WHACK! "More!" "Hey Rick, move it closer!" "ok" WHACK! "A litle more, Rick" "ok" WHACK! "Snare mic's good, now the high hat." "Hey Jim, I'm not getting the snare on my phones." "ok, hold a sec... try again." WHACK! "Snare's fine now, Jim." "ok" WHACK! Rod sipped his bourbon and let the snare drum punctuate his memories of the old bar. He had a lot of fun playing rhythm guitar here with these guys twenty years ago. Vague dreams of trying for the big time, but mostly just playing blues and rock and roll, just for fun, usually in Bob's garage. Then he got them this gig and they managed to keep it for three months. Every Friday and Saturday night that summer they played at Poney's and drank and got rowdy and managed to stay out of serious trouble. But at the end of the summer he applied for admission to State U., was accepted, left the band, left town and hit the books. The band found another rhythm guitar player who didn't stay long. Bob, the drummer, had a car accident that kept him out for months. The gig went to another band. They slowly drifted out of each other's lives. After his degree, several job changes, many transfers and twelve years as branch manager in Europe, Rod was back in the states as division manager. He had come to attend the yearly division managers meeting and grumbled while he drove the dreary miles. Who was the numbskull that decided to hold the yearly meeting in a small town out in the middle of nowhere? He could almost bring himself to call it his home town. His parents had lived there four years before moving on, longer than they had stayed in any town before. And why on rodeo weekend? Every motel in town was full. The rest of the guys were lucky to get into the only hotel in town - the cowboys preferred the motels because they had more space for their trailers. Human Resources had left him off the list until the last minute and all they could do for him now was that fleabag ten miles out of town. So, he had called Mel and Betty, was very surprised to reach them at the same number after so many years and asked to stay with them just for the two nights. They were happy to have him, to talk about the old times, to share their lives again. Nothing much had happened to them, they were the same high school sweethearts they were back then. Mel had his own car repair place and was doing well. Betty took care of their two boys and was kept busy helping with their school and sports. Mel got the band together, now as a trio. They had a permanent gig at Poney's every Friday and Saturday night. It was Friday night, they'd be playing in about an hour, so why not enjoy the evening at Poney's? "Sounds like a winner. What are you guys playing now?" "Blues, rock, what else is there? Just a little more techie, that's all." "And you play just as loud, I bet." With a broad grin Mel said: "No, louder." WHACK! BUBOOM BOOM! BUBUBOOM BOOM! The sound check went on. They were adjusting the mic on the kick drum now. It was just as loud but it shook his ribcage instead of his mind. He had gotten soft - reading, sightseeing all over Europe, theater, opera, chamber music - always avoiding the music from which he had run away to school: the blues and rock and roll that was so central to his youth. It was part of growing up, of maturing, he told himself. Bach, Mozart and Beethoven were very good company, especially on the long drive here. Now it was time for some local flavor: Friday night at Poney's. The town regulars would come to let out a little steam and hear his old high school band play again far into the night. It would be like getting a postcard from the old days, like a tourist taking in the sights: survivors of wild teenage years, blues freaks in a cowboy town. Sitting at his tiny table not far from the stage he wondered if there'd be enough legroom when the place was packed. WHACK! BUBOOM! "testing testing... you got me on the monitors, Mel?" "yeah, Tom, loud and clear!" WHACK! BUBUBOOM! BOOM! The bar looked just like it did twenty years ago: grungy walls, grungier floor, brown chairs, brown tables, antlers hanging from the wall here and there, rodeo pictures, dirty small windows high up on one wall, Vargas girl posters near the bar. It was a dreary place until the customers and the band filled it with life, lit it with the stage lighting, moved in the reflections in the mirrors and in the bottle racks behind the bar. WHACK! TWANGG! SQUEEEEEEEEEE! RRYYAAAUUUUUMMMM! Mel was tuning his axe, playing a few chords at full volume, getting it to feed back the way he wanted it. Tom, the bass player, was tuning up also. Rod winced again. Loud? Yeah, loud. A wall of speakers, racks of electronics, headphone wireless monitors - they seemed less like rockers and more like space pilots ready to blast off. The old bar kept chipping at his memory. The long hallway with the exit sign above the back door. The faint smell of freshly cleaned restrooms down that hallway. It would soon grow into the stench of urine as the patrons would line up in the narrow passage way waiting their turn at the two worn out urinals. They seemed to arrive all at once, crowding the bar, the barkeeper working at top speed before the band started up. He didn't get much of a chance. WHACK! BUBUBOOM! "You done tuning, Tom?" "Rock and roll!" "OK then, here we go! One, two... " And they launched off into a shuffle. Louder, thought Rod, way louder. The sound level pressed hard on walls and bodies. Mouths moved, asked for drinks, smiled when they got things that were close to what they asked for and moved toward tables swimming against the flood of sound coming off the stage. From time to time speech was attempted by putting mouth next to ear. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes the spoken - more like shouted - words were too loud and the ear was withdrawn with a wince and a puzzled look. The sound hit him hard. His chest was kicked and shaken by the drums and the bass, the highest notes of the guitar made his eardrums sizzle. They'd come near this in the old days, but never this clear. The music hit him harder. His bourbon was forgotten in the flood of conflicting signals from his mind and body. Some part of him turned his attention to Mel. Without question his playing had matured: he had finally slowed down and allowed himself to get lyrical. Damned loud - and damned good. Another part of him was reacting to the beat, adrenilated, pumped up, needing to move, dance. Another part of him remembered and was afraid, wanting to escape from the pain of his last few days in town, long ago. Immersed in the sound of the band, alone with his thoughts, he felt the music touch the feelings that he had to put behind him when he left. And in the overwhelming loudness that had broken through to these feelings, he let himself