Jazzed

Chapter Eight-1

Chapter Eight

They sat across from each other picking at morsels of grilled lamb with an orange glaze. There were spring potatoes on the side and a bottle of good white wine sat in the ice bucket. But a certain friction hung over them. They had history, one that now, in later years, proved to be an embarrassment; a foul little secret.

“I’m looking for a dancer to play the role of Fastrada, in the remount of Pippin.” Bobby almost blurted it out in an effort to relieve the tension. “You know the character?”

“Yes, of course.” Jill set her fork down. “The aging queen.”

“Yes. I need a dancer with great legs. There’s the scene where she lies on her back and spins her crown around her ankle... ”

“Like a hula-hoop... ”

“Yes. That’s it!” He paused to sip wine. “You’ve got legs.”

“Last time I looked... ” Jill fought down the buzz of anticipation that was leaping about in her stomach and swallowed the urge to giggle. Broadway again. At her age. And what a comeback: dancing a major role in one of Bobby’s most popular productions. Could she handle it? She was in excellent shape; she could dance the part; she was sure of that. Her singing voice might be a bit shaky, but a few weeks under the watchful eye of a vocal coach should take care of it.

Broadway!

Then she thought of the commitment.

She would have to find an apartment in New York. Move there for two, maybe three years. Spencer would have to commute from Washington on weekends, if they were ever to spend any time together. And she had a successful dance studio to run. Shirking her responsibilities for a few weeks was one thing; she had a competent staff. But an extended leave of a couple of years would mean hiring an administrator. She didn’t relish the thought of leaving her business in the hands of a stranger. The lights of Broadway diminished.

“That was a nice photo of you in Dance America,” Jill changed the topic.

“Did you read the article?” Bobby brightened, the subject obviously dear to his heart.

“Of course. The American Dance Demon!”

“I founded the Company a year ago, but the idea started long before that.”

“Your own dance company. It’s very exciting!”

“I was sitting around with a couple of producers, a few years back. We had been drinking and got started on the topic of the ideal Broadway dancer. You know; what would she be like, if you could build her from the ground on up? Their rendition was something like from the pages of Penthouse magazine, of course. But I started to think it through. Over the next year or two, the idea took hold. I made pages of notes; filled binders; distilling my knowledge down to the one perfect dancer.”

“And what is this hypothetical dancer like?”

“Perfect height: six-foot. Perfect weight: one twenty-four. Perfect coloring: sultry brunette. Eyes: green. Breasts: thirty-six ‘C’. God, it went on and on, detail after detail: Age, shoe size, leg length, lips, hands, hair... Every time I attended a show or an audition, I found myself measuring the girls up against my criterion. I became obsessed. Then I figured if one dancer, why not eight, or ten, or a dozen? All cast from the same mold. I started matching girls up. And then I decided to get serious about it.”

“You held auditions.”

“Yes. In California. If I was to build my own dance company, I didn’t want anyone to know about it until after the dancers had been selected and rehearsed. I interviewed hundreds of girls, based on my notes and photographs of the previous years. To excel at their craft was a given; each girl had to be an accomplished pro. The best of the best. But also, she had to fit the mold. They could dye their hair, wear contacts to correct eye color. But they had to be within a couple of inches of six feet. The body type and the look had to be right: eyes, cheekbones, chin and lips. It was a long frustrating process and I abandoned the project several times.”

“But eventually?”

“Eventually I got it right. After two frustrating years I had a dozen dancers. Twelve carbon copies. With makeup, you can’t tell them apart. And God; can they dance! I hired a musical director and he scored the show. All original music, performed by some of the major bands: Jagger, Tyler, Plant; I signed a bunch of them. And all this happened without a word reaching the press. No small feat in itself.”

“And now you’re ready.”

“Past ready. A premier tour is set. The contracts have been signed: London, Paris, Moscow, Zurich, Rome. Eight weeks in total. If the reception and the reviews are what I expect, The American Dance Demon will return to the United States to a victorious opening night on Broadway. It will be the most ambitious dance production to every hit New York City.” His eyes were dancing. “We’ll steamroll the Town!”

