No Underwear and a Sun-Kissed Spill
The Guitarist
Chapter 7
“Do I seriously not have any clean underwear?!”
“Fuck it! Commando it is!”
It’s Thursday at 7:45 pm, and I am scrambling around my victorian apartment like a maniac looking for something to wear. I guess I should fill you in on my frantic scramble. I got a call from my editor of a pretty decent inner-city entertainment magazine to write a piece about a guitarist who has been making waves the past few weeks and catching the attention of women 35 plus. Of course, I could care less about some skirt-attracting guitarist, but a jobs, a job, especially when it can put a dent in my rent!
“Yes! Something suitable to sit in a cigarette-filled drunken panty fest, minus mine of course.” I took a glance in the mirror and did sitting motions to make sure my dress wasn’t too tight, then I grabbed my floral clutch and ran out the door with my shoes in hand.
After hopping in an Uber, I shuffled my feet into the pair of 4-inch pinky cutters, did some final touches to my make-up, and checked my hair wrap. I didn’t have time to tame the fro so what better way to add flare to a cocktail dress than by wearing a Nubian style scarf.
The Venue
The performer was supposed to start at 8 pm so being a little late shouldn’t be too bad as long as I have somewhere to sit with a good view and a quick exit if needed. I am not a fan of bar spaces or loud music for extended periods, it sends my brain into chaotic overdrive.
Anyhoo, this venue usually interests those that are over 35 so let’s hope their 19-year-old more zealous versions aren’t itching to be seen. Ha, like I’m one to talk I’m already starting this night like a seasoned groupie!
I arrived at the front around 8:30 and holy horny housewives! So many women are giddier than I was at my first Dru Hill concert!
Flashback: Dru Hill was not that spectacular on the eyes but let’s just say their vocals increased the heat between me and my then-boyfriend!
Anyway, squeals from a line of eager women stretching their necks to see if they would make it in. This isn’t even a popular club but the line is out the door! Who the hell is this guitarist? Fortunately for me, my editor knows the owner so he left my name at the front so I could get in without a hassle, plus its free publicity for the club; a win-win.
I shuffled my 4-inch heels to the front and told the bouncer my name and the magazine I was from. He checked my I.D. against the list and let me in. Of course, the women in line all growled and hissed in dismay; the perks and curses of being a journalist. I headed in and found the ambiance very tasteful. Dimmed lights, dark oak tables and chairs, an illuminated bar, and a small stage with someone playing a mellow melody. I found a seat not too far from the bar but close enough to the stage to hear clearly but not too close that the speakers would blow out my eardrums. Now if only I could get a glimpse of the guitarist.
The stage was surrounded by women googly-eyed and drooling for the vocals emerging. All-knowing damn well they have significant others waiting for them, the horny vixens!
Ok, that was jealousy talking as I have not had a date since… um…just know it’s been a very long time.
Moving on, the stage was swarming with heads so getting a view of him was simply not happening. Fine! I will utilize one of my other five senses a.k.a hearing. I took out a small notepad and pen from my purse and tuned into the melody. His voice was smooth and had elegance, the lyrics told a story and the flow from his guitar complemented each syllable and phrase.
“I searched for you until the day the sun kissed your porcelain mug.”
I have to admit he has flow. Welp, now I see or rather hear why he’s so popular. “The sun-kissed your porcelain mug”, what a beautiful line and for some odd reason seems familiar.
The crowd let out cheerful applause as he belted the last verse of the song. I looked around the room and some women were even in tears. This dude is music gold if he captivates an audience to such a degree.
The gentlemen took a break and went to the back while I headed to the bar for something mild. “Watermelon mojito please!” The bartender nodded and began to prepare my drink. As he did, I remembered my editor telling me if I could get a one-on-one interview with the guitarist he would pay me extra. “Challenge accepted”, I thought. After the bartender gave me my drink I inquired about going to the back and conducting an interview. He told me to speak to the owner who was standing by the stage. I made my way over and introduced myself to him. His eyes rolled over me being sure to take in the parts that excited him the most. The hairs on the back of my neck screamed “warning! Perve alert!”
Trying not to show how creeped out I was, I began telling him I was from the magazine and would like to interview the performer. His eyes widened but not in a generous way, more like an easy haggle for an inappropriate exchange. He told me that he was not sure if the guitarist would agree to an interview but if I were to hang out in his office afterward he would be sure to set something up. Mister trifling must think I was born yesterday. “How about I wait until after the show and meet you and the performer right here on the stage?” I said this politely followed by a mumble, “where all the staff members will be”. He smiled and said, “perhaps”. Translation: “my way or nothing at all.” I smiled as I knew this would go nowhere unless I showed him my landscape without a fence. It’s been a sexual minute, but I am far from that desperate.
I turned around in disgust aiming to head back to my seat with my drink, but instead, my drink met a white t-shirt filled with a masculine chest.
“Fuck! I am so tired of women spilling drinks on me!”
To be continued…
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