Not Only Am I With the Band...

By Stephen H. Greenaway

What happens when a young man from a middle class family is introduced to the world of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll If you came of age in the 70's then you may well have lived a similar childhood. If you didn't then consider this an archeological remnant from the past. Where do love and sex collide When do the drugs stop mattering quite as much And Rock 'n' Roll. When should that cease to matter Follow the exploits of Stephen, a young man coming of age in a small bedroom community for a large North American city. Then... imagine if you had access to most everything your teenage lust might desire...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257532117

Book preview

Lifestyle

Chapter 1: Editor’s pick for disease of the month: The Bubonic Plague

You know that you are living the rock and roll lifestyle when someone offers a small block of hashish to you as payment for services rendered… and you accept it.

e9781257532117_i0002.jpg

The residents of Wiarton had two oddities descend upon them that weekend when The Hash Puppies pulled into town; a rock and roll band, and a stripper. Now, for those of you who have never been to Wiarton, it is a small sleepy burg, which clings to the shores of Colpoy’s Bay inlet, on Georgian Bay in Northern Ontario. Its main claim to fame is Wiarton Willie. That’s the Canadian equivalent to Punxsutawney Phil. You know, that mangy rat that comes out of the earth every spring only to turn tail and disappear back into his hole, leaving us with another eight weeks of winter.

The weekend started out inauspiciously enough, with yours truly picking up the lead guitarist / vocalist and his girlfriend in my old metallic blue Datsun B210 hatchback. Eric and Christie; Christie and Eric; soon to be husband and wife; but I’ll get to that. Soon to be ex-husband and wife; but I’ll get to that as well.

Eric was a handsome specimen of masculinity… with a very androgynous persona. He was mid-height, call it 5 foot 8. Curly black hair, wiry physique, well toned muscles… and a completely infectious grin. Man, he was a goof, but a completely loveable goof. And man, could he play that guitar. He was always in great shape; despite the fact that his lifestyle dictated that he should have no reason to be so.

The idea to give the band it’s name came about because around this time Eric would hide his stash in an old beat up pair of Hush Puppy shoes. The leap from Hush Puppies to Hash Puppies was a no brainer… at least if you were stoned and were privy to the reference.

On the other hand, Christie, or Chris as her friends called her, was kind of stocky, red-haired (which probably should have told Eric something) and completely manic, with breasts that could have seen a boy right the way through puberty. She was a mass of contradictions. One minute, a real party animal and the next, a complete party pooper. Sort of made your head spin to try and keep up. I never knew how she and Eric met. One day, he just sort of showed up with her in tow.

You know where we are going, right?

Relax, Stephen, said Eric to me. He’s so serious, said Eric to Chris.

Eric, I need to know where we are fucking going!

Here, let me spark up a doob…

In those days, that made everything right. Now I am older and wiser. I know that it really doesn’t make everything right. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t give you that illusion…

Needless to say, we got lost. Not badly so. Not irreparably so. But lost is lost, especially when the band was due to be on stage at 9:00 PM, it was currently 8:00 PM and you had just got your bearings enough to realize that you were still two hours away from where you needed to be one hour hence.

So what did you do? Why, smoke some more dope of course. Didn’t get us any closer to our destination, but…

By this time, my poor old Datsun was starting to make peculiar noises. You know, very un-car like noises. Ugly noises. Noises one can imagine a badly winded pony might make while carrying a pre-weight loss Richard Simmons up an extraordinarily steep hill. Death rattle sort of noises.

Well, two hours turned out to be closer to two and a half by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the Churchill Hotel only to find a man standing nearby taking a leak on the front tire of an old grey beater Chevy pickup truck. Eric grabbed his overnight bag and guitar case, I grabbed my duffel and the amplifier, and Christie grabbed the dope. Let me just say at this point that pot sort of messes with your sense of time. The fact that we might have just made a group of customers wait an hour and a half didn’t really perturb us too much. I mean, we did get there, and we would just play later to make good. No biggie. And besides, the Stones, in their heyday, would sometimes make their audience wait upwards of four hours before they would take the stage. And they were already in the fucking building. It’s all good. All’s fair in rock ‘n’ roll.

When we walked in through the back door of the place, we were suddenly forced to re-think our initial assessment of the situation…

Did I mention that the entertainment prospects in Wiarton were somewhat limited? As we would learn over the course of the weekend, there were three bars in the town and three local acts (who played two types of music… country AND western) that rotated around those three bars on a weekly basis. New talent was somewhat of a rarity and, apparently, warranted considerable attention.