Jill was speechless. God, she wanted to be a part of this.

Bobby looked away, slightly embarrassed by his own enthusiasm.

“And your staff?” Jill tested the waters, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious.

“Chay Ramorazz is my Artistic Director. You know her?”

“Yes, of course. Not friends as such, but our paths cross from time to time. She’s a generation ahead of me, but I have the utmost respect for her abilities.”

“I’ll accompany the tour to London as Company Manager... ”

“But then Pippin.”

“Yes. I have to be back in New York for the opening.”

Jill didn’t push further, wished instead that he’d suggest a solution. “I’d like coffee,” Jill said. They finished off with brandies before Jill placed a credit card on the table. The maître d’ discreetly scooped it up.

It was a cool evening in Washington; Jill and Bobby left the restaurant arm in arm. “Share a cab?” he asked.

Among other things. “Sure.”

“You can drop me off at my hotel and continue on home.”

A cab slid to a stop beneath the restaurant’s awning and Bobby held the car door. Jill slipped past. “You won’t need a hotel,” she enlightened him as she settled herself onto the rear seat.

“How’s that? I won’t need a hotel... ”

The driver pulled away from the curb and Jill snuggled up in the damp chill that was rolling in off the Potomac River. She slipped a hand along the inside of his thigh. “You’re going to need a Company Manager,” she said. “At least for the European Tour. Someone you trust to look after the books, pay the bills, make arrangements, look after payroll, pay attention to your business interests. I’d like you to consider me for the job.”

“But why?”

“Let’s just say that the prestige of being associated with the Dance Demon wouldn’t hurt my reputation any; and it will be good for my business.”

“Yes. But can you spare the time?”

“Eight weeks? Certainly.”

Jill checked the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror and, once satisfied he wasn’t eavesdropping, she took hold of the zipper at the front of Bobby’s slacks. “You don’t need a hotel room tonight,” she offered again. He turned away and watched the lighted store fronts slip past as the driver headed toward Jill’s home address. He shuddered as Jill extracted his p***s from the confines of his suit trousers, the cool night air gripping him. She held him, petted and cooed over him with gentle fingers. He remained soft and nonthreatening.

“You’re married, right?” he finally asked, his eyes still on the street outside his window.

“Yes. But Spencer is in New York tonight, on some work assignment; escorting a woman back to Langley. He’s gone; just in case you have any ideas that might preclude him.”

“Yes,” he said without mirth. “I’m always full of ideas.”

She checked on the driver’s eyes again, and satisfied he was still focused on the oncoming traffic, she held her hair back and dipped down. She placed a kiss on the velvety softness of the head of his p***s. “It’s been a couple of decades, she said. “I can’t imagine how many little girls have passed this way during the intervening years.”

“More than I care to count,” he said. “I hope that doesn’t dissuade you.”

“Not at all,” she paused to suck lightly. “In fact, I find it wildly intoxicating; my mouth around the c**k that has opened up all those young dancers; sent them off, on successful careers. I hold a great affinity for them; feel connected with them, with you in my mouth. Does that make sense to you?”

He didn’t answer and Jill lowered her face again.

Jill paid the driver and walked Bobby up the front steps of the stone townhouse. “You’ve done well,” he said, admiring the granite walls cloaked in English ivy, the wrought-iron balconies and slate roof.

“It’s old and it’s drafty,” Jill said, stepping aside to allow him into the tiled foyer. “And Spencer hates it, but I wouldn’t trade it for the White House.”

Jill hung their coats on the rack behind the door and at the fold down bar, she poured two generous helpings of scotch. “Come upstairs,” she said, pressing the crystal glass into his hand, “I want to show you the master bedroom. It’s huge.”

