Chet's dead

‘Chet’s dead.’

No-one asked ‘How?’ or ‘Where?’ or even ‘Why?’ Bill, the drummer, just asked, ‘When?’

‘This morning – 3 am. Hit by a car at Taylor Square,’ said Shane. Shane was our guitarist, the informal leader of our four piece  - now three piece – jazz outfit.

We were sitting in our rehearsal space. A basement bar in Sydney’s CBD. The place where we had all met.

Chet had been on a downward spiral for six months. The booze and drugs and late nights were enough to cause anyone to walk into oncoming traffic. Other demons, including a failed marriage, probably drove our sensitive and talented saxophonist to end his life so soon.

I got a round of drinks. Shane proposed a sober toast to Chet. We’d lost a friend, someone who got ‘it.’ We were all probably thinking two things: goodbye dear friend, and … how will we ever replace you?

Our group was on the verge of something significant. And tomorrow was a threshold moment for us. Tomorrow’s gig could lead to a headline at the Byron Jazz Festival. And that could lead to dates in London, Paris, New York, Berlin. Something we’d all strived for.

‘I um … have a replacement for tomorrow night. And if she works out, she can follow us onto Byron. Maybe beyond,’ said Shane.

Bill and I stiffened. We’d played with woman before, but I’d yet (sorry to say this) come across a good, I mean a really good, female sax player.

Before Bill and I could express our doubts, you walked in. The first thing that struck me was you appeared tiny – 5’ 3’’, maybe. But you carried your sax case with such confidence and quite bravado you looked much taller.

‘Guys – this is Monique. Monique Siren,’ said Shane.

‘Sorry to hear about Chet,’ you said. Bill, Shane and I looked at our drinks. There was nothing to say.

‘Well, let’s jam, eh? For Chet?’ said Shane.

We made our way to the small stage. The owner let us use his bar as a rehearsal space before opening hours. I plugged my bass guitar in my amp. Bill settled himself behind his drum kit. Shane did a final tune to his guitar. The three of us preparing to become one.

You opened the case you’d carried in and withdrew a tarnished sax. The reed was already fitted. You did a quick warm up of your fingers. Then you said – ‘What then?’

‘Let’s do ‘Round Midnight,’ said Shane, the Miles Davis classic. While originally composed for the horn, the sax can bring a different energy to this timeless standard.

Your face lit up, but only briefly. Like someone had suggested your favourite restaurant or book. It was apparent you were being cool and guarded around us.

It was a rough and ready rendition. Us blokes were so upset about losing our dear friend. And it showed. My bass lines were chaotic. Bill’s drumming was loose, but not in a good way. And Shane’s guitar howled – really howled. Sadly.

But something surprising happened. Your sax playing came over the top of this soup and lay a calm, musical hand on all of us. You played with great sensitivity. Calm intuition. Pose and precision.

I looked at Bill, then at Shane. Out mouths were open. Stunned by your quiet virtuosity. But more than that: you got ‘it’, just like Chet had.

The song concluded and you stood with you eyes closed, the way they had been for the entire piece. No speaking. Just the hiss of the amps and the sounds for the club’s kitchen.

We gigged the following night. And blew the crowd away. A lot of our friends and family, plus a few fans, showed up after hearing about Chet’s death. Many of us were thinking about him. But an equal number were drawn to you and your playing.

You struck such a pose. Slim red pants and black high heels. A plain white t-shirt and a tight-fitting black jacket. A single-strand pearl necklace. Your eyes were shrouded in deep black/ blue eye shadow. Intense black eyeliner and heavy mascara gave you a distance, impenetrable mystique. Bright, blood-red lipstick was carefully and provocatively painted on your full lips. Your black hair pulled back tight and parted to one side.

If the crowded noticed your intense image this was secondary to your passionate and relentless playing. We were not as tight as we had been with Chet. But something else was at play here. I stood along side you all night in awe of your skill and animal understand of where we were trying to be through our music.

The night ended late as usual. Instead of breakfast or more drinking I did what I loved to do. I retreated to my home in Coogee in Sydney’s Eastern suburbs. Stored my guitar and amp, then grabbed my flippers. At the end of my street was the beach. I plunged into the ocean and struck out for Wedding Cake Island, about 500 metres off shore.

This was a morning ritual to clear my head after a night of booze, loud music and cigarettes. And as I swam this morning, in the twilight with the cool water flowing over my body, I tried to make sense of you. You’d come from nowhere. And fitted right in. It was like a dream. And you were so beautiful.

By the time I clambered on to the rocks of the island, the sun was just rising. Alone all I could think about was you.

Our hot performance with you meant we scored the Byron gig. Two weeks later, after a couple of other gigs and five or six rehearsals, we were packing the hire van for the long drive north.

You showed up like me: a case for your instrument, a small duffle bag and a surfboard in a snug cover. We looked at each other and smiled. ‘And she surfs, too! Is there anything you can’t do, Monique?’ said Bill.

We found ourselves together in the very back seat and used the ten hours drive to get to know each other. By the time we got to Byron some of the mystery surround you had disappeared. But there still remained a lot to discover.

