Janey And The Wildcats - Part Three (conclusion) free porn video

Janey and the Wildcats - Part 3 (Conclusion) The following morning I woke with my head nestled in the crook of Mick's arm. He was snoring softly, a sheen of dry, iridescent matter, like a butterfly's wing, coated his lower lip; his dark hair, loosed from its ponytail, was splayed over his pillow. I though he looked achingly cute. I rose carefully so as not to wake him, and removed by bra and panties, replacing them with clean ones, then put on the same outfit I had on the night before. I was just putting on some fresh makeup when I heard him stir. He opened his eyes and peered up at me, squinting; he smiled. "Hey, babe," he croaked hoarsely, "How are you this morning?" "I am absolutely fabulous!" I replied, completely unable to keep the smile off my face, "How about you?" He stretched languorously and grinned back, "Yeah, you're fabulous, alright. I think you proved that last night... Me? I feel great!" I went over to him and kissed him. He responded by slipping his tongue into my mouth. "Let's go eat," he said as we pulled apart, "I am totally ravenous!" "You certainly are," I teased, poking him in the crotch. We joined up with the rest of the band at the same greasy spoon we ate at the previous day. They were almost done, empty plates before them, casually sipping coffee. Janey gave me a sly grin as I sat down, but said nothing. We headed back to the Wolf Lake site to catch the morning's acts, intending to leave around noon. I'd packed my Strat in the trunk of my car, in case Paula's offer to sit in on the morning's jam bore fruit. As it happened, we arrived late, the jam already over. Ah well, I thought, we've already made our point. We proved that we can kick some serious blues ass the previous night, no need to gild the lily. We hung around, chatting with other musicians and catching the morning acts, then around noon the lads piled into the van and bounced their way out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust, up onto the highway, and disappeared in the distance. Janey and I followed in my car. "So," she said without preamble, "If you looked like the cat that swallowed the canary yesterday, today you look like you swallowed a whole flock!" she hesitated, then leaned toward me conspiratorially, "Or did you swallow something else?" Well, that was Janey for you. Subtle she is not. "Yes, Janey," I rejoined, trying to be as blunt as she was in return, "Yeah, I sucked him off! So there." I gave her a smug look. "Well!" she grinned, "Aren't you the sly one! It sure didn't take you long to embrace EVERYTHING about being a girl, did it? Well, good for you hon. So, whadya think? Did he like it? Is he totally smitten with you? Is he your abject slave for life? Are you two an 'item' now?" "I think so, don't know, don't know, and perhaps," I replied, "In that order." Her grin widened. "Well good for you honey!" she repeated, putting a hand on my nearer shoulder, "I'm really happy for you! Mick is such a cool guy. I really hope he DOES become totally smitten with you, if he isn't already." The conversation continued through the rest of the drive home, and late into the night. -- Marty proved to be an excellent and reliable bass player. We drilled him hard over the next two weeks, at the end of which our sound was at least as tight as it ever was, maybe even tighter. And his jazz sensibilities gave our hard-edged rock-funk sound a lightness and melodic sophistication it never had before. I liked it. I kept regular hours at the store, working a lot in the back, repairing guitars and amps, but gradually spent more and more time behind the counter and out on the floor as my confidence in my ability to pass, undetected and unrecognized, increased. The time for our grand re-emergence onto the local scene grew imminent. We were booked into Frugal McDougall's the next Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and as the week wore on my nervousness returned. I'd never quite gotten free of that bad dream where I would be up on stage, playing, and someone in the audience would suddenly leap up, point at me and yell, in a loud, penetrating voice, "Hey! That's no chick! That's a guy!" It wasn't a particularly realistic dream. I mean, how could anyone in the crowd really make themselves heard over the wall of sound we cranked out when we were in full flight? But the voice would be many times louder than our playing, and of course the audience's reaction in my dream would be just as hyperbolic. Pandemonium would break out; I would look out from the stage across an endless sea of shocked, horrified faces, fists clenched in anger; even Mick would recoil in disgust. I would protest, "No! No really I AM a girl!" But my voice would be lost