehead even in the October chill. I decided he must be in withdrawal, but then that didn't make sense either. If he needed a fix, he wouldn't have just sold me so much coke.

"Dude, don't get me wrong." I probably seemed pretty tweaky myself as I tried to keep the thrill out of my voice, but at least I knew why I was so excited: Greg Hicks the broken-down dealer, the worthless crackhead, the most abject failure in a town full of failures, was trying desperately hard to sell me a bass guitar.

At a very mysteriously low price.

"I mean, I totally want the bass," I heard myself burble, trying to rein in my excitement. "I'm just not sure. I mean, the price is so low... you sure there's nothing wrong with it? Like, it's not stolen or anything?"

"Man," Greg whined, his voice pitching higher, "I need to get rid of it. It used to be my mother's. Go on, Clamm. Take it."

I looked down at the battered old instrument case on the gritted concrete of the alleyway, looking large as an aircraft carrier with its ripped cloth cover and its dented corners. "Dude," I shrugged unhappily, shaking my head, "at least let me give you six hundred." That was at least a seven or eight thousand dollar bass there, but Greg had insisted on taking just $500 from me. "I feel like I'm stealing it."

"Fuck, whatever," he hissed. It was as if he didn't even want the money, as if he wanted nothing to do with it. As if all he wanted was to ditch the bass. "Just take it and get it away from me." He couldn't even look as I dragged out my wallet, thick from last night's gig and the money Brett paid me under the table, and rummaged through the bills I found in there. I'd shown up for one-fifty worth of coke, but there was no way I could pass up a 1958 P-bass.

"Seven-fifty." I was at $740 and seeking a ten, Greg getting more and more nervous as I searched. "Dude, sorry, but can you make change? All I got are twenties."

"Fuck it." He scooped up the cash and scuttled into the night. "Sayonara, man!" He already sounded more relieved the further he got from the bass, and I was left shaking my head as the sun went down. I frowned after him.

"You going to have some more shit tomorrow?" I had two more Halloween gigs this weekend. I'd be needing a pick-me-up. "Catch you later?"

He stopped then, straightening as he turned, like he'd just found the spine he'd lost decades ago. "Brother," he called back at me, smiling strangely, "I'll be back here tomorrow. But I'm not sure if you will." He made it a few more steps, then hesitated and turned drunkenly around one more time. "Don't plug it in, brother. Unless you're sure."

He was gone before I could get anything else out of him, but I didn't care.

I had a '58 fucking P-bass.

* * *

The gig that night was a weird one, which we were doing at a cut rate because our singer had asked us to. She was a difficult person to refuse because she was the only female in the band. And she was hot. Jeff had been doubtful. "It's a school gig," he'd pointed out. "I thought we were done with school gigs."

"And weddings." That was Cameron, on lead guitar, speaking up from his couch in the corner. He'd knocked up a bridesmaid at the last wedding we did.

"We're done with free school gigs," Abigail had explained patiently. "They're paying us. It's through the student council, an annual Halloween tradition they've been doing since 1933? '34?" She'd shrugged. "They say Bill Haley and the Comets played it once."

"Bill Haley and the what?" Jorgenson, the drummer, with no interest at all in music history.

"The Comets."

"And this is your old high school?" Jeff had pressed. "It's not in a gym, is it?"

"No, no." Abigail had held up her hands and shaken her head. "They rent the local yacht club. It's a great venue, actually. We also had our homecoming dance there."

"Gee. How sweet." Jorgenson had rolled his eyes, and Abigail had glared.

"It's easy money, guys," she'd pointed out. "Two sets, an hour each, with a DJ in between. And," she'd winked, "they'll feed us. My kid sister's in charge of the dance; they'll take good care of us."

So I was pulling up, late, outside the Central Bay Yacht Club around 8:30 on Halloween. Jeff had told us all to be there by 8:15, but as I scanned around the parking lot I could see that Jorgenson hadn't shown up either. Around me flowed a little trickle of high schoolers in costumes. Abigail had told us the Halloween Hop was for seniors only, so as I looked around I figured everyone I saw was over eighteen.

Of course, that meant they looked like they were over twenty-five. The girls, anyway.