feel the emotions he had avoided for so long. The blues washed over him, tightened his throat, would have made him break down if he hadn't riveted his eyes on Mel's hands, desperately appreciating his technique to avoid remembering, ribs straining trying not to sob. He and Anne had been together a glorious spring and summer exploring each other's company, bodies and love. Feeling like true soul mates, attuned and ready for each other. Attempting everything, exploring everything, finding themselves, playing with spanking. Tentatively at first, like naughty little kids. Then deeper and deeper into the full enjoyment of well reddened bottoms. Rod downed the rest of his bourbon and looked down the narrow hallway, past the restrooms, under the exit sign to let himself see the dark door of the janitor's closet. He remembered standing at the bar, feeling Anne's mouth next to his ear shouting something unintelligible. After several tries, she had grabbed his wrist and led him down the dark hallway. She had opened the closet door, pulled him in and closed it. In total darkness and only a thin wall away from the drummer they hugged and kissed and fondled each other and then Anne had almost shouted in his ear: "spank me!". She leaned her head against his chest steadying herself, wrestled her jeans and panties down and then ducked under his left arm. Wrapping his arm around her waist, cupping his hand on her pubis, almost lifting her weight that way and with his head close to her waist trying to get his aim right, he had raised his right arm and brought it down hard across both cheeks in time with the beat. He could feel her ribcage shake with laughter. He was laughing too. His hand, still stinging, was pressed hard against her buns feeling the quivering ripple in her cheeks but neither of them had heard the impact. Her nails dug into his arm, her silent way of egging him on, nails was go, tap or slap on the forearm was stop. In utter darkness Rod had spanked her on the beat, slap after soundless slap raining down on her willing tush while he felt her get wetter and wetter with his left hand until she shook in climax, clenching and unclenching her thighs around his hand. He had kept on spanking, enjoying the feelings in his hand, the fleshy heat of her swollen buns and the stiffness in his bulging jeans. Until she stopped him with sharp slaps on his left forearm, quickly slipped out of his hold and wrestled with his zipper. It did not take her long to free his erection from its prison and to bring him also to a roaring climax in her mouth, his hands caressing her cheeks and ears. Afterwards, they stood in tight embrace swaying to slow blues - the deep, velvet smooth notes of the bass melted them into each other, his hands reveling in the heat of her cheeks, her hands tucked in his jeans squeezing and kneading his buns, his prick still hard against her soft belly feeling like it might come again at any time. They knew the next song would be the last of that set and they moved quickly before the hallway filled again. Opening the closet door blocked the narrow hallway and the back door of the bar, so they had gone out into a beautiful moonlit night without being seen. There were many other crazy things they had done together back then, but that one was etched into his brain. Still, a very short time later she was marrying someone else and he was leaving town to go to college. He had convinced himself that he had put it all safely away. But now he was slumped in his chair, head bowed, sad beyond words - his old band had just showed him the depth of his loss again. It was only nine o'clock. How could he take any more of this? He raised his head in time to see Mel turning toward him, still playing, and realized the rudeness of his stance. He straightened up and forced himself to concentrate on his superb performance again, letting the muscles in his fingers mimic Mel's as he soloed. He had not forgotten, he could probably still play reasonably well. But the memories would not leave. At the end of the solo he managed a smile and raised his fist in praise. Bob and Tom picked up the rhythm again while Mel looked at him and grinned. He just stood there, playing on to the end of the song, staring and grinning. Why was he looking at him like that? It was almost like he was looking through him. Then he felt the caress of feminine hair against his right ear and a barely intelligible voice that said: "Mind if I join you?" He turned to find himself looking at Anne, a softer face now, a little heavier body in her jeans, the same loving eyes he knew twenty years ago. Fumbling for a way to say yes he grabbed her arm and saw her left hand, ringless, gripping his forearm. He stood up and drew her into his arms almost knocking down his chair. They were still standing, their arms wrapped around each other when the song ended. Mel walked by smiling on his way to the john. They sat down close to each other on the same side of the tiny table. Anne put her face next to his and whispered in his ear: "I'm sorry, Rod, really sorry. It was a bad choice, I was too impatient - ended up running away from you and from myself". "Well, I couldn't see you and Ernie together. Neither could I give you what you wanted right then. I'm sorry too. I came looking for you after graduation but you had left town." "I wanted kids, I wanted to stay here, I didn't want to wait. And you needed your life." "How did it go for you? Or should I even ask?" "It didn't work out. Bad, really bad. After a while I tried, you know, some of our games and it gave him an excuse to beat me up. Get drunk and beat me up. I had to leave. Billy came with me. He was nineteen last May. He is going to State U. now. Funny, huh? So now I work at the library and live alone. Betty called me this afternoon." Nothing else was said. They looked and smiled into each other's eyes and waited for Mel to come back and for the band to start up again. A very few beats into "Johnny B. Good" she grabbed his hand and got up. There was nothing in the world that could have kept him from following her down that dark hallway, past the lines waiting for the john, to the janitor's closet. They opened the closet door, then the back door to make it look like they were leaving, then ducked back into the closet and closed the door. No one noticed. In total darkness and only a thin wall away from the drummer they hugged and kissed and fondled each other and her mouth, tight against his ear, barely conquered the sound level that engulfed them as she said: "I asked Mel to play a little longer on this set." He nodded, kissing and nuzzling her neck, his hands in the pockets of her jeans, squeezing and drawing her hard against him, as she said: "Mel said they won't stop til' closing time."
	red.red (for Tom)