in the deluge of sound. I would wake up shaking and sweating. I told Janey about these dreams, but she dismissed them as errant, meaningless flights of fancy. "Come on, honey," she would say, "I know you're nervous about playing back here on home turf, but honestly, you've got nothing to worry about. You'll never get read, and the whole band's on your side. Including Marty. And Ben and Erin and John and Gary and Michelle, and all the other people at Sherwood... And me too, of course. You're my BFF! My best female friend!" And she would give me a big squeeze. I spent a couple of long days at the store. My conscience had been getting the better of me, and I worried that I was leaving Erin, Ben and John with a mountain of work that I should have been doing. The first day, I hung mostly in the back, working on a backlog of stringed instruments that needed some TLC. At the end of the day, however, John informed me that he'd need some extra help in the guitar and keyboard departments. Ben was taking a day off, and Erin would be busy for part of the day, teaching piano. At Janey's suggestion I decided to go with a slightly provocative (read: "sexy") look, her rationale being that it might be easier to close guitar sales to horny straight guys. So, I wore a black silk cami top paired with a denim mini and black high heeled ankle boots. I pulled my hair back with a scrunchie and wore big silver hoops in my ears, along with an armload of silver bangles. Sultry eye makeup, dark lipstick and nails completed the look. "Wow!" commented Erin as I walked in Tuesday morning, "You look totally smokin'! I bet we'll be sold out by noon!" She grinned slyly at me. "That's the idea, hon!" I said airily, "What horny rock & roller can resist a chick in a mini-skirt?" Erin laughed, choking momentarily on her coffee. I think my strategy, or rather, Janey's strategy, worked. Guitar sales were brisk, even among the more expensive models like Taylor acoustics and upper-end Gibsons. John was tickled. "Wear the same thing tomorrow!" he enthused. Thursday afternoon, we pulled our van up to the back entrance to McDougall's and unloaded our gear. I was in jeans, t-shirt and running shoes, since hauling our gear up the stairs, across the bar and onto the stage was sweaty work, but I had a sexier outfit in mind for the show. We set up everything according to our usual McDougall's arrangement, feeling rather like it was old-home week: my amp and pedal board stage- right, then Mick's gear, Dan's kit in the middle, with Marty and Max on the far side. Marty had packed his Steinberger fretless bass along with the Fender Precision, with the intention of seeing how a jazzier bass sound might go over on some of our more laid-back tunes. By 9:30 I was scared shitless. Dressed in skintight black jeans, tall black high-heeled boots, one of Janey's glittery black see-through tops (black bra showing through slightly) long silver earrings and lots of bangles, I sat at the mirror, fucking with my makeup nonstop. More eyeliner, then wiping most of it off with a Q-tip. Then more lipstick, then wiping it off and trying a different color from the stash in my purse. Fretting about the color of my nail polish. More blush. More mascara. Janey watched me with a wry expression. "I don't suppose it'd do any good to tell you to relax, huh?" "At this point," I replied, giving her a tremulous smile, "I'd probably have to look the word up in a dictionary." Mick was watching me with a neutral expression on his face, but now and then when he figured nobody else was watching, he'd give me a quiet smile and a wink. It occurred to me that we'd never talked about what, if anything, to tell the rest of the band about our "relationship". Was it too soon? Did we even HAVE a relationship? Would he want to say anything? Would I? Oh crap. More out-of-control thoughts swirled around in my head, vivid fantasies that both replayed and embroidered my recurring nightmare. Now, instead of just one guy jumping up in the audience and shouting, "That's no chick, that's a guy!" he was now joined by someone else who would shout, "Yeah, and he's fucking the rhythm guitarist!" Ah, me and my overactive imagination. To gain control of my thoughts, I imagined myself stepping up to the mike and saying, "Well, technically, we haven't fucked at all yet, I just sucked his cock." Sitting before the mirror, I burst out laughing. "Okay people," Janey announced, "Let's do it!" As we walked together down the corridor, she leaned over and pecked me on the cheek. "You're gonna blow their minds, darlin'! Don't you worry, it's gonna be great!" "Thanks," I said, with a half-smile, "I hope so." We, the band, took the stage while Janey hung back. We figured for this show we'd return to our standard intro