As such, when we came through the stage door, we were confronted with the not too inconsiderable sight of eighty or so people, evenly split between Indians from the nearby reservation and Satan’s Choice from the local chapter. Many of the Choice wore a red bandana, which meant they had either gone down on their old lady while she was on the rag, or they had killed someone. Either way, I didn’t want to get on their bad side.

The whole assorted lot of them was pretty tanked by this point, not to mention pretty belligerent. Fortunately, Ian and Roger had been there for quite some time and had all the gear set up, save Eric’s guitar amp. At least they hadn’t waited until Eric had shown up to break out their kit.

Where the fuck have you been!

Ian, The Hash Puppies’s drummer; was a big blonde bear of a man who was usually quite loveable. That is, except when the coke was coursing through his veins and he was starting to peak. Starting to peak while not on stage yet; that just boiled down to bad timing.

Rock music and pharmaceuticals walk a very fine line together. Take a drug too soon, peak too early and give a sluggish performance. Take a drug too late, peak later than you intended, and give a tentative performance. At this point, Ian was pretty much drum solo intensity, and he hadn’t even laid stick to skin yet.

Right… all set, said Eric, completely nonplussed by Ian’s obvious disconcertion… Let’s rock and roll.

Roger, The Hash Puppies’s bass player, was Bill Wyman incarnate. Black hair, new wave meets punk look; frenetically laid back. Let’s play some tunes.

Eric, Ian, and Roger took their places on stage. I took mine behind the light mixer; Christie found Roger’s brother, Rick, in the crowd and ordered a drink.

This was rock and roll, folks.

The lights went down, and the crowd was waiting like a pack of hungry wolves sensing that you only have another click or two left in you before you succumb to the cold. A final snort, the drumsticks rise before beating out a tattoo on the snare drum. The lights blaze, the guitar roars…

Been a long time since I’ve rock and rolled, woman…

The lights pulsed. The band was rocking. My back was to the crowd. Did I mention that the crowd was fairly belligerent?

Rock and roll ended and the crowd responded with a guttural sound presaging a kind of anticipation. Whether this was of a good time to come or the prospect of disemboweling the hapless newcomers wasn’t quite clear.

Next up was J. J. Cale’s great song made classic by none other than God himself.

She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie… Cocaine.

Listening to a band rehearse is a rare treat, especially when they are good and you love the music that they play. But watching a band play the music that they love live is taking it to a completely different level. The band was definitely on that night.

After Cocaine, the crowd became a little bit more focused in their enthusiasm.

Play War Pigs.

Play Paranoid.

Play Dazed and Confused.

The band swung into Roger’s first vocal excursion of the evening; Suffragette City by Bowie.

I hazarded a glance behind me. Drinks were flowing; bottles were tapping in time to the music. Smiles were starting to appear. The vibe that had started out so ominously was now turning a corner. The band could feel it. The music was re-invigorated. Ian was peaking. Madison Square Garden was beckoning.

The response was gratifying after Roger’s tune finished. The requests started up again.

I had to smile. At a time when the best you could hear at most bars was lackadaisical covers of top forty tripe, this crowd was calling for all the stuff that was The Hash Puppies’s stock in trade. Eric called Roger over to the drum riser, and a brief discussion that I could imagine as readily as if I had been on stage with them ensued.

Waddya think? asked Eric.

What the fuck? replied Ian and Roger.

And just like that, the set list became an all request evening. To their credit, they never missed a one. Once the Choice realized these skinny white guys knew Zeppelin, Sabbath, and the Stones like the back of their hand, everything for the rest of the weekend fell right into place. The band had won them over.

At one point during War Pigs, a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. The lights on stage went dark for a moment until I regained my composure. When I turned to see who the hand belonged to, I was confronted by this big mother fucking mountain of a man done up in Satan’s Choice regalia; including the red bandana. He wasn’t smiling. I could almost read my obituary.

You guys are fucking awesome… whadyaalldrinking…

It was hardly the legendary Stones Touring Party of 1972, but it was still pretty sweet. For the rest of the weekend, we were well taken care of.

Chapter 2: Thar She Blows

In between the second and third set of the evening, the subtle call of nature became an insistent scream. I could forgo the inevitable no longer.