Granted, modern Halloween costumes are hardly the fake-mustache and plastic-mask affairs of my childhood, but really, did they have to look so much like regular clothes? Albeit the kind of clothes that whores wear? I saw not a single fully-covered boob, no matter where I looked. The boys stuck to the corners of the parking lot, sneaking sips out of their little plastic nip bottles and staring without shame at the various sexy nurses, sexy witches, sexy Catwomen, and sexy French maids as they passed in their little groups.

Quite casually, I laid out a line on my dashboard and snorted it straight up.

In satisfaction I felt the two bass cases pulling on my shoulders as I strolled across the parking lot with drug-induced confidence, carefully trying not to gawk at the girls. I wasn't bringing in the '58 to play it, of course; I'd owned it for less than an hour at that point, and I wouldn't think of gigging it until I gave it a proper set-up. But Cameron and Jeff would want to see it, I knew. Nothing wrong with leaving it in the dressing room, or the bathroom, or the office, or wherever they'd be stashing us; as long as the door was locked, of course.

A small squadron of four high school seniors was walking right in front of me as we reached the door of the big craftsman-style yacht club building, and since they weren't turning to look at me I went ahead and let my steadily dilating eyes drift across their skinny backs and down to their firm, bubbled asses. All but one were covered by some variation of tight shorts, from the star-spangled butt of the Wonder Woman on the left to the Daisy Dukes of the cowgirl on the right; the other girl wore a long blue sheath dress, tight enough for me to see where the label on her thong was. I sighed inwardly; I was only 24, just six years removed from high school, and yet I couldn't remember any of the girls in my class having such glorious, peachlike posteriors.

In fairness, though, I'd hardly been a stud in high school.

In my circle, there'd been nothing but a slow, lazy cycle of the kinds of girls who liked to hang out with stoners. The kind who exchanged blowjobs for pot. Then there'd been Lizzy, who'd fucked me for a year or so after we graduated, before she'd developed an interest in older married guys. I sighed.

I always sighed when I thought about Lizzy.

The four asses ascended the four steps leading up to the door, and I cleared my throat as I followed. "Mind holding the door, ladies?" Wonder Woman turned, her face already curdling in mild disgust now that she knew an older guy had been following her, but she smiled warmly once she caught sight of my cases.

"Oh! Shit! Sure thing." She held the door and stood straight as I walked past, her tits large and high in the superhero corset. "You're in the band? My sister's the singer."

I took another look at her, feeling my eyebrow twitch upward; yes indeed, though it was difficult to tell under the thick eyeliner, this girl definitely resembled Abigail. Same height, same skinny waist, same beautiful tapering legs, same Grand Canyon cleavage. I smiled. "Thanks for the gig," I said smoothly.

Cocaine always made me smooth.

"Sure thing," she chirped again. "They put you in the Commodore's office," and I eased my cases past the admiring stares of her three friends. Everyone likes the band.

The space inside was large and airy, with high ceilings. The club had a full bar, now unmanned and with the booze locked away, and a small bowling alley that looked like it had last been used around 1987. Kids were milling around everywhere. It was a riot of showy costumes and cans of soda, many of them smelling suspiciously of rum. I maneuvered with care; it had been awhile since I'd steered two cases through a crowd, though thank God Jeff had already brought my little 1998 Ampeg amp out for me. That would have meant two trips.

"Sorry I'm late," I announced as I cruised onto the stage they'd put up in the far corner. I was greeted with a few veiled stares. "I had to pick up a new bass."

"Cool," Jeff allowed, glancing at my nose. I cranked my neck down to wipe it on my shoulder. "Old one?"

"Dude, it's a '58 Precision," I bubbled, unable to contain myself, knowing I was talking too fast. My fucking teeth were already numb. "I picked it up off a guy who needed to make rent," I lied. I knew Greg Hicks was homeless. "Thought you might want to take a look."

"Sure." Jeff was already ignoring me as he tweaked compulsively at his tuning pegs, staring hard at his tuner pedal. He'd brought his Mexican Strat reissue tonight. "Not playing it?"

