Bassist Means the Sexiest

"Bassist Means the Sexiest"

A retiree regains his youth by playing a musical instrument... for his groupies.

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Disclaimer. The phrase "Bassist means the Sexiest" expresses only the wife's views: it does not imply universal encyclopedic value and does not reflect the views of all mankind. Similar disclaimer for the remarks the wife expresses about bassists who were members of famous bands of the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Some so-called "proverbs" she recalls may not be considered very famous in other cultures.

The first few paragraphs serve to set the scene. Some patience is needed: the sex part comes after. All the characters are of legal age.

English is not my native language, forgive the mistakes.

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A gift for a gifted man.

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I gave my husband an electric bass guitar as a gift on his retirement day. "You always tell me you liked to play when you were a boy, then because of work and children you never had time, but now that you're retired, I wish you wouldn't get lazy ... walking long walks will do you good, but you can't walk for twelve hours a day, I thought if I gift you an electric bass, you can play along with your friends."

Our friends were the husbands of the women in my Book Club, and they played in a little band. But one of the four had died in a car accident, and they had asked my hubby to join the band, but he had always said the work was too demanding and he didn't have time. But now he was retired and had all the time in the world.

He began practicing the easier songs, listening to himself with headphones while following tutorials on the internet. Some of the songs were easy: the first U2 songs, for example, had been recorded when Adam Clayton could barely play the main notes. Yet they were impactful songs that stirred deep emotions in listeners. Even in the Beatles, the role of the bass guitar was almost ridiculous, at least on the early records... McCartney focused on singing and maybe he had no interest in developing complicated melodies with his instrument, which would have distracted him from solo words and backing vocals. Some Police songs were easy because Sting was the leading voice: and the most intriguing, "Every Breath You Take," my husband already knew because he had learned the arpeggio as a boy when he went to lessons at eighteen (eh, it seems half a century ago...).

Playing the bass guitar is like riding a bicycle: once you learn it, you can never forget it.

The "boys" were very friendly and welcoming. When playing in a band of 18-year-olds, the atmosphere is poisoned by each one's ambitions: each boy dreams of a solo career in a niche area, and quarrels with the others over every material mistake or disagreement over which "musical genre" to sound most like. There is the one who would like to play the keyboard like Bach, there is the one who would like to smash the drums in a heavy metal key, and there is the one who would like to reduce all songs to a solo of "his" electric guitar.

In a group of "old" (but brand new) retired men, ambitions have already faded. None of them dreams of becoming rich and famous anymore. None of them dreams of "changing the rules," changing the world, or inventing a new and innovative genre of music. They are content to play together, have fun, and entertain our small-town audience.

Mistakes are no longer subject to aggressive criticism and threats of expulsion. "Did you make a mistake? Never mind, there are four of us on purpose to cover up each other's mistakes, stay calm and pick up at the next cue."

As my husband practiced, I noticed that so many things changed.

The knowledge that he would have to go on stage had forced him to look at himself in the mirror in a new and different way. Before he was just a clerk, and the fat belly above his belt was perfectly understandable. But now he was the bass player in a rock band, and he could not present himself as fat as a watermelon.

To my amazement, my husband began a diet. He, of all people, had never accepted any dietary proposal in all the years before!

When he was tired of playing and his fingers ached, he would put on his jogging suit and take long walks with headphones on to listen to more music. In a few weeks, he had lost two pounds. I knew that males lose weight more easily but this was unexpected.

After the walks, he would take many showers! His skin was always clean and smelled good since he had resumed playing bass guitar.

Perhaps the scent of the skin also came from something else: he had also stopped drinking beer, because, he said, it made him lose concentration, and caused him to go off-beat, compared to the metronome. I was worried about the opposite, because of the reputation rockers have for being addicted to alcohol and drugs... but maybe it's just a facade for the audience, and actually, to play accurately they have to be clean. I don't know. All I know is that my husband was getting thinner by the day and I had to buy him new clothes because his old ones were too baggy. He had also stopped drinking coffee: he said concentration kept him awake (and so did loud music inside his headphones, I guess).