I gotta go bleed my lizard, I said to no one in particular.

Don’t hurt yourself, quipped Ian.

Well, I replied, my doctor did tell me not to lift anything heavy. Care to come help me?

Ian shot me an evil glance.

I’m sure you’ll do quite alright on your own.

This from Sandra, Ian’s wife.

Ian feigned a jab at my midsection. I deftly deflected his jab and feigned a roundhouse to the side of his head. All others at the table watched, bemused expressions dancing benignly across their faces.

Now, by this time and with The Hash Puppies’ new-found popularity, I was behind a goodly number of beers; my way between our table and the washroom awash with unspeakable danger or, at the very least, any number of besotted patrons and newly minted fans of the ‘Puppies. My task looked monumental. Yet I persevered; dodging a drunken lout here, sidestepping a trysting couple there. The great Jean Claude Kiley could scarcely have maneuvered the crowd any better.

When I finally reached the men’s room, I casually gave the dingy robin’s egg blue door a push, expecting it to yield to my advance. But it didn’t. The door didn’t give an inch and my bladder wailed in protest. I tried again; still no joy. Just as I was about to make my way to the back door, to surrender yet again to the God-given right of all males to willfully piss in the great outdoors, the men’s room door opened a bare smidgen, the embodiment of a crack.

Who goes there?

It was a woman’s voice. I glanced surreptitiously at the sign on the door.

Men’s it boldly declared.

My beer-addled mind dimly demanded additional confirmation. So I glanced at this door’s opposite number.

Women’s it proclaimed proudly from its contrary dingy pink façade.

So, I reasoned, I wasn’t wrong. This was, in fact, the men’s room. I tried, yet again to open the door. But it still failed to yield.

Who goes there?

This time, the voice was more demanding; more fervent.

It’s just me.

My eloquence has always been a great source of comfort for me.

The door opened a crack and the deepest green eyes I have ever seen in my life peered through the crack that the door afforded.

Oh, the voice replied, it IS you.

Hell, would I lie about something like that?

The door opened ever so slightly wider, and a delicate arm shot though the opening, her hand grasping my own left arm.

Quickly, while there’s no one else here.

Who was I to argue? I gladly acquiesced.

Once I was pulled into the men’s room, I gazed in wide wonder at the joy I had found. She stood five foot five, give or take; fiery red hair, emerald green eyes, a girl next door beauty very much in the mold of WKRP in Cincinnati’s Bailey Quarters.

I’ve been watching you all night, she purred.

I just gawped in stunned silence. This poor, deranged, incredibly sexy woman had obviously mistaken me for someone else.

Hi, I offered.

She smiled demurely.

Hi yourself.

She then glanced at the door.

We probably don’t have too much time.

Time for what, my mind capered.

As if reading my thoughts, she took my hand and led me into one of the stalls.

Close the door behind you, she directed, sitting down on the toilet seat.

Which I promptly did; wouldn’t you?

Um, Eric is out front, I could go get him if you would like.

She just shook her head and reached for my belt buckle.

By this point, my raison d’être was well and truly forgotten. By the time she had my jeans unzipped and down around my ankles, I would have been hard pressed to remember my name.

My underwear had taken on a decidedly tent like appearance, soon disrobed.

Mmm… mmmy… my name is Stephen.

She just mumbled; her mouth was otherwise occupied.

I could scarce believe what was happening to me. I was fairly confident that I was being sexually assaulted, but I was really hard pressed to remember why this should be a concern to me. Her lips were magical. The thought occurred fleetingly to me that this was probably not the first time she had done this.

Shut the fuck up, screamed my ID. Who the hell cares? Certainly not me, and certainly not you by the looks of it. I quickly agreed that, at this point in time, I really couldn’t care less if she had gone down on the entire graduating class of her alma mater. It just felt so fucking good.

A flick of the tongue here, a furtive lap there; I’m telling you, this girl could make a limp noodle hard.

I was vaguely aware that at least one other person had entered the men’s room. I tried, in vain I might add, to keep my mumblings and moaning to a bare minimum. For her part, she continued to make very loud gobbling noises deep down in her throat.

Think of baseball, my mind gibbered. Think of doing your tax return, it implored.

But it was no use. By this time, she had started moving her head back and forth in an ever more urgent cadence. I could feel my balls swelling to her beat.