"Hell no, man." I set the old case carefully down next to Cameron's sprawling pedalboard. He was sitting on a folding chair at the back of the stage, pretending he wasn't interested in the vintage instrument. "I don't even know if it works yet, but for the price I paid it hardly matters." I knew they'd ask, and I already had my lie ready when, on cue, Cameron did so from his chair. "Five thousand," I beamed. Still an outstanding deal, but at least believable. Abigail, brushing at the front of her sleek dress, gave a low whistle.

"Is that good?" she asked innocently. Jeff and I smiled.

"If it's a real '58?" Jeff's eyes went wide and greedy as I finally lifted the lid of the case. "That's a fucking steal. Nice get, Clammsy."

The thing was absolutely beautiful. It was missing its chrome pickup cover, but that wasn't unusual and everything else was all present. Nicely worn, an instrument that's been gigged a bit but always carefully. The frets were still nice and high, the light maple fretboard showing just a trace of nearly sixty years' worth of fingers pressing on it. The body hadn't ever been refinished, still with its gold pickguard and its nice two-color sunburst. Cameron, unable to fake it any longer, allowed himself to lean forward and grunt in approval. "Cool, man." He smiled his false smile. "Any six-strings where that came from?"

"Dude, you play a fucking Schechter," Jeff scoffed in disgust. "Anything more than ten years old and with single-coils would be wasted on you."

"Fucking pointy-ass guitar," I added viciously. I didn't like Cameron very much, but he could definitely shred on that jagged little thing he played. My '58 seemed to glow, that gold-anodized pickguard shining like the sun on a cloudy day, the entire thing mesmerizing. I stared at it, crouched over, until I felt Jeff's toe kicking at my ass.

"Get plugged in," he barked quietly. "The natives are restless." The costumed kids were, indeed, staring curiously at us, wondering why we weren't playing yet. Jeff's phone warbled as a text came in. "Sweet. Jorgenson's on his way from the parking lot."

Unbidden, Cameron got nervously to his feet to find the back door and help with the drumkit. For my part, I hurried back to stash the '58 in the Commodore's office, a cluttered little hole by the front door, packed with piles of knickknacks and a little maroon sofa that looked like it had been there for decades.

I got the familiar sensation I always got just before gigs when I was high. Everything seemed to rush around me, but it felt as if I and my Jazz Bass were in a calm, focused tunnel, methodically plugging in, tuning up, and glancing over the setlist again. The room before me as we got ready to play was a lake of seething bodies, already sweaty, already laughing: warm, firm, excited bodies, all of them. The DJ wasn't due to arrive until we finished our first set, but the club had a PA system and someone had put on some of that goddamn R&B bullshit. Many of the kids were already dancing without us.

From a nearby corner, Wonder Woman watched nervously. My stimulated brain had a sudden moment of concern: why had Abigail put on a Wonder Woman costume? Fuck, was I supposed to have worn a costume? I shook my head, though, and reminded myself that that wasn't Abigail down there, that Abigail was tapping at her mic, playing middle C so that we could tune up, and enduring with practiced toughness the early efforts of the boys in the crowd to see up her dress.

Goddamn, but her sister looked exactly like her. Shit. I'd love to fuck them both, their naked bodies curvy and sweaty and stinking with sex, bent over a table or a balcony railing, my cock hard and ready to take them both...

But then the preliminaries were over; Jeff's eager face was nodding at all of us, and Abigail was flicking the mic cord out from around her legs and kissing the mic. I shook my head to clear it. "Hey!" called the singer, her smile wide and warm. "How y'all doing?" The predictable, eternal roar of applause that greeted her came as expected, the rest of us poised to launch into Tom Petty's American Girl to start. "Go Titans!" she added, and I frowned before I realized that must be her school's mascot. "We're the Kabuki Hikers, and we're here to fucking rock!"

The kids roared. Younger audiences always appreciated profanity, especially at a school function, and if there were chaperones to object Cameron and Jeff gave them no time: they blew right into the opening chords, and we were off and running.

Bliss, then, at least for me; I'm never calmer or more confident than when I'm playing a gig, or just after I've cum. It feels about the same, actually: the same loose, easy vibe, the same sense of satisfaction. Jorgenson, Jeff and I were right in synch from the start, and with nothing much to worry about I was free to just play the music and look around.