strategy; perhaps we'd try our new one later in the weekend. The tables closest to the stage at McDougall's are no more than a couple of feet away (I'd always wondered what it would be like to be sitting directly in front of one of the PA system's bass bins. Probably a lot like being at the end of a runway while a 747 throttles up for takeoff.) As I mounted the stage, I realized that two of the tables almost directly in front of me were populated by folks that we thought of as "regulars" at our shows. I felt a sudden icy douche of terror squirt over me as I wondered what they were thinking about this unexpected new female guitarist, who just happened to bear a striking resemblance to the band's old male guitarist. Or did I? There were definitely times when I would be sitting in front of my dressing table putting on lipstick or mascara, and I would suddenly realize that I was staring at a complete stranger. With my pink-streaked blonde hair, my dark eye-shadow and lipstick, slinky black outfit and heels, did I really look at all like my old self? I had no idea. And the expressions on the faces of our regulars gave me no clue. Fuck it, I thought, there's nothing I can do about it now. Just gotta go through with it. I picked up my guitar and slung it over my shoulder, stomping the tuner pedal to do a final tuning check. Then Dan was hitting his sticks together, and we slammed into our intro riff at full volume. I clicked the amp into overdrive with the toe of one boot, and began tossing in bluesy fills at the end of each phrase, acutely aware that any guitar player in the audience who was familiar with our band would quite possibly notice a striking similarity in playing styles between this-here girl guitarist and the band's "previous" male one. Janey leapt on stage and grabbed her mike. "Heyyyy McDougall's!" she yelled, "How the fuck y'all doin'? It's great to be back! We been away far too long, and we're gonna make up for it by kicking some serious ass for ya!" We fired into a hyperactive version of Badass Boogie, cranking the tempo up and pulling back on the syncopation. With Mick slamming out the power chords on his Les Paul, it sounded almost like old 1970's Led Zeppelin in full flight. Cool. I glanced down at the nearest tables and saw that the two girls sitting there were staring closely at me as I stood over them, chunking out the riff, legs slightly spread, heel tapping the rhythm. As I watched, one leaned over and yelled something into the other's ear. The other returned a comment, then they looked at each other, nodding almost in unison, and burst out laughing. Then they returned their gaze to me, the laughter still trickling from their faces. What the hell did they just say to each other? I wondered. "Hey! I think that foxy chick up there is the old guitar player in drag!" I imagined the conversation going, "Yeah, you're right! And I bet he's sucking off the other guitarist, too!" Oh God. Shut up brain, or I'll stab you with a Q-Tip! I forced my gaze farther afield, to the shadowed tables near the back, and over to the dance floor. The place was hopping, the dance floor packed, and nobody else seemed particularly interested in me... Or did they? What about that guy who just gestured at the stage with his beer bottle, yelling something to his companions? Or that girl who was up dancing near the stage, her index fingers both pointing in my direction? Shit. This is too nerve-wracking! We slid directly from Badass Boogie into Pearls Before Swine and from there into our blues medley, cranking the tempo up a bit, in recognition that McDougall's was primarily a rock joint. I tried to focus on the music, and on what was happening on stage, but I could feel sweat trickling down from my armpits, and I knew it wasn't entirely due to the temperature onstage. Janey finished a verse and then swung around and pointed at me. My turn... I gave the volume knob a twist and wailed out the first lick of my solo. There's no sinking into the background now, I thought as my fingers slithered up the neck to a screaming high B, bent sharp and mutated with the whammy bar. Oh well. Fuck it. I got a job to do, anyway. Hell, I'm the lead guitarist! I finished the first twelve bars, then signaled to the others that I wanted to keep going. I switched to the bridge pickup and began to really haul out my bag of tricks, bluesy SRV hammer-ons and pull-offs, screaming bends, psychotic vibratos. I started to have fun. When I'd plowed through the second twelve bars and Janey stepped up to the mike again to begin the third verse, I heard a trickle of applause and a few whistles through the noise. Alright! I thought to myself, guess they liked it. The tightness in my chest began to evaporate. At the first break, Janey and I hurried back