Oh, I moaned.

Oh, I’m gonna… gonna…

At that point, she did something that took me completely by surprise. Bobbing her head back and forth greedily, she started humming way down deep in her throat. It may have been The Battle Hymn of the Republic, it might have been Keep Yourself Alive. I really didn’t care.

My eyes rolled back into my head and I surrendered to the rhythm.

My knees buckled at the intensity of my orgasm. If it wasn’t for her firm sensuous grasp on my ass, I’m sure that I would have collapsed. I was well and truly spent.

She looked up at me with a devilish twinkle in her eye.

So, you enjoyed that, she inquired, licking her lips slowly.

Will you marry me?

She threw her head back and laughed; a good healthy laugh.

No, she chuckled, but I will meet you back here after the show.

I bowed theatrically, which must have looked pretty ridiculous considering my pants were still gathered in a puddle around my feet.

Tell you what, I countered, Come join me at my table, it will save us having to look for each other later. Then we can retire somewhere more comfortable.

I like the way you think, she whispered in my ear, playfully tugging on my now-limp dick.

I could feel myself getting hard again, but duty called. And besides, there was no rush. The Hash Puppies was going to be here all weekend.

Chapter 3: There’s got to be a morning after

The band was psyched when they came offstage following the last set of The evening. Hardly any of the crowd had left. They all wanted to buy us drinks. And at the end of the night, my bathroom angel led me back to her room.

Angel hung with me that weekend and by association, was for a brief time anyways with the band. The band, as it was used to a constantly changing cast of secondary characters, was more than willing to accept her. For whatever reason, she had chosen me as the object of her lust. It was only that Saturday morning, after a long night with very little sleeping, that I actually got to find out why.

So, I started, let me just start off by saying that you have managed in one night to fulfill a goodly number of my fantasies.

Angel smiled.

Ditto, I’m sure.

I must admit though, I am kind of curious why you picked me.

Well, like me, you’re not from around here are you?

No, I admitted, but neither is any of the band.

True, but it has been my experience that musicians can be extremely full of themselves.

I gave her a quizzical look.

Don’t get me wrong; this is just a one off for me. Suffice to say that I have recently got out of an extremely nasty relationship. My ex was a musician, and through him I came into contact with more than my share of musicians.

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why did you come to the bar last night when you knew a band were going to be here?

I still love music, especially live music, so just because I have found most musicians to be jerks doesn’t preclude me from still enjoying what it is that they are capable of doing on stage.

Fair enough, I thought.

Not to mention the fact that she had just used the words suffice and preclude in a sentence. Suffice it to say that I really doubted most of my friends would even know what those words meant, let alone know the situation in which to use them.

"Truth be told, I came here this weekend to clear my head. I certainly didn’t come here planning on this. I really just wanted a retreat to get to know myself again, and more importantly, get to like myself again. The thing about being in an abusive relationship is that, in order to please, I found myself starting to see me through my boyfriend’s eyes. If what I saw is anything to go by, then he had an extremely low opinion of me.

He would call me fat; I wasn’t in as good a shape as the women on television., I didn’t wear my hair the way the women on television wore theirs, I didn’t have the same fashion sense that the women on television had, I wasn’t as witty…

… as the women on television, I finished shaking my head.

Just so.

I flushed suddenly, recalling the way I had immediately equated her girl next door good looks to Bailey Quarter’s; a, you guessed it, woman on television.

Who got to keep the dog? I quipped.

A wounded look came over her then and I felt ashamed realizing that she thought I was making light of her situation. I continued on quickly.

If he had such a low opinion of you, then he most certainly must have been blind as a bat, so I was wondering who got to keep the dog.

Angel threw back her head, and let loose a hearty laugh.

You wondered, why you? Well, for one thing, I love a man with a sense of humour; and from what I can tell, yours is first rate.

Just remember, it is perfectly all right to laugh in the bedroom, just don’t point while you do.

I’ll try to keep that in mind.

A comfortable silence descended then, both of us lost to our own thoughts.

So what happened? I eventually asked.

Coming back from a distance, she continued.

Well, as you now know, I am staying here at the Ritz...

The Ritz, I snorted, yeah right.

… so, she continued with a chuckle, I decided last night that I could either spend the evening in my room moping about and feeling sorry for myself and hard done by, or I could head down to the pub, sit quietly in a corner, sip some Chardonnay and check out the band.