The band met three nights a week in the garage next door to the drummer's house. He had had a heart attack a few years earlier, and his wife had turned him almost completely fruitarian (with rare concessions to boiled fish). Therefore, there was no junk food of any kind in his house: snacks, French fries, fried chicken wings. There were only apples, bananas, and pineapples.

And as a wife, I must say that my husband ate a lot of pineapples, I could tell when he finished by cumming in my mouth, the taste of his seed was much sweeter than usual. Swallowing it all had also become much tastier. I always swallowed, ever since we were engaged, but now it had become ... sweeter, if I may say so, it tasted "happier" (I know it sounds crazy but it's true). Zero beer, zero coffee, 100% pineapple, I would swallow his spurt for hours.

The changes were more and more noticeable. I knew that males lose weight much faster than females, but my husband was surprisingly fast. And the rest of his look was also much improved. He was still bald, but while he was a clerk he flaunted funny white tufts over his ears like an old cartoon guy, now instead he had chosen to shave completely: he no longer looked like Doc from "Back to the Future," but rather like a clean-shaven Bruce Willis (I wish I could have said he looked like Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson but no one would believe it...yet, the shape of the skull is the same, and I used to imagine I was fucking Dwayne in bed!).

Completely shaved on his skull, he no longer had white hair above his forehead. But even underneath, he now sported a well-groomed goatee, and by a curious twist of fate, the hairs of his mustache and short, very trimmed goat's stubble had remained as dark as when he was young. Could it be that hair bulbs age differently in different parts of the head? Perhaps they do. In his case, yes, without a doubt.

The shaved skull induced a classic question. Perhaps the carpets matched the drapes? The head would have been visible on stage, but the pubis would not. Yet, without my asking him anything, he began shaving his pubic hair. First simply with a pair of scissors, then with a razor. Finally, he asked me nonchalantly if I knew anyone who could treat pubic hair removal. I pointed him to a very serious beauty center, also frequented by athletes and people who had to undergo surgery-nothing to do with facilities with questionable reputations and poor hygiene.

All these changes were incredible, and they were all triggered by a simple gift I had given him: a simple electric bass guitar. I wondered: "How it was possible, that a simple musical instrument could have such a great impact on a man's life: on his self-esteem, on his body perception, and if I may say so, on his stamina in bed?" Yes, because slimmed down, distracted, and relaxed, he was as energetic and resilient in bed as he was in his twenties.

Sometimes marital sex can become boring, especially after so many years of marriage. Some obese men get very fatigued and try to cum as soon as possible, leaving their wives disappointed and dissatisfied in frustration. Others, even more obese, lie on their backs, and the only fantasy they allow their wife is to choose whether to ride like a Straight Cowgirl or a Reverse Cowgirl.

But my husband (the "brand new" one: the Bassist) now that he was slimmed down was also full of energy. And rhythm.

In the years before, we made love only once a week, maybe less: since he had started playing again, he wanted to have sex almost every night! If I was not in the right mood, I would try to hurry up with a swallowing blowjob: faster for me, and I must say, very tasty now that he had changed his diet and lifestyle. But if I was in the right mood, I would take advantage of his renewed stamina to make him penetrate me at a long, unrelenting pace. Some other husbands may have been an early ejaculators at some stage of life. My husband, on the other hand, had become a bass player in his own right: he kept a steady rhythm, full of vibration and excitement, lasting as long as it took without ever leaving me. I knew that I could trust the endurance of his cock, and the rhythm of his bass: I had no fear that a hasty cumshot would leave me unsatisfied halfway through. He always waited for me to reach my orgasm, and only then would he spur inside my pussy. But after a few weeks, something clicked in me. After I had taken advantage of him to have my fourth weekly orgasm, but before he quickened his pace to cum, I smiled at him and said in a persuasive voice, "My love, I want you to cum in my mouth... I like the taste of you so much, let me savor the taste of my pussy, put it in my mouth right now!"

He was incredulous but paused just enough for me to slide off, slipping his rocky cock out of my wet lips. In a moment, I took his cock in my mouth and began to suck hard. He placed his fingers on my hair and moved my head back and forth in rhythm. Protruding my tongue, I tried to reach the base of his testicles without letting the cock leave my mouth. It was the berserker button of him, and I knew it well! Immediately, ropes and ropes of cum squirted down my throat and I swallowed it all. I looked up to see his reaction, and I saw a smile of complete happiness.