to our so-called dressing room and I stripped off my soaking cami top. "Do you have anything else I can wear?" I asked her. "Sorry, little sister," she replied, "You're gonna need to remember to bring something yourself, next time." Just then there was a knock, and the door swung open without preamble and a head poked in. "Jesus-fuck!" I yelled, standing in just my jeans and bra, "The idea behind knocking, pal, is you knock, then you wait for someone to say, 'Come in'!!" "Oh shit! Sorry!" The door closed again. I put my sweaty top back on again and yelled, "Okay. NOW you can come in!" The door swung open and a guy I didn't recognize entered. He was somewhat older than Janey or me, short hair, expensive-looking casual clothes, fancy watch. He extended his hand to Janey, who shook it briefly, then to me. "Hi. Jake Johnson," he began, "Bragg-Sutherland Agency." He handed us each a card. "Oh yeah?" Janey said in a neutral tone, pocketing the card without looking at it. "Yes," he continued, "I've been following you folks for the last few weeks. A friend told me I needed to check you out, and he wasn't wrong! I was at your last show at the Rockpile, and my friend sent me a recording of your show at Wolf Lake. You people rock pretty good! And you have some very interesting original songs. But," he went on, raising an index finger, "I checked, and you don't have an agent, or a manager, or anyone to take care of your business dealings." "That's true," said Janey, "Never really needed one..." "Well, I think you do now," he went on earnestly, "It's time for you folks to take it to the next level. You don't want to be small-time forever, do you? And with good management you can move up in the world. A lot, maybe." "And you're offering?" I asked. "I think I can do a good job for you," he nodded, "I represent some pretty successful local acts, and I am quite sure they would all recommend me unconditionally. They've done pretty well by me, I'm proud to say... lots better than they were doing on their own, you can bet." "Uh huh," Janey said, "Well, I think we're doing okay. And we're not giving away a whack of our hard-earned dough as commission!" "House band at McDougalls?" he queried, raising an eyebrow, "The Rockpile? Nick's Place? What if I told you I could get you the opening act for a major concert? The first rung on the ladder to the big time!" "Yeah?" Janey said skeptically, "What major concert?" "Well, let's see..." he mused, "How about Steely Dan, two months from now?" "Huh," she grunted, "Well, Mr... Johnson, was it? Tell you what. You get us to open for Steely Dan, and we'll be your slaves for life. Until then..." "Well, you'd have to sign a contract, of course," he said, "It's only reasonable. I'm not going to do a lot of work on your behalf on just a nod and a wink." Janey was quiet for a moment. "Okay," she said, "I'll tell you what, Mr. Jake Johnson. Let me discuss it with my lady-friend here, and if we decide to take it further, we'll talk it over with the band and let you know. Okay?" "Okay." He offered his hand again, and we both shook it, "I'll expect your call." -- We signed. The prospect of playing a major concert opener was pretty seductive, let's face it. We were still somewhat skeptical, but we'd talked to some of the other bands who had signed with him, and they were all complimentary, saying that he'd worked hard on their behalf, and gotten them to places they would never have reached on their own. It sounded hopeful. Still, after three weeks of near-total silence from our new booking agent, we were starting to wonder if we'd made a serious mistake; then Janey's cell phone rang. She flipped it open. "Yeah?" There was a protracted silence, then, "You are fuckin' kidding me. You're yanking my tit! NO FUCKING WAY!" She put the phone on her chest and looked at me, her eyes and mouth wide. "He did it. He fucking did it! STEELY FUCKING DAN! We're the opening act! And the MONEY! Oh my God..." Our yells were probably heard down on the street. We hugged each other, jumping up and down and shrieking. "Goddamn it, bro!" she enthused into the phone, "You are totally the DUDE! We are your abject slaves for life, man! Thank you so much!" There was some more--slightly calmer--dialog, then she flipped the phone closed. "Goddamn, girl!" she grinned at me, "A concert gig! Wait'll we tell the others!" -- "Steely fucking Dan!" Janey sighed, leaning back against a big pillow she'd propped up against my amp. "Now THIS is gonna be cool. We'll have actual roadies to set up for us for a change, a proper dressing room, major-league sound system... AND a rider on our contract that guarantees all of the stuff we want our dressing room stocked with: food, beer, wine, naked guys..." The van rocked gently as we went