How High the Moon - Sex Stories

How High the Moon

... usual Wednesday night crowd at the Village Vanguard: mostly men, mostly middle-aged, a couple of disorientated Japanese tourists and a lot of tapping toes. She knows her daughter isn’t seated there in the second row, by a table all to herself. Although Kirsten has supported her mother’s career with more selflessness and love than Lynn ever managed towards her daughter, there are too many miles and too many optically challenged patients between them for her to celebrate her mother’s good fortune at earning a short residency at the world’s most celebrated jazz venue. It is a woman, though, a white one as well and the same one who sat in the same seat the night before. The same woman who approached Lynn as she made her way to the back room that doubles as both changing room and kitchen. “I really want to say just how much I enjoyed your set,” she told Lynn shyly in her educated Brooklyn accent. “Why thank you!” said a truly flattered Lynn, who is accustomed to praise from men but rarely receives it from women. “I love all your songs,” continued the woman gushingly, “but especially Kirsten . I can’t begin to describe how much it helped me when I was going through a bad patch. I’ve often meant to see you perform, but you don’t play downtown often enough…” “The tours take me everywhere, but it’s my home town I enjoy playing the most,” Lynn replied. “The world’s a big place, you know.” “Yes, yes,” said the woman, clinging desperately to her moments of conversation with the English ...

... émigré. “I’ve seen the itinerary on your website. You play everywhere. San Francisco, Tokyo, Sao Paolo, Trond…Trond…” “Trondheim. Norway,” Lynn corrected. “Great country. I love it…” “And I love you,” said the woman. Then blushing: “I mean I love your music. It means so much to me.” “I’m glad to hear it,” said Lynn, who smiled, and eased pass the woman to Paul and Tomasz waiting for her at the back with her long-neglected packet of Marlboros. It is Tomasz who takes over from Paul with shuffling soft percussion, while Lynn’s hands hover over the keyboard. At last, it seems right and she breaks the tempo with a few tinkly notes mostly drowned out by the applause for her sidemen. Then, appropriately for the time of year, it is the yearning sadness of Autumn Leaves that she plays to the delight of the Japanese tourists. Tomasz and Paul are attractive men, both younger than Lynn, and together they make a coherent trio, communicating with the empathy of all successful improvisers. Each knows intuitively what the others are doing and is happy to give each other the support that has kept the trio going for more than two years now. However, much as Lynn privately lusts for Paul’s lean, muscular body, his arms bare to the shoulder, or the slightly vulnerable, even feminine, Tomasz, she has learnt from earlier mistakes not to mix a professional relationship with sex. In earlier days, in Peckham, later in North London and, then, on the back of one of her more passionate relationships, ...