We were standing on stage, ready to play. Arnold, the saxophonist, gestured to a woman sitting at a nearby table. "I'd like to blow my sax straight up her skirt. Between her legs. Bounce my skronk right off her snatch." Arnold was what you might call cunt struck. I had a bad case myself, but Arnold made me look like a eunuch.
Carlton, the bassist, was dead drunk. His bass was more upright than he was. Fortunately Leon, the drummer, kept him in line. Together they were magic, hoodoo, a bottom like a $200 call girl's. I played trumpet, we called ourselves the Sultans of Rhythm. We played clubs, high school dances, the occasional swinging jew kid's bar mitzvah. Anybody that could pay our fee.
We played superbly that night. Arnold kept the bell of his horn pointed straight at that woman. Occasionally he'd do a 360 degree spin, dip low, and blow so hard you could almost see the air from his alto ruffling the folds of the woman's skirt. He was channeling pure unbridled lust.
The woman had a boyfriend who noticed. He was a big fucker too, black like we wanted to be with fists like hammers of the gods. I could very clearly visualize him turning Arnold's horn into a hat. I resolved to hustle Arnold offstage the second we stopped playing, and back to the relative safety of the manager's office where we would collect our night's pay.
We went into our closeer, "Ricochet". It was pure bop, but Arnold infused it with a tone of carnal desire. He might as well have been playing that sax with his cock. He lay on his back and writhed, bouncing sexually inflamed notes off the unfeeling ceiling. It was a universal call of the loins, composed of notes of unadulterated hormonal frustration. Raunch unsatifsfied, directed to the heavens. Arnold was eighteen and secretly suspected he would never get any. When it ended, I grabbed him by the sleeve and frog marched him back to the manager's office. Where we collected our wages and skedaddled.
Not long after that Elvis came along. He killed us, pure and simple. Nobody wanted to hear us. It was all the King, the King, the King. The Sultans broke up, and went our separate ways. That was decades ago. Last I heard Arnold was on his fifth marriage, and it was on the rocks. His horn was long gone. He was a real estate agent, but his real business was still pussy.