So, what happened?

Why, you walked in.

My vanity rejoiced; my humility shuddered.

No, seriously, what happened?

With one notable exception, I have always considered myself to be a pretty good judge of people. I liked the bunch of you pretty much on sight. You seemed to be a friendly and close-knit group.

We have our moments, I allowed.

… and while I know that you do the lights and stuff, it seemed to me that the band would always look to you for confirmation of whatever it was they were talking about.

Really?

This came as an extremely large news flash to me.

Yeah, really. When they are on stage, they are in their element; they do what it is that they do best. But someone has to get them up on stage, someone has to be there to bounce ideas off of, someone needs to be there to keep them grounded.

And I do that?

I don’t know. Remember, I just met you last night. What I do know is that they look to you. Be it for help, for affirmation, for guidance; perhaps. I just know that they look to you for something. And so I started watching you.

Oh my God, I’ve been stalked.

You have, in fact, been stalked, yes. But I also noticed that you seemed to have a similar effect on everyone else that you came in contact with. You seem to make friends easily, you don’t seem afraid to talk in a very disarming manner to complete and utter strangers. Not everyone can do that.

I could feel myself blushing fiercely.

Be careful what you say, old faithful may not be the only head swelling.

Well, on the other hand, I could have just been feeling horny last night, and you were the first man that I saw.

That’s much better, I allowed, I feel on more familiar ground now.

Angel grew silent again; almost pensive.

What’s up?

Nothing really; I mean, I hope you don’t feel offended by what I’m about to say.

Try me. Over the years, I have developed a fairly thick skin.

What happened last night in the men’s room was more to do with my own Magna Carta, my Declaration of Independence. It was my escape, my transcendence. It was something that my ex demanded of me that I never acquiesced to. It was a sign to myself that I’m now well and truly free of my past.

I lay next to her, unsure of what to say, silently waiting for her to continue.

Finally, she said, I’m sorry, I was kind of rambling on there a bit.

Nonsense, I soothed, I’m just glad I could lend a hand.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a hand, now was it, she teased, turning on her side and thrusting her breasts forward so they pressed against my chest.

Oh look, she stated in mock surprise, someone looks like they’re up for a quickie.

What the hell, I said, I’ve always felt that breakfast was highly overrated anyways.

Chapter 4: A back in need of watching

Being young affords you the benefit of being raring to go the next morning, regardless of the excesses of the evening that preceded it. That and a couple of beer and some killer weed. I remember sitting in the bar the next morning when the rest of the band made their way down to survey the location of their previous evening’s coronation.

Angel remained in her room sleeping. Nonetheless, I wasn’t alone. At some point, the aforementioned stripper had joined me at my table.

Who’s hungry?

Watch my back.

I could eat.

Watch my back.

Where can we go for eats?

Watch my back.

Who the fuck are you??

Her name was… was… wait a minute, it’ll come to me…. Shit… Let’s call her Clarissa.

Her name was Clarissa; Clarissa the stripper; or as Eric would ultimately immortalize her in song, Clarissa the reputable whore. But I’ll get to that.

Whether we liked it or not, we had made a friend; or attracted a groupie, which, as a rock and roll band sort of amounted to the same thing. A groupie willing to service the band; that is except for Eric, who had Chris, or Ian who had Sandra with him. Or Rick, who had his girlfriend Paula with him… which sort of left Roger and I… except that I now had Angel.

She put you in mind of that loveable but mangy dog that no one has the heart to put down. She wasn’t unattractive, especially if you had consumed several alcoholic beverages. And besides which, I don’t recall ever seeing a dog with tits like hers.

Seems that not only was Wiarton not ready for an honest to goodness rock and roll band, they also weren’t ready for a well-endowed stripper. Who knew? Apparently, some of the locals had been threatening to run Clarissa out of town. I can’t imagine it would have been any of our newfound friends from the evening before, but who could be sure?

Walking from the Churchill to the local breakfast joint was an adventure that everyone should experience at least once in their lives. Everyone on the street stopped dead in their tracks and absolutely gawped at our passing. I’m pretty sure that it had been some time since they had seen a group of people quite like us. It wasn’t even a case of staring back and asking, What the fuck are you looking at?

