THE JUNK BAR INCIDENT
It didn`t snow my first winter in New York. After 29 years in my hometown of Chicago
where literally tons of dirty slush piled up outside the shiny, see-through offices along
Michigan Avenue, no weather could faze me. The snow and cold were negligible, and a
fifteen-minute subway ride got me to the Village. All I knew about the Village was that
Blondie and the Ramones played at clubs there in the `70s, and Beat Poets hung out there
in the `50s. But the only place I knew of in current nightlife was a sleazy yet trendy
bar, appropriately called The Junk. I hadn`t made any friends during the first few months
I lived in New York. I had just started to mingle with my fellow employees at the small
music publishing company where I worked, but we weren`t on a going to lunch together basis
yet. My roommate was an academic with little understanding of the drudgery a nine to five
office drone endured, and was unsympathetic to my plight.
So I sought comfort the only place I knew--in music and musicians.
The Junk was a sliver of a bar tucked away in a bunker type building, ostensibly an old
warehouse, by NYU. I`d read about the bar in various rock magazines and gossip columns,
and I figured I`d be among my peers. After a long day at work I was too tired to dress up,
so I slipped on a pair of jeans and a low-cut angora sweater, buttoned up my fake leopard
coat and headed to the subway station.
Luckily, the bar was crowded, so if I didn`t meet anyone interesting I could slip right
out again without being noticed. I ordered a tequila sunrise and drifted around the place,
looking for someone interesting to talk to. I pushed my way to the bar, ordered another
drink and sat down.
Tipsy but still coherent, I looked at the guy sitting next to me--or I should say, looked
up. Even though he was sitting down, he was taller than the other longhaired musician
types packed shoulder to shoulder in the crowed bar. Emboldened by drink I slouched over
the counter, to see if he was making some time. No sluts had gotten to him yet--he was
talking to a geeky old guy. I leaned back and avoided making eye contact with the geek. As
I did my bare shoulder brushed against the studmuffin`s hair. Fire!!! I touched a strand,
amazed by its perfect dishwater blond crimps.
"Like my hair, do ya?"
Woah!!! I almost fell off the barstool. It was shocking enough that the tall guy had
spoken to me--I usually only attracted geeks. But his accent was amazing--sort of like a
cartoon. A dim-witted British accent-Cockney--that`s what it was. I had never heard that
accent in real life before and it floored me. I had no idea that he was, if he was indeed
someone, i.e. famous. All the metal genre guys I knew where from California, graduates of
the Poison-Ratt-Motley Crue school of bad hairdos.
He looked at me full-force, not quite knowing whether to look at my face, hair or
bra-less little bosoms. Damn, he was handsome, though his nose was a bit too long for his
face. Other than that, God`s perfect creature made flesh. I wanted to eat him up. He was
so handsome I blushed just from looking at him.
"Yours is nice, too, blondie," he said, referring to my hair. His accent again!
Argh! I was probably red as a fire truck. He took the liberty of tousling my hair by
patting me on the head like I was a toy poodle. I caught a glimpse of his hand as he
rested it on my head. A big, warm hand, like a basketball player must have, I thought. Not
deformed or like a giant hand, just big. Sadly, I thought, one of his hands could cover
booth my boobs.
"You`re a pretty little thing. Shy, too. I can tell."
That embarrassed me. I hated it when people called me shy, and took it as an insult.
"Let`s go where we can have some privacy."
Oh, no, I thought, he`s taking me to the dreaded john where all the groupie sluts and
their boy toys went. I relented; he was beautiful and it had been a year since I`d had
sex.
"No, not there love. You`re better than that." We walked up a flight of stairs
to a door marked employees, only he knocked on the door.
"Hey, Roger! You wait out here. I`ll be right back." I waited, squeezing my
coat `til I thought it would shred it in my hands. Should I disappear, I wondered. I had
time to get away without anyone noticing. I wasn`t a very good slut, I guess. This guy was
good-looking, but he could be a creep. How did I know? But I couldn`t move. I just stared
at him and thought, "Fuck, he`s gorgeous."
The guy walked out followed by a thin, black-haired man whom I recognized as the club
owner from photos I`ve seen. "Hi," I said, my voice hiking up an octave.
He winked at me. "He`s all yours, honey." I turned around and two long-haired
kids, barely old enough to be in the club, smiled and called to him. "Wow, Tom! Dude,
what are you doing in New York? Are you playing a gig at L`mour?"
"Yeah, tomorrow night. We`re on at nine."
I looked at him, confused. I didn`t recognize the name and I felt too stupid to ask
"Excuse me, are you somebody famous?"
Tom took me into the room and we sat down a red velvet couch. He lifted me up on his lap.
I shrieked, letting out a cry of delight like a baby that had just been tickled. His cock,
still sheathed but growing hard under his jeans felt good rubbing against my bottom.
"You make the sweetest cooing noises. You`re getting me hard."
"I can feel that," I giggled, kissing swiftly on the cheek. "I like
it."
"There, peace and quiet. What`s your name, luv? I couldn`t hear down there."
"Gina."
"Gina. Ah, nice name. Don`t hear it that often."
Damn, he smelled good, like expensive cologne and sex.
"Well, what do you want to do next? Ladies choice."
I smiled a big, horny smile. Judging by the way his face lit up, I could do whatever I
wanted. Funny, I was in charge. The other times I had collaborated with musicians in
non-business related matters I had been the last cut of lamb in the meat market. Girls
with big tits went first. If they exuded stupidity and had big tits they went even before
that.
I ran my fingers through his hair, scrunched it up and then rubbed some of it. I pulled
up my sweater and rubbed it against my tits.
Tom stared at me, amazed by my every move.
"Horny wench."
I undid the last button on his loose white linen shirt. Greedily, I brushed my hands over
his toned, tan chest. A few sparse hairs interrupted the perfect skin, nothing to worry
about. Then I kissed him from the nape of his neck to his nipples, plunking at them and
giggling. "Yeah, you let yourself go, little one. Let yourself go."
| 