around a curve and she braced her foot against the side-wall to maintain her position. "It's the big time, Kim," she drawled, poking me in the leg, "The biiigggg taahmmm..." She leaned back, closing her eyes and taking a drag on her cigarette, "Well, bigger than before, anyway." I gestured toward the bottle of Coke she was cradling and she passed it to me. I took a swig, then said, "Of course, this is also triggering my trademark anxiety about being found out." "Of course!" she said, grinning at me, "I'm starting to know your patterns, honey. But don't you fret. It's gonna be juuuusst fine..." She sighed again and nestled deeper into her pillow. We were silent for a time. I could see Mick, up near the front of the van, snoozing peacefully on another pillow he'd propped up against his guitar case. Marty was asleep also. The outlines of Max and Dan in the front seats appeared and disappeared as headlights went by in the opposite direction. "Hey," she said softly, breaking the silence, "How are things going with you and Mick? Looks to me like he's still mighty sweet on ya..." I crawled over next to Janey and said quietly in her ear, "Yeah, it's going pretty well, I think. He still doesn't want to say anything to the rest of the band, though, and I'm pretty sure you're the only one who knows, so you gotta keep it quiet too, huh? I tell you, though, it'd be so cool if I could just go over there and snuggle with him. But shit. I dunno, Janey. I think he might freak out." "You never know, hon," she replied, smiling, "He might be okay with it." Then I heard Max speak up from the driver's seat. "Jesus," he said, "It sure has gotten pretty fucking foggy." He took his foot off the gas and I felt the van slow down. I crawled up between the seats and looked out the windshield. "God yeah. This is like driving through milk. How the hell are we gonna know the exit when we see it?" "Fucked if I know," he muttered, "I'm kind of wondering how I'm gonna know the highway when I see it. Ha!" I slithered back next to Janey and settled back into the pillows, putting my head on her shoulder. "It's going to be a while yet, I guess." I yawned, "I'm really fucking tired. Mind if I grab some Z's?" "Not at all, honey. Sit here." She patted the pillow next to her. I crawled over and sat next to her, and she put her arm around me. I nestled into the crook of her arm, moved around experimentally, then closed my eyes. "Shit!" yelled Max suddenly, "What the fuck??" I looked up. The last thing I remember is a bright light in my eyes. -- The next thing I remember is a bright light in my eyes. I squinted, trying to focus. The light moved from side to side, in one eye, then the other. A voice said, "She's conscious," then, "Miss... Miss. What is your name?" I realized that the light in my eyes was a small flashlight, being held by a young woman whose face swam dizzily above me. As I screwed up my eyes, she moved the light aside. "What?" I tried to say. No sound came out. I tried again. "What?" I managed to croak. "Can you tell me your name?" she said, enunciating each word carefully. "Kim," I whispered. "Kim," she said, "Kim, listen to me. Do you know what day it is?" "Uh... T... Tuesday?" My voice didn't seem to want to work properly. "Good. Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?" "No." "You were in a car accident." She said, "Your vehicle was struck head on. What is the last thing you remember?" "A car accident?" I whispered, confused, "What? What happened?" Then my thoughts seemed to clear suddenly. "Fuck!" I cried hoarsely, "Oh fuck! Janey! Mick!" I tried to sit up. "Just lie still!" the woman said, placing a hand on my chest, "Just relax. We're paramedics. Everyone is being treated. There's nothing you can do now. Just relax... relax... that's it... good." I sank down. My back felt wet. Beams of red and blue lights cut through the fog above my head, and I could hear voices, and the sound of radio chatter. Ghostly figures moved quickly through the murk, in and out of focus. "Are you in pain anywhere?" she asked. "I don't think so," I said weakly, "Yes... My leg hurts... Headache... Where's everyone else? Is anyone else hurt? Where is everyone? Mick...Mick!" "We're going to get you and everyone else to the hospital as soon as possible," she said, "You have a probable fracture in your left tibia, and a possible concussion. We've splinted your leg, and we'll get you to the hospital as soon as possible. Stay with me, now. Don't go to sleep." "Mick..." I groaned, "Where's Mick?" I felt myself being lifted onto a stretcher of some sort, and moments later I was slid into an ambulance. The female paramedic climbed in beside me. "Don't worry about anyone else, now," she said, laying a hand on my arm, "They're all getting the best