It was just so cool to be noticed. We had been there one night and everyone in that God-forsaken town knew who we were. We were the band…

Pretty heady stuff, especially when we were young and high as a kite…

Bacon and eggs… tea… stoned meanderings… faces pressed against the window. Imagine if we had actually been someone famous, and not just treated as if we were. No drug on Earth, baby… although we did our best to simulate it.

Breakfast done. Freak show routine wearing thin. What now?

Sauble Falls, opined Clarissa.

Where?

Sauble Falls. I can show you…where.

Right. Sauble Falls it was. One problem though. There were nine of us. I drove a Datsun B210 (or have I mentioned that already?). No problem. Ian drove a boat mobile. Except Ian didn’t feel like driving.

No problem, said I. I’ll drive.

Done deal.

Driving to Sauble Falls was a blast. The tunes were cranked. There was pot in abundance. Can I get an Amen from the congregation?

Somebody roll down the fucking windows, said I, barely able to see the road in front of me for all the smoke.

I’m sure we must have looked like the space shuttle Challenger after it blew up; a shiny object streaking along on an ill-defined trajectory with all this smoke and shit trailing behind us in some transient pattern.

Houston, we have a problem…

No problem here.

Ground control to Major Tom indeed.

Pot acts upon your senses in a bizarre fashion. Not like a hallucinogen by any stretch. Just sort of makes you more at one with your surroundings… Mellow man… Things seem lighter. Time slows. Yet, strangely, your senses become a lot more focused, in a very un-focused sort of way.

Sauble Falls was the perfect place to hang out when you were high. Walking a short distance from the road, you could convince yourself that there was no one else around you for hundreds of miles; just you and the water man.

White water… stepping stones… rapids… soaked sneakers… wet clinging t-shirts…. Don’t Bogart that joint my friend, pass it over to me… the colours… and the stars…

At some point in our reflection, someone realized that the band has committed to playing a matinee show at 4:00 PM. It was currently 3:30 PM.

Everyone went back up stream and into the car, there was no time to spare. Ian needed to do a line or two… let’s haul ass. We had fans now. Being late was no longer an option… regardless of how doped up we were.

Halfway back to Wiarton, it suddenly occurred to me like a lightning bolt out of the blue that a check of the speedometer might be prudent. Exactly how fast was the car moving? Glancing down, I realized that, regardless of how high I was we almost certainly must be travelling faster than zero miles per hour.

Ian! I shouted.

Sudden visions of being busted by the OPP and sent to jail where some big Satan’s Choice member was going to breath lustily into my ear, I’m gonna make you my wife.

Don’t sweat it… hasn’t worked in a few months, said a voice that wafted forward on an exhaled breath of dope from the gathering fog that obscured the back seat.

Hey folks, that’s rock ‘n’ roll.

Chapter 5: Answer 1 from yesterday’s questions: Pink leather and eight-foot whips

We made it back safely enough. No crow bar motel nuptials to speak of. Matinee went off without a hitch. A smaller crowd had gathered than the night before. The die-hards would wait until the evening show. And they would bring their friends. At some point during the first set, Angel sat beside me, reached over and started rubbing my shoulders. A live band playing kick ass rock and roll, an attractive girl at my side, a beer within easy reach, and a raging hard-on that I knew would soon be getting a work out of its own; I ask you, could life get any better for a 19-year-old male?

I think not.

Following the last set of the matinee, we all gathered in the band’s safe haven; a shamrock shaped amalgamation of tables sitting front and centre, just behind the light mixer.

Clarissa was still asking us to watch her back. Seemed she thought that the town folks had it in for her because she was different; ‘Cos she was an exotic dancer. She promised us sticky sweet sex out behind the bar. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll climb up and down yours.’

Maybe it was the dope. Maybe it was just the absurdity of it all. Eric was the first one to crack.

Let me get this straight, he chuckled, you’d be willing to sleep with us just for watching your back.

Mmhmmm, she purred, sensing an opening.

We all started to titter and chuckle at this, but Eric hushed us with a quick wave of his right hand.

Would it be individually or all together?

This gave Clarissa pause, but only momentarily.

For you, sugar, any way you like it.

Christie glowered at Eric.

That includes my wife, right?

Clarissa’s eyes brightened.

Well, she said, delighted, I’m not really into that but…

Chris kicked Eric under the table. By the look on his face, it wasn’t a love tap either.

How about animals? enquired Roger, rising to the occasion.

Ana… animals?

"Yeah, Ian here has a Great