Southern Girls and Sweat

Fat Fred's was just across the line from us, within spitting distance across into the edge of  Louisiana. Real drinks could be had there, hard liquor... not the watered down beer we in south Mississippi had to deal with on a regular basis. We always felt a bit wicked just walking through the door. Usually we went on Friday nights.  After dark on Saturday was too close to 10:00 AM-Sunday-School-time.

It was a chicken wire juke joint alright.

"You furnish the towels?" Leonard asked the man, looking at the chicken wire, knowing we was gonna need 'em. "We gotta have our own?"

"Folks don't throw bottles much they still got beer in 'em," the man said. "Mostly it's just empty's ."

"Anybody messes up my guitar I'm gonna bust 'im," I said.

The man looked at me. "We heard you was a real bad ass," he said.

The man looked at Leonard. "How come you put up with a man's gonna bust payin' customers?"

Leonard laughed. "Ain't nobody else picks guitar like Dexter," he said. Then: "I recon we got to have our own towels?"

"I'll round you up some bar towels," the man told Leonard. "Park around back. Close up against the door. We git a crowd, we ain't got enough spaces."

They watched the crown start gathering. Pick-ups with rifle racks. Mississippi plates, come down from Columbia, McComb. Some from Louisiana, Bogalusa and Hammond. Red necks, all of 'em. But that was okay, we was too: red necks.

"Goddamn, it's gonna be a show tonight," Dexter said. Took a deep drag on a Chesterfield. "Look at all them farmers, them truck drivers."

"Long as they got real money," Leonard said.

The man sent out for some burgers. Real burgers, not that Daisy Queen shit. I'll say that for him. Real burgers with fries, washed down with some Dixie beer he had in the back.

"And some lookers too.... That red head yonder," Dexter pointed the Chesterfield toward a Crown Vic  just pulled up, hadn't even parked yet. "I might try her on for size.... A fine piece of leather, and well put together!"

The dance floor was built up a step higher than where the tables were. Would hold, just lookin' at it, thirty couples. Thirty-five, thirty-eight for a slow dance. Them getting close together and all. We didn't plan on playing much slow stuff, just one at the end of each set. Maybe two just before closing time.

The little stage for the band was another step higher, the chicken wire stretched between the front of the stage and the dance floor.

Leonard started plinking on the piano around 8:45, just dark. Two guys all the way in the back threw a couple of Miller bottles against the wire, laughed. Hell, they wasn't even drunk yet, not pissed or anything. Just part of the goings-on, getting in the mood.

The Crown Vic fellow and the redhead pushed their way up front, he dropped a couple of twenties on an occupied table against the wall. Suggested to that the early arrivers already sitting there they consider giving up their spot. The guy at the table stood up, took off his Bayou Bengal cap, suggested that Crown Vic go fuck himself.

His wife, however, grabbed the Andrew Jackson's, grabbed Bayou Bengal's arm. "This is four football tickets," she said. "A week's groceries."

"Goddammit, Rose. You was the one wanted to git here early. A seat up front."

"I know," Rose said, "I know... "  She pulled him through the growing crowd.

We played the first line of Move It On Over... Hank Williams. Move over little dog, the big dog's moving in. The redhead winked at me. Sat down, touched her hair, swayed her shoulders side to side. Set of nice boobs moving underneath a buttoned up white blouse.

"This is gonna be fun," Dexter told Leonard. "What you wantta play first?"

We gave them twelve minutes of "What'd I Say". Heavy on the music, light on lyrics. Ray Charles would have been proud. You could smell the sweat. It was gonna be a hot night, more ways than one.

At about ten minutes into What'd I Say the redhead caught my eye. She was dancing, facing the bandstand, looking across Crown Vic's shoulder. Looking straight at me. He gave her a look, held the Martin guitar out at arm's length, pointed the neck straight at her, played a riff. She licked the sweat off her upper lip. That set 'a boobs was lookin' nicer all the time.

Sometime just after we started the second set, the one that pissed me off, you could see it coming, the beer bottle against the chicken wire. Bayou Bengal and Crown Vic had been jacking their jaws at each other all night. We were playing a slow one, "Will You Miss Me Tonight", maybe, some kind of Elvis shit. The women all loved it, dancing close. Redhead was rubbing herself on Crown Vic's chest, him squeezing her ass. She slapped at his hand, but you could tell she was loving it, didn't mind. And her giving me a big grin the whole time. Teasing.

They were right up against the chicken wire. I could 'a reached out, touched 'em with the Martin. The bottle arched across the room, a rooster tail of beer sparkled in the neon light. Miller Lite went everywhere. Bounced off Crown Vic's shoulder, down Red's blouse, between her boobs. Splashed all over the Martin guitar, half a cup it seemed like, in the sound hole. Bengal stood up and laughed, threw another bottle. Most of that one got Leonard and the '88s.

Ms. Bayou Bengal started pulling her guy toward the door, him yelling all the time, "That's what I think of your fuckin' forty bucks."