of care. Now, don't close your eyes... look at me. Look at me! You need to stay awake." The back door closed, and the ambulance started off. -- I did have a concussion, as it turned out, and my leg was broken. It could have been a lot worse. They set me up with an IV drip and monitoring gear, and let me sleep. When I woke up, Janey was in the next bed, her eyes closed. "Thank God for that," I said aloud... But where was Mick? And what about the others? Some hours later, Janey opened her eyes and saw me. "Hey girlfriend," she whispered, and cracked a smile, "You don't look near as bad as I feel." I reached over toward her and we touched fingertips. "Hey honey," I said quietly, "I am so glad you're here. But what about the others? Where are they?" Her face clouded over and tears came to her eyes. "Oh fuck, Kim... Max! Oh my God..." "What?" A cold wash of dread sluiced over me. She looked into my eyes. "He's dead, Kim. Died instantly, they said." "Oh God... Oh shit... shit!" Tears sprang to my eyes; my heart pounded. Max... gruff, obnoxious, abrasive, dear, sweet, lovely Max... Max of the blistering keyboard solo. Max, the obstinate keeper of stone-age synthesizer technology, who could somehow coax the voices of angels from a mountain of arcane sliders, knobs, patch-cords and switches. Max, the hard-core biker with the heart of a poet, Max, who would threaten to rip a guy's head off to protect me, and spend his Saturday protecting baby birds... Max. Gone. It was too much to take. For a while, neither of us spoke; we simply held hands across the gap separating our beds, and cried. -- I was in the hospital four days, and left on crutches. By then, I'd sprouted a faint, wispy beard, and before I left one of the nurses was kind enough to track down a razor for me so I could shave it off. Of course, by that time, thanks to my ID, everyone knew I was male, but, to their credit, the staff--with the notable exception of one doctor who insisted on calling me "Mr. Myles"--discreetly referred to me as "she" and "her", and "Miss". Good people. I located my purse and was able to do a rudimentary makeup job before leaving my room. I found out from one of the nurses that Mick had been rushed into the O.R. direct from the accident scene, bleeding internally. They'd patched him up, and he spent the next three days in intensive care in critical but stable condition. The day I was discharged, they moved him out of the ICU into a regular room. I commandeered a wheelchair and wheeled myself down the hall to his room. He was lying in bed, tubes in every orifice it seemed, eyes closed, the skin of his face pale as the sheets. I sat quietly until he opened his eyes. "Hey," I said softly. "Hey." His voice sounded so weak. "Are you in any pain?" "Nah," he said, after a moment, and grinned weakly, "Good drugs." I reached out and we held hands. "Max is..." I couldn't say the word. "I know," he whispered, closing his eyes, "Guess we're not opening for Steely Dan, huh?" "Nope." We were silent for a minute, lost in our own thoughts. Then he squeezed my hand. "I'm... I'm done, Kim," he said quietly, "Finished with the music scene. I've been kind of thinking about it for a while now, but I wanted to see what would happen now that we had a manager. But... I guess this is the last straw, now... "I... See, this friend of mine is offering me a job up north. I can get trained as a commercial pilot... did you know I have my private pilot's license? No, I guess I never said, did I? Well, there's lots of work right now, flying for mining and oil companies. Maybe I can get my helicopter certification. It's good money..." I nodded numbly, not meeting his eye. My heart felt like it was full of lead. "What about..." I began, but couldn't finish. I was going to say, 'what about us?' But I think I already knew the answer: It was fun while it lasted, babe. But let's face it. We both knew it had to end, right? What kind of future could there be for a straight guy, and a girl with a dick? None. None at all... There was no "us"... My throat felt tight. My chest felt tight. God, I think my whole body felt tight. We sat in silence for a while, still holding hands. I couldn't think of anything to say. Hell, there WAS nothing to say... -- There's not much more to tell. You know that I moved to New York City, right? I gigged around for a time, sometimes solo, sometimes with a pick-up band that would come together for a night, or a weekend, or a week. Then Janey tracked me down and we moved in together in a loft in Soho. We played together occasionally, which was usually great, but often we'd do separate gigs in different parts of the city. We made ends meet; Janey often got great reviews in local papers, like the Voice. I did a lot of everything, played in bars