Our first gig was the following night. At about 4.30 am I quietly tried to leave the hotel for a dawn surf.

When I got to the hire van you were there. Surfboard, wetsuit and towel on the ground. ‘I knew I’d find you here,’ you said. ‘Let’s go. Wind should be good for Lennox Point.’

We spent three hours together surfing. Trading waves. Laughing. Back at the hotel we crashed in our separate rooms knowing we’d need to recoup for an intense gig that night.

The gig that night was a revelation. You and I were on top of our game. I put it down to the energy from the ocean, and the gradual bond we were developing. Shane and Bill played joyfully, maybe in memory of Chet.

Happy and pumped and full of hope we found ourselves alone in the foyer of the hotel. Your mascara had run a little and I smelt of beer and cigarettes and the sea. And so did you.

Our hands found each other. Then our stomach and chests. And finally our lips.

In your room we undressed wildly. Collapsing on the bed I finally got to see your body. It was taunt and strong from years of blowing that sax. Your throat had an intense knot of muscle running each side of your windpipe. Your arms were sinewy, but dusted with a delicious layer of downy hair.

After a long, wet messy kiss I pulled my mouth down to your breasts. Pert and smooth, the nipples stood up like little rubbers on the end of pencils. I sucked and nibbled each one in turn. Your fingernails drove into my scalp urging me on.

Down further, over your stomach and into the soft forest of your pubic hairs. You took your hands off my head. Your fingers spread the velvety folds of your vulva. My tongue licked the entire length of your sex. I desperately needed feedback on what you wanted. As my warm, wet tongue massaged your clitoris it was clear this is what you needed. A low rumble – like the deepest sax note – built in your chest. As it rose to your throat it changed pitch. When it emerged from your mouth you were almost singing. A soft cooing. Your pleasure sounds compelled me to continue.

And then you were falling. Fingernails again in my scalp. Shuddering. Broken words. More shudders. Then narcotic stillness.

I fell asleep, too. Nestled into your breasts. Our breathing unison. Nothingness.

I woke to find you out of bed a getting something from your bag. Back in bed you said, ‘I want to do something to you. I have found musicians from the low register - drummers, cellists, bassists - usually like this. And I just know you’ll love it.’

‘Go on …’ I said, still half asleep and not knowing where this was going.

‘First I want to suck your cock. And when you are really turned on, I want to stroke your anus. Your asshole.’ I flinched. Because it was a hot and very intense thing I enjoyed. How did you know?

‘Then, if that goes well I want to continue to suck your cock and gradually open you up with my fingers covered in greasy lube. First one finger. Then two.’

Now I was kissing you uncontrollably between your words. My hand on my cock, massaging the head.

‘I’ll massage your prostate, and send those electric shock feelings right into the head of your cock. And then …’

You paused to reveal what you’d retrieved from the bag …

You gave me a long, slow head job. One finger, then two were slid into my ass. You probed my prostate like you played the sax – with abandon. But always looking for feedback from me, like we were a musical duet. And electric shocks did flow from my prostrate to the head of my cock. To find your mouth there to meet them – sucking, sucking, sucking.

You carefully removed your fingers from me and knelt between my legs, to prepare your next treat for me. A black, leather harness – fitted around your waist and between your legs – that held a dark, red phallus. About seven inches long and curved slightly upwards. The process of fitting the strap-on reminded me of how you strapped the sax to your shoulders that very first day.

As you drizzled warm lube over the shaft you said, ‘It’s shaped this way, with that little kick, so when I fuck you I can get to your prostate. As I fuck you, I want you to pull your cock. I want – I need - to see you cum over your stomach.’

My ass was open and relaxed but the phallus was wider than your fingers. ‘Relax, baby,’ you said as the head begun to enter my ass. ‘You need to push a little now – like you are having a shit. That’s it. Go with it. I know you want it. You low register musicians always do.’

And with that you were in. The tip right against my prostate. My cock twitched and up and down, slapping my stomach. Pure ecstasy.

From high above me you drizzled lube all over my quivering cock. And as you did you started the slow, gentle fucking of my ass. You grabbed my waist to pin me to the bed. ‘Now, pull your cock. Time for you to cum, baby, while I fuck your ass.’

These words seemed to affect us both. You upped the tempo, now fucking me with the entire length of the phallus. My hand worked my cock. I was mesmerised by the intense spectacle of my new band mate, on her knees, pounding my ass while I wanked my cock.

‘Time to cum now.’ Between pants you said, ‘Because I massaged you prostate they’ll plenty of cum. In long, warm licks across your stomach and chest. I’m going to fuck you hard now. And I need you to blow.’

Another five or six deep thrust and I exploded. More cum than I’ve ever seen before. Onto my stomach. Chest. Neck. Face. Hair. And you cooed, ‘That’s it. Perfect. Just perfect.’

Quivering, spent, completely ecstatic I laid back. You gently wiped the cum up. And then slowly pull out of my ass.  My ass stayed open for a moment, then gently contracted like a flower closing for the evening.

Sleep again for both of us. A light sea breeze fanned the sweat on our bodies giving us the most perfect, cool sensation. As we drift away together I thought of jazz, surfing and you.