It was with a certain amount of reluctance that he followed her up the wooden staircase. Sure he admired the snug round curves that undulated beneath the tight confines of her business skirt and he knew he should be the happiest man in Washington right about now. But a sadness prevailed; hung about the dark corners of the old house leaving him feeling empty and cold. He found it profoundly depressing that this marvelous woman, of distinct maturity and worldly experience, should find it necessary to trade her most private secrets to please him into sharing his influence.

The bedroom was huge and Jill got him seated on an upholstered love seat. She took a sip of her scotch and set the glass on the side table.

“I want you to see me,” she whispered.

“I beg your pardon?” He shifted awkwardly on the cushions.

“I was nineteen, the last time.” Jill said over her shoulder as she moved off toward her dressing room.

Bobby sat all alone with his crystal glass and Spencer’s most private processions: his photographs, his personal toiletries, his papers, his favorite sweater, his wife. Bobby fought the urge to bolt out the bedroom door. But he knew himself far too well; knew that he would regret passing up the warm body of Mrs. Jill Spencer in favor of a cold hotel room. He sighed inwardly and tried to get comfortable. He wondered if she would mind if he did a hit of coke and had a smoke.

Jill closed the door to her dressing room and stripped off her woolen business suit, her frilly white blouse, the pantyhose, pants and bra. Standing naked in front of the rack, she chose a shocking red Danskin and peeled it from the hanger. It was a wrap-around with a plunging neckline and short enough to crane the neck of a midget. She didn’t worry about the subtleties of underpants. Let it breath, she laughed while loosening her hair; fluffing it while standing before the full-length mirror. She was all slick and slippery; as randy as hell!

“I want you to see me,” she said.

Bobby looked up at the sound of her step and took a moment to steady his breath. “See you? My God. You keep saying that.”

Jill moved to the center of the floor. The scarlet Danskin complemented the highlights of her wild blonde hair and accentuated her pale skin. She did a quick twirl that had the loose skirt swirling about buttery thighs. “It was twenty years ago,” she said, and stopped to face him. “Do you remember this body?” She lightly ran fingertips down across her breasts, along her tummy to rest on protruding hip bones.

There was no denying that it was a great body; honed and sculpted by years of jazz dance. But Bobby did not remember. He only knew he had f****d her; of course he had, more than once probably. Christ, he had f****d them all. Any young dancer who had aspired to dance in one of his productions had invariably ended up between his bed-sheets. That’s just the way it was: Business.

But Jill was a lifetime ago. A lifetime of coke and booze. He struggled. He didn’t dare tell her he didn’t remember. “You were too skinny back then.” He took a chance. “But now look at you!”

She c****d her head and smiled. He let out a breath; his answer seemed to have pleased her. Jill turned and made two powerful strides to the opposite wall and leaned into it, her cheek against the rose-colored plaster. Reaching back with first one hand and then the other, she gripped an ankle in turn and pulled the heel up until it met her bum. She stretched out each leg and Bobby watched the thigh muscles bunch and ripple. How could he have forgotten something like that? He shook his head in dismay.

After completing a series of warm-ups, Jill flexed and spun back into the center of the room, her footwork a blur of motion; arms drifting out from her sides. It was the same series of moves that had brought her instant fame within inner dance circles when her intricate footwork had been filmed for the video soundtrack of a successful dance movie.

She came to a stop, facing him, and continued the stretches: A deep knee bend, squatting all the way down until her buttocks touched the heels of her Capezios. Jill bounced lightly, several times, before effortlessly uncoiling her body, coming straight back up; her skin beginning to glow with the exertion. She tossed hair from about her face, did another effortless spin, and then dropped back down onto her haunches, an opened hand planted on the floor between her thighs.

Bobby’s eyes wavered, then sharply focused. Jill had let her knees drift momentarily, but it was enough for him to get a good look at what she had intended him to see: A great straggly patch of pubic hair, the color of corn silk; hanging like a billy-goat’s beard between her legs. The Devil’s Triangle, he remembered. That’s what he had called it, all those years ago; the unruly tangle of hair and the lewd lips that dominated her lower abdomen. He remembered, finally; after twenty years. The Devil’s Triangle.