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I was surprised to think that being a bass player, he was fucking me like a bass player. In a song or a concert, a bass player never stops. Sometimes the audience can't hear him, but his low, deep voice makes your body and womb vibrate even if you don't notice it with your ears. The sound emitted from the bass is rhythmic, steady, and untiring. Oh, yes, sure, every once in a while the bass has a solo eruption, but most of the time it's always the same round of notes, like a pleasantly long hammering over time. That's it: probably the most fitting metaphor was precisely durability over time. I once heard a music critic say that in Pachelbel's "Canon in D," the double bass player must be very bored, since he repeats the same four notes hundreds of times: furious, I wrote a post, reminding that critic that his wife would very much like his cock repeating the same turn hundreds of times, rather than concentrating on a rutilant few seconds' worths of cumming. That critic banned me immediately. But my point stands.

Because the difference between bassists and guitarists is duration.

Guitarists do that: pure exhibitionism that lasts a few seconds. Fireworks, open applause, ropes and ropes of cum, all in seconds. Or as the saying goes, "electric guitarist // means egocentric exhibitionist."

Those who play the keyboard are even worse. In 90 percent of cases, they would like to play the great pianoforte in a small theater or better yet in a seventeenth- or nineteenth-century drawing room, like Bach, Mozart, or Chopin. You can see in their eyes that they hate rock, but unfortunately, they play that to please the audience. Or as the saying goes, "electric keyboardist // means solipsistic elitist."

The drummer would just like to rock out. They are usually the calmest people because they vent all their tensions against the drums. They sweat a lot and always have a towel next to the drums. But the result is that with the wife they are always too tired, drunk on the beer they fall asleep and snore: "Drummer // means groaner."

The bass player, on the other hand, serves the song. Even if the audience does not notice him on a conscious level, they unknowingly follow the rhythm and notes of the bass throughout the concert. Women know this (on a subliminal, unconscious level) and understand that the bass player is the one who lasts the longest. He is the one who will be at the service of their female orgasm. It is the man who will give her orgasm. Indeed, as the saying goes, "bassist means sexiest."

Who was the sexiest of the Police? Sting. The sexiest of the Beatles? McCartney. The sexiest of Duran Duran? John Taylor. The sexiest of the Red Hot Chili Pepper? Flea. Of Kiss? the "Demon": Gene Simmons of course. The most charming of the Electric Light Orchestra was, in my opinion, Roy Wood. And from my favorite band, the Queen, the only one that doesn't give me the impression of some kind of a whimsical Primadonna was the bassist, John Deacon: the other three were probably three musical geniuses, but perhaps each was too self-absorbed to even care about MY happiness. Similarly, of all the members of the Blues Brothers band, the only one to whom I would entrust the keys to my car is the bass player, Donald "Duck" Dunn (Otis Redding and Eric Clapton certainly could not have chosen him by mistake).

Let us also consider the hypothesis of transformation through time. Early in his career Phil Collins was a drummer and no one thought he was a sex symbol. Then in 1988, he made a video, "Two Hearts" in which he played all the instruments (the encyclopedias call him a Multi-instrumentalist) and the miracle happened: all the women in the world sensed that Phil was sexy, only since that day, just because he played the bass!

I thought of all these things as my personal opinions. I guess some other women might have a teenage crush on some pianist or some guitarist or some vocalist (often singers are chosen as front men because of facial attractiveness, such as George Michael of Wham!, Jon of Bon Jovi, Morten Harket of A-ha, or Joey Tempest of Europe).

Lampshaded by the band "Love Haendel" featured numerous times in the series "Phineas and Ferb": guitarist Danny is the exhibitionist, drummer Sherman "Swampy" is the depressed though genial one, but the bassist (Bobbi "Fabulous") is the sexy and cool one, always surrounded by eager girls.

And even in the movie "Some Like It Hot" (1959) with Monroe and Curtis, the sexiest person is "Daphne" (Jack Lemmon in female disguise), and of course, the instrument is the jazz double bass!