Crown Vic beat the Bengal fellow to the door. Women screaming and the 'good ole boys' protecting their drinks and cowboy hats, moving back out of the way. Vic took a swing at the guy, missed. They sort of grabbed each other and grappled. Neither of 'em wanting a real fight.

I hit Bayou Bengal a straight left to the mouth. Didn't remember getting across the room, just suddenly I was busting him in the mouth. Son-of-a-bitch throwing beer on my guitar.

Crown Vic looked startled, said, "This is my fight. You stay out of it."

I busted him too, just for the hell of it.

Blood was everywhere, both of 'em on the floor. Bayou Bengal on hands and knees trying to figure out if he could get up. Crown Vic kinda half-in, half-out the door. My knuckle spit open from one of 'em's teeth. Wouldn't be able to play for a week, my hand  all swole up.

Leonard and the man grabbed me about then. The man was pissed, saying, "I told you I didn't want 'im hittin' no payin' customers.... And them both regulars!"

The red head was watchin' me the whole time, her breathing hard, a little ragged; nipples pushin' out against the beer soaked blouse. Trying to get Crown Vic onto his feet, out the door.

She ran her tongue across her upper lip, licked away the sweat. "I'll be back," she mouthed the words, under her breath.

I helped her get him into the car. Wiped the blood off my hand on the front of his shirt.

We crippled through rest of night, me playin' a 'slack key', not usin' my left hand much. A lot of the crowd had left, what with the fight; women pullin' their husbands, boy friends, out the door.

The man was pissed with us. "Ain't sold near enough beer," he kept tellin' Leonard. "Might not pay you Dexter's share."

Red came back in just after mid-night, her driving the Crown Vic. Had lost the white blouse, it beer soaked and all. Had on some kind of a dress, buttoned all the way up the front.

She never sat down, just did dance moves all by herself, up close to the chicken wire. Turned down offers from whatever single guys hit on her. Undid the top button of that dress.

The Ford car with the chrome strip across the top was waiting when we went out the back door.

Leonard just laughed. "Reckon we'll see you later," he said. "You know where to find us."

"You drive," Red said, threw me the keys to the Crown Vic.

I spun gravel all over the back of the building, Leonard's bus, gittin' us out of there. Red lay down on the seat; her head in my lap, feet pushing against the shotgun side door.

"You a real 'bad ass'," she said. "Knew soon as I saw you. You a real bad ass... I always wanted to fuck a real bad ass."

"Oh," I told her, "I'm the fucker here.... You the fuckee."

She laughed, handed me an already lit cig. "You got a place?" she asked.

"No," I told her. "You?"

"No. Asshole's there. ... God, I hate to fuck in the back seat. I'm gittin' too old for that shit."

I laughed. "You ever try the car hood," I asked her. Told her, "feel good on your bare ass, that shiny wax job."

She gave me a look. "Shit. ... I like your attitude," she said.

I started to pull at the hem of the button-up dress. Un-did a couple.

"I'm not wearin' panties."

I checked. Sure enough she wasn't.

She handed me a bottle of Kentucky straight.

"Graveyard's just off the road a piece," she said. "It's a nice marble slab back in under them oak trees."

There weren't many buttons left to deal with. Red un-did the top ones; seemed like the bottom ones came undone on their own, or maybe I helped. I reached down between her legs, found the one-inch wide 'landing strip' running from the top of her pussy up toward her belly button. She made woman sounds; held my hand tight against her lower body.

The Crown Vic scraped its bottom in several places, came to a stop underneath the live oaks, surrounded by marble and granite markers. She was out the door almost before we stopped moving.

"Git your ass out of there," she said.

I caught her at the front corner of the car. "God, I'm gonna play with you. Been wanting to play with you all night."

"We can play later," she told him. "Fuck me now ... right now!... fuck me. Oh, sweet Jesus, fuck me!"

I picked her up, sat her up above the wheel well; pulled the opened dress up around her waist. Hooked my left big toe into the back of my right jeans-leg, stepped out of them jeans, all in one motion. Had already lost the shoes.

"You need help findin' it?" she asked. " ... What's takin' so long. You don't look like the kind of guy needs help."

I did her. Slammed into to her, her legs wrapped around my waist; ankles digging into my back. The sound of testicles slapping against her ass. Her tits bouncing.

It didn't last long, her so horney already. Cum, pussy juice running down onto the smooth and cool Crown Vic fender.

"God, you so wet," I told her.

She screamed obscenities, dug fingernails into my shoulders. The dead didn't seem to notice her screams.

"Where is that marble slab," I asked her. "I never fucked on a marble slab before."

I took away the wasted dress. Rolled it up for a pillow, tucked it underneath her Ann Margret tresses.

My face between her legs, I breathed in the aroma of her. Tasted the taste of her. Talked dirty to her. Taught her new curse words.

"What about 'asshole'?" I asked her later.

"I told him 'don't wait; up'," she said. Took my semi-wasted cock back into her mouth.

The sun coming up over the tree line, empty whiskey bottle in hand. "I'm gonna write a song," I told her. Took a drag on a cigarette, "Make you famous."

Naked, curled up on her grandfather's marble resting place, she was asleep, sated. Didn't hear the "make you famous" part.