Jill was on the move again. A blinding series of dance steps that took her the length of the room. And then she was spinning again, lightening fast gyrations, her body blurred as she spun back to him. Her skirt rose up her thighs and Bobby was treated to the alternating flash of pubic hair and buttocks.

How could he have forgotten...

A young Jill, her lovely features marred with horror and disbelief, had stormed from the rehearsal space at his suggestion that they should shower together.

She was a lovely girl, but his life was knee deep in lovely girls. If she was offended by his offer of a quick f**k in return for a spot in the chorus, so be it, lots of girls would be happy to elbow her aside; step forward to accept his offer. His name on a dance sheet would open doors, guarantee future work. A side-step to his bed on a dancer’s career path, seemed like an equitable trade. But Jill hadn’t been the first to turn him down and end up on the bus trip home; back to some God forsaken town where dance opportunities were scarce to none existent. Back to waitressing at the local diner. What did he care?

He remembered it had been an energetic morning, working out with the young girls and he had pulled off his sweaty warm-up suit as soon as he got to his dressing room. He had leaned in and got the water just right before stripping off the spandex shorts.

He had just got his hair soaped up and was attempting to rinse, when he heard the scuffle. The door to his shower stall was slammed back.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” It was a woman’s voice.

“Who the fuck... ” Then something hit him hard between the shoulder blades. The pain was sharp enough to make him think he had been seriously injured and he screamed. A crazy person, he tried to re-assemble his panicky thoughts, must have wandered in from the street, and he bent at the waist, arms about his head to ward off the second blow.

Jill was blinded with fury. How dare he! A year of frustration had festered; broken the surface. She saw an opening and swung again. She caught the side of his skull and saw the blood well up. There was no doubt in her mind that if she could manage it, she would kill the bastard, but he had covered up and she threw the stool to one side. He turned away, was bent over, desperately wiping the soap from his eyes. She took aim and side-kicked him behind the knee. He screamed again and went down, rolling out onto the floor of his dressing room. He tried to get up but a kick to his elbow sent him sprawling again.

She saw her opportunity and pounced. Straddling his hips, she dropped her full weight down and started pounding him about the face with balled-up fists. “You wanna f**k me? Is that what you’re about. I gotta put out to be in your f*****g show?”

“Lady! For Christ’s sake!” He was still trying to get the soap out of his eyes. It stung like a son of a b***h. “We can work something out.” He recognized the voice now and vowed she would never work in any of his shows, and never again on Broadway if he has his way. But his breath caught as her fingers closed around his c**k.

“This what you want?”

He finally cleared his eyes of cloying soap and was able to level his gaze at the woman who straddled his hips. She looked explosive. “Jill! Get the f**k outta here; before a call security. I’ll sue for damages,” he threatened.

Jill screwed up her fist and punched him on the end of his nose. It was a good shot.

“Ah s**t!” he screamed, cupping his nose and trying to stem the flow of blood and snot. “Jesus. What the f**k do you want from me?”

“A job,” she shot back.

And to his infinite surprise, she dragged the end of his p***s through the drooling curds that clung in her s*x. She held him tight with her left hand, forcing him up until he cleared the muscle that bisected her crotch between anus and vaginal opening. And then, triumphantly, she wiggled down on him.

He seethed. It hurt like hell.

God. She’s a virgin. And he marveled at the tight grip her groin had on him.

He grappled with her, rolling her over without losing her; finally commanding a position of control, lying on top of her squirming abdomen. He was suddenly aware she was screaming and he stifled her cries with the palm of his hand, and all the time he was pounding away at her. She raked his back with her nails.

More blood, he dully thought. I must be bleeding from all over. But he didn’t care. There was just his d**k, buried in that wild hairy gap between her legs. And all he cared about was filling it; to overflowing. “Lay still,” he urged, “just for a moment. You’re good enough. Really. I’ll give you a shot at a leading role. I will. Just lay still a moment. Let me finish. Let me f**k you.”