Saxophone Blues: Night Heat

Saxophone Blues: Night Heat

Description:

Sam, an aging rock star, performs the most sensual, back arching, toe-curling saxophone solo on Sunset Strip. “Night Heat” is an adaptation of “The Pilot” episode of Saxophone Blues, the “Television Show” for books.

Content Rating: PG-14

The "Television Show" for Books presents:

"Saxophone Blues: Night Heat"

It’s night-night time in Los Angeles.

I can see the heat steaming off Hollywood Freeway.

The city is plunged in a heat wave. The temperature soars higher and higher, but the heat of Los Angeles only comes out at night.

The night heat comes like a mirage. It bends the light, causing illusions of neon fantasies to appear in the smog. People see what they want when they look into the heat. One thing’s for sure, everyone who comes to Los Angeles sees their name in lights. They’ll do just about anything to make it big, or make it by. Nothing is as it seems in this phoney town. It’s all hot air shimmering in the ether.

I step on the gas pedal of my car, a Rosso Corsa Ferrari. Rosso Corsa is a colour of “racing red” that’s Italian for very fucking fast. The Ferrari revs into high gear. The motor crescendos into a staccato of sharp, high-pitched engine notes. A fiery melody of precision engineering ignites the car into forward motion. My crotch starts to tingle as the car picks up speed.

The force of acceleration pushes me back into my contoured leather seat, like the hands of some auburn-haired seductress pressing against my chest. The apparition of a sexy woman digs her pointy oxblood fingernails deep into my flesh. She presses her hands harder as the car goes faster, holding me down. The enchantress leans in real slow with her wicked eyes in wanting. I can feel her hot breath on my neck, making the hairs stand on end. Her scarlet lips whisper in my ear.

“Oh my God!” This car will have me wrapped around a goddamned Christmas tree in July! I declare, “I shall not fear the terror that comes by night. Be gone, temptress!”

The figure disappears into the heat. I come to my senses and level off the gas. The engine rumbles – snorts; and then, whinnies into a steady cruise in Hollywood.

I roll up the window and crank on the air conditioner. I’m on my way to the Saxophone Club and I’m feeling pretty chill.

I take the exit to Sunset Boulevard. Retro synthesizers and an analogue drum machine are vibing through the sound system. The warm bass and sweet, melodic reverberations undulate into the lines on the road. I turn the rearview mirror. The L.A. skyline twinkles like a million stars. Everyone’s a star in La La Land.

I park my car behind the Saxophone Club. The head of security lets me in right away. He stands next to Charlie, the Saxophone Club Manager. They escort me down a long narrow hallway. The passage is crowded and the floor sticky. I can hear the band through the wall. The saxophone is wailing tonight, I can tell.

We get to the end of the hallway. Charlie unlocks the dressing room door and lets me in. There’s a full-length mirror, make-up station, and table inside.

“I’ll be around, Sam, if there’s anything you need.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

Charlie closes the door behind him. I’m alone in the room. I let out a shaky breath. I still get stage terror before a show, even after all these years. I start pacing the room, poking at a vegetable platter next to a pitcher of cucumber ice-water. We used to party backstage at the Saxophone Club. This whole place used to be filled with saxophone smoke. Back then, everyone puffed on the saxophone. It’s all about the fruits and vegetables now – peaches this and eggplants that. I don’t get it. It’s all smoke. It’s all… dust.

I take a good, long look in the mirror. My long, dark hair is mostly grey now and tied off at the back, like the silver tail of an old dog. My body sags in all the wrong places – and dammit, I can hardly fit my ass into these leather pants no more. Oh, God, I sigh, it’s getting harder and harder to get up on stage every night. I don’t play like I used to – what if they don’t like me no more? What if – there’s a knock at the door.

“It’s time, Sam,” Charlie calls.

I take a good, long look in the mirror. My reflection looks more and more like my father the older I get. I have his eyes. I see them looking back at me, “You got this, Kid,” they say.

Thanks, Daddio. I’m at the Saxophone Club and I’m ready to play my music.

The stage lights shift. The Saxophone Club is packed tonight. I slip on my black fedora and step into the spotlight.

The band jumps in with a juicy jam. There’s Patty Groove spanking on her bass; still looks great in cougar print. Paul Martin-Taylor does a little lick on his Flying V guitar. The drummer comes in with a frivolous fill – goddammit, Larry. Not another drum solo. The crowd loves it, and I love it, too. I flash Larry a silly wink. Larry’s loving it all.

I step up to the microphone. The band quietens.

“This one here’s a new song I wrote, called, ‘Saxophone Blues.’ It’s a comedy of action and romance, with some saucy sass. It goes something like this…”

I bring my saxophone real close. Lola is the name of my saxophone. We’ve played together a thousand lifetimes. I press my lips to Lola’s mouthpiece. My fingers caress Lola’s neck. Lola’s long, sleek body is made of brass. It feels cool to the touch. I trace my fingers around Lola’s circular keys, ever so slowly. My fingers know every gentle curve of my saxophone. They know how to make Lola moan my name in the night heat.

I close my eyes and make sensual whispers. The movement of my tongue articulates each note with tender love. Lola makes a pouty face and lets out a flirtatious giggle, the kind I like in my imaginations, when I tease out a saxophone riff with the band behind me. The band is turned-up tonight. We’re really getting it on at the Saxophone Club.

My fingers move down Lola’s body. It’s hard as steel. I’m fingering the keys to set the mood right, coaxing Lola’s voice to cream-out smooth. I can feel the music sizzling on my tongue.

My hips sway to the music, gyrating in slow circles behind my saxophone lover.

Lola begs me to go faster. I’m riding my saxophone so fucking hard right now. Sweat is pouring off my face. It’s the most epic, back-arching, toe-curling saxophone solo ever. My heart’s pounding from the intensity of music-making.

I jazz so deep inside my saxophone. The musical climax comes when I hit that high “G” note.

Lola cries out in long blasts of steaming passion. Waves of musical ecstasy culminates from Lola’s gaping wide bell-hole.

Lola and I are one heartbeat of rhythm and soul. Lola falls into my arms. I’m holding my saxophone so close. The band quietens. There’s only silence.

“Hey!” The security guard yells at some dickface in the crowd, “No smoking!”

End.