To all women who have difficulty reaching orgasm, I strongly recommend that they copulate with a bass player. They last much longer, with perfect rhythm (both slow and fast), and put themselves at the service of the play, setting aside their exhibitionism, virtuosity, and needs to go along with the perfect performance of your orgasm.

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Husband's point of view.

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After a few months of rehearsing in the garage, the others decide we are ready to play in public. I am not as sure but I accept. My life has changed a lot in these few months: I've lost weight, I look healthier, and I have a lot more sex with my wife, who is also a lot more willing.

The concert is not a real concert, but almost a gathering of friends: many countrymen, old schoolmates, relatives, and cousins have come especially to see us. Maybe a few hundred people, I don't know for sure. They say that one night U2 (who were four) played in a theater in Berlin, in which there were only three spectators (due to the concurrence of a major soccer game). Instead of leaving, they invited the three audience members to the stage and they all played together, like a group of friends during rehearsals.

I was on the left side of the stage. In front of me was a crowd of adoring 18-year-olds, with even more enthusiastic moms. Some I recognize, for example, the one with red hair is the drummer's daughter. Other girls... I don't know.

We play our songs. Well, they are not "ours": they are covers of famous songs, it's not like we are that good at composing. The audience applauded, but my small crowd of rowdy women appears particularly aroused. From the very first song, I get enthusiastic reactions: one woman pulls her own panties onstage and yells at me, "SCREW ME BASSIST!"

I try to play quietly but worry a little that my wife might get jealous of all the attention.

On the third song, my friend's daughter (19 years old certified) lifts up her shirt, shows me her bare boobs and on it is written with a marker "SPURT ON ME!" and a hand drawn Smile.

I continue playing as a shower of panties and bras arrive on stage, all on my side. I turn to see if the others are getting as much attention, but they are not: the guitarist in the center seems focused only on the music of the Universe, the keyboardist has eyes only for the ebony and ivory of his keys, and the drummer over there is sweating gallons of sweat as he almost breaks through the skin of the drums. No. All these willing girls are all about me. I see my wife, in the middle, in front of the guitarist: I wonder if she notices all that's going on, and I wonder what she thinks about it. What if she is jealous?

Here comes the last song of the concert. The guitarist announces that by now he has lost his voice and gives up the microphone to me: it's not true, it's just a set-up we had arranged during rehearsal. He moves the microphone in front of me, making his way through panties and bras. The drummer's daughter greets him with a shy hand gesture; the others ignore him completely as if he were an anonymous toolmaker who can't play.

I play "Every Breath You Take." I sing the part that Sting sang. The other instruments back me up; a couple of times I get the notes wrong, but no one pays attention. The guitarist supports my voice in the high notes, with the appropriate chords, saving me a few times.

Applause, again more female panties thrown on stage, shouts of jubilation.

At last, some pious soul close the curtain. I unplug my bass and run away (the amplifiers are the keyboardist's responsibility, and none of us are allowed to touch them because they are "sacred").

I had just arrive backstage, when I see my wife approaching in the hallway.

I must admit I am a little afraid.

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Wife's point of view.

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It was I who had convinced his instrumentalists to set a date for a concert dedicated to friends and family. And I thought, chuckling, that he never expected me to arrange a diabolical plan right during the very boring Book Club meetings!

Ha! My hubby certainly did not expect that I would ask all my friends to spread the word that the theme of the evening would be cheering for the bass player. Ha, ha! They were all amused and enthusiastic.

The happiest was the drummer's wife, who said to me, "Do you mind if my daughter Erin, may write "SPURT ON ME!" on her boobs? It seems to me a cute phrase with no dire consequences, and anyway, she's already 19, almost 20..." "Yay, that would be perfect!" "then I'll phone her right now!" Young Erin was the classic devilish, witchy redhead, and eagerly adhered. She said she would also bring her friends from the "18 and Unpregnant Witches" crew, with bags full of panties and bras to throw on stage.

I felt like a general on the battlefield, carrying out a long-planned strategy. My troops were advancing on the left side, while in the center I sat directing operations and on the other side the reservists of the old guard... I felt like a centurion in ancient Rome, calmly and impassively observing the frantic movements of the troops around the Enemy...