Jorgenson's drums were rattling beside me, with Jeff on the far side of the stage looking straight down at his fingers and his Chuck Taylors; a good, competent rhythm guitarist and a strong bandleader, but Jeff was not the type to sell himself to the audience. No, that was Cameron, dancing across his pedals and blasting high-gain tone out over the thrashing, costumed kids. Abigail, her eyes closed as always, stood singing behind her keyboard, the band absolutely dialed in: the Kabuki Hikers were rolling.

Before me writhed the seniors of Bennett Sanderson High, pulsing in the low light, a primal howl rising from somewhere, everywhere, within the mass. They were really into us, and I didn't blame them. We were having an amazing set. In particular, Abigail had never sounded better. And in response to her voice and our playing, the kids were in a frenzy.

I stared out from the stage, my elevated position showing me every part of the room, my nose running constantly. Limbs were everywhere, drifting like seaweed up in the air or twined around other peoples' necks and waists and hips. I saw hair, covered in every possible kind of costume headgear, flailing and shining in the lights as the kids rocked out. Shoulders undulated like maggots on a corpe, glistening with salty sweat. And I saw tits, a proudly bouncing array of rich rounded flesh, straining and nearly popping out of corsets, dresses, gowns, breastplates, tanktops, and other garments of every possible description, the firm skin on display washing over my soaring mind like a tide coming in.

I felt a slight but unmistakable stirring in my jeans as the coke started to wear down. Truth to tell, my brain is usually too numb to think about sex when I'm high. But in that time and place, with my band grooving and the sights, sounds, and smells of healthy horny people surging through the space, I soon felt my head prodding at the front of my pants, resting uneasily against the back of my Jazz Bass.

Things got crazier.

Off to the right I saw a boy dressed as a ninja climbing on the yacht club's empty bar. He rose, standing tall, obviously some sort of athlete; he ripped off his karate outfit and stood there in his bright red boxer shorts, hollering at the crowd, all of them staring up at him in rapture.

Cameron responded. I saw him nod toward Abigail, jerking his head at the swaying ninja, and he launched into a second solo as those of us in the rhythm section swung smoothly back toward the chorus. Shit, but we sounded good, and I watched spellbound as the topless ninja, his abs jutting out in the dim light like a temple wall, tipped forward with a cry and slammed into the outstretched arms of his classmates, dozens of hands, scores of fingers holding him up and passing him around the room, his arms and legs straight up in the air, smacking high-fives wherever he went before, at last, he slid into the mass of sweaty bodies like a submarine sliding beneath the waves.

A pack of females, many of them dressed either as burlesques or, incongruously, as medical personnel, descended on the spot where he'd disappeared, and after a short and furious ripple of churning arms, a girl in a scrub top and fishnet stockings came up with a bright red pair of boxers held high, whipping back and forth like a flag while her schoolmates chanted and shrieked. Cellphones glowed everywhere, and I wondered vaguely whether some willing girl was taking the ninja's dick, right there on the floor during the Halloween Hop.

Ah well. If she was, no doubt Abigail would hear about it through her sister. Hell, footage would probably be posted on the internet by morning.

We wrapped up the first set with a rousing rendition of Fluorescent Adolescent, and despite the ragged beginnings of my cocaine crash I always really enjoy playing that one; it's red meat for a bassist, so I ended with a certain flourish and the mad shouts of all the costumed revelers. I was gone straight after, heading toward the bathroom for a piss followed by another fortifying line of coke, my J-bass slung behind me and knocking carelessly against Cameron's amp.

We were slated to come on for a final half-hour around midnight, so we left the crowd in the capable hands of a local DJ named Classy Todd.

The slither of the bodies against me as I moved through the fringes of the crowd were mildly electrifying, given that so many of them came from hot and scantily-clad women. Cameron, somewhere behind me, was probably acquiring phone numbers; the dirty fucker normally ended our gigs by getting surreptitious head in the backseat of his car, but then that's why people become lead guitar players.

Most of the teenage bodies just moved anonymously past me, perhaps with a pat on my shoulder or a Dopplering whoop. But I was stopped suddenly, brought up short at the corner of the deserted bar, jerking to a halt just before I was about to crash into a dark shape before me.

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