and clubs, worked as a studio musician, played rock, folk, blues; I even "committed jazz" now and then. It was good work, and reasonable money. For the most part, I think, nobody knew I was a guy. Or if they did, they didn't seem to care. -- Then, there was the night in a small but very exclusive club in Greenwich Village when Janey and I were playing together, and I looked out across the audience and saw a guy sitting by himself, collar-length dark hair, goatee, expensive-looking suit, and deep, soulful eyes that I remembered so well. Somehow I finished the set. Then, with iron-willed restraint I walked casually over to his table. "Mick!" I said, favoring him with my best 'hello-long-lost-friend' smile, "Wow! How are you! I didn't know you were in New York!" I extended my hand. "Hello, Kim," he said and rose from his seat. He opened his arms and, my self-restraint evaporating in an instant, I fell into them. He kissed my hair, my neck, my cheek, "I've really missed you." "I missed you!" I responded, tears pricking at my eyes, "What are you doing here? I thought you were up north, somewhere." "Yeah, well. Work up north kind of kind of dissolved, what with the economic downturn and all. And anyway: music's in my blood, babe!" he said, laughing, "Couldn't leave it alone. I've been here for almost two years. I'm a producer, now." I fingered the collar of his suit. "Doing pretty well, too, from the look of it!" "Yeah, doing pretty well..." he rattled off the names of some pretty major new acts that he now managed, "I saw your name in one of the local papers, playing here. Janey, too. So of course I had to come." He grinned, "And you, my dear... YOU need a producer; an agent." "Me?" "Both of you," he said, still grinning, "You two've still got your mojo, definitely. And you're still playing clubs like this. I mean, it's not a bad gig and all, probably decent money, but you could be doing so much more!" "Really?" I said, "And you're the one to take us there?" Just then Janey came over, having just emerged from the Ladies. "Mick!" she cried, "Holy fuck! I thought that was you!" She threw her arms around him. "Hey Janey," he grinned, "Long time." "How the hell are ya?" she grinned back, "Whoa! Check out the dude in the suit! Armani, too, if I'm not mistaken..." She fingered the material of his sleeve. "Mick thinks we need him as our agent," I said, "Could have us playing the A.C.C. in no time, he says." "No shit?" Her eyebrows went up. "No shit," he nodded, "Well... maybe not the A.C.C. Not right away, anyway. But, lots bigger gigs than this place..." What the hell. We hired him. -- "And the rest, as they say, is history. Mick was as good as his word. He hooked us up with some really good session players, most of whom eventually became permanent band members. Janey and I flew down to Barbados and locked ourselves in a cottage on the beach with a fifth of Jamaican rum, a chunk of hash and buckets of coffee, and wrote our asses off, coming up with about twenty decent songs in just a couple of weeks. "Mick booked us into a studio--our first serious attempt at recording-- and lined us up with an amazing engineer, a young guy named Javier, who'd learned his craft working with the likes of Daniel Lanois (Javier and I got along great; he typically wore an armload of bangles, like me, and dangly earrings, and painted his nails.) Mick was our producer. "And, oh yes! He also paid for these boobs, which I know you've been surreptitiously admiring! "So anyway... As you know, our first album, "Pearls Before Swine" did pretty well, but we really broke through with our second release, "To The Max", which, as the title suggests, was our tribute to our late, great keyboard player... "Excuse me for a sec... what? Five minutes? Thank you... "Okay, I'm going to have to cut this interview short, sorry. It's time to get the band together and do our last-minute concert prep. We go on in less than five minutes... "Yes, we have this little ritual we always go through to get psyched up for performances... you're more than welcome to join in, if you like... "Okay people!... People! It's time! Circle up! "Yeah, that's right... we get together in a circle and join hands... You can stand there, next to Janey... Good. "So, since we have a couple of minutes, I'll go around the circle and introduce everyone, starting at my left, Janey you already know... on your left, that's Angie, and Beth, backing vocals... next Beth that's Keith, rhythm guitar... Tony on bass... Arthur, keyboards... Ron, drums... Paco on percussion and flute... Jason, tenor sax... and this handsome guy on my right is my wonderful husband and manager, Mick! "Okay, people, listen up! This is a sold-out show tonight... Are we gonna get out there and kick some ASS?!? "YEAH!"