12:20 p.m. - 2006-05-27
'Boning An Angel
'Boning An Angel
.
"You're being ironic" said the Trombonist. "Or sarcastic. I always get the two confused."
"No, really" she said. "I always thought the trombone was a very pretty instrument. Even...sensual.
Please. Play me something."
He stared at her. This couldn't be happening.
When his first girlfriend found out he played trombone she walked right out of his apartment straight to a lesbian commune. They'd only been together two hours.
His second girlfriend committed suicide.
After that he played in secret, at night down by the docks were the foghorns and screaming gulls masked the strains of Sousa.
He never dated again.
And now from out of the fog an angel appeared. An angel in white dress and sandals, picking her way among the seagull poop and rotting mussle shells to reach him at dock's edge.
And she wanted to hear him play trombone. She wanted to hear him play.
Looking at her the whole time he lifted the burnished instrument to his lips. Deciding what to play was easy. Years ago in his basement, after months of painstaking toil, he had transcribed the "Tuba Tiger Rag" for the trombone. It was a work of genius, the perfect offering for an angel.
If he started a little slow, a little shy at first, she didn't notice. She stood right in front of the bell, just outside the reach of his thrusting slide, smiling.
She was beautiful.
The Trombonist closed his eyes and put his long neglected heart into it. Glissandos sang his desires, staccato runs were his racing heart, the rhythmic pumping of the golden slide were his...his...back and forth...and in and out...in and out....
In his mind's eye the Trombonist could see the sylph before him, enraptured and willfully seductive. He played, and swayed, and knew he was finally loved. They were One. As the brassy sound of that ragtime standard raced faster and faster they both reached heights neither had known before. He dreamed she reached out and placed her hand on his, helping guide the glistening shaft in...and out...back...and forth....
Now the Trombonist imagined she was next to him, their hips joined and twitching in unison to the primal beats. He opened the spit valve and showered her with trombone love, the droplets turning her cotton top clear where they landed, revealing erect excitement. Her head was back, her mouth was open, and her hand was pumping that hard, curving shaft with renewed urgency.
The song came to an end.
The last notes echoed off some rusted hulls at a distant jetty for several seconds, but still his eyes stayed shut. The Trombonist knew it had just been a dream, a dream borne of supressed desires and parched libido. But he didn't want it to end. He didn't want to open his eyes and find the angel gone, gone like all the others.
But...she wasn't gone. When he lifted his lids there she was, that small smile still on her face and an ocean breeze rippling her cotton dress.
"That was beautiful" she said.
He was staggered, unprepared for this reaction. Maybe...just maybe this time....
"Would you -" the Trombonist's voice faltered, and when he resumed it was barely audible. "Would you like to come back to my place for some Rice-a-Roni and Tang?"
Her smile broadened. "Are you kidding? You play the fucking trombone! You should learn to recognise sarcasm, you know that?"
And she turned and skipped back down the dock towards the lights of Main Street.
The Trombonist stood frozen, a terrible, colorless statue atop a stinking quilt of gull droppings on a cold and rotting pier. But in only a few short seconds the statue came to life again.
He reached her before she'd gone ten steps and bashed the back of her skull in with the broad side of his instrument. The sounds of his footfall hadn't even had time to register in her mind.
And there on the dock, where the beautiful people walking under the bright lights of Main Street never looked, the Trombonist took off her clothes and arranged the angel's body in a pose meant to welcome.
"If you won't love a Trombonist, at least you'll love a trombone." he whispered. And he slid the cold, hard, glistening metal shaft back...and forth...and back...and forth....in...and out.....
Then he threw her ripped and bleeding corpse off the pier, a mangled golden trombone twisted around her neck in a final embrace.
On his way home the Trombonist stopped at an All Night Accordion Store.
He would be The Accordionist. And women would love him.
Or else.
.
.
0 comments
To add your own Bad Erotica, click here
