My Jazz Baby

There she is again, gaping at the overflowing shelves of Jazz literature, like a stubborn sheep that has spent too long roaming about freely. I am muscular now, Master. Actually Master, no one is my Master because I have walked alone all summer, doing what I want, Master!

It’s ridiculous. Since I remember, she has been filling up this place with her humming bedroom-voice which if you ask me, is not exactly appropriate for a 14-year-old. Every week she drags with her another bagful of those books –James Baldwin, Gary Giddens, Andy Jones and all that Jazz. Literally. I never see her returning them, but I imagine them piling up around her – over her and under her; next to her pale and shimmering pre-teen body. She must have collected far more books on Jazz literature than pieces of clothing. Poor thing. I wonder if anyone will ever want to kiss her. Hello, red-head, would you let me pull down your stockings? Or what are they, football socks? And that out-washed jean jacket and that obviously fake purplish-red hair, like she never had a mother or a sister or even a pretend-to-be friend who enlightened her about the truth? I like the little half pony-tail, though. It perks up every day from the back of her head, as if to say hello to me personally, and then it flows down like a baby fountain. Or a bird fount, like the one Elise has put out in our front yard, to make our property more attractive and more frequented. More frequented? By birds or by her Chardonnay friends?

Oh, the pony-tail is moving; dancing salsa for me. I wonder if the Jazz girl can dance, too. I picture us in a slow wienerwaltz; sweeping across the room as synchronised as one of those broomsticks that comes alive in a Disney movie. Then a bouncy but sensual salsa, followed by the dramatic tango; her tiny plum breasts rubbing against my torso, a blood red single rose in my mouth. And then finally the Jazz, of course. Armstrong is purring about what a wonderful world it is and Rita Hayworth wants me to dream a little dream of her. Oh yes, I am dreaming baby. The room is spinning and I look up to see tiny hummingbirds singing love songs above our interlinked bodies; my nose buried in her purplish hair. Ah, it smells of youth!

The next moment she is wrapping her legs around one of mine, like a horny poodle, and rubbing her genitals against my thigh. Just a bit higher, Jazz baby, just a bit higher! She is riding me, naked in her football socks; her pony tail bouncing up and down in joy – telling me harder, faster, louder! I am her shepherd boy, her bull beyond taming. Come here little Jazz sheep, come to your bull-boy; come be my Matadoresse!

Matadoresse.

She turns around and gives me a surprising look.
-‘Did you say anything?’
No one is my Master, because I am my own Master, Master.
-‘Me?’ I look behind me, pretending to look for whoever had uttered that made-up word. ‘No, not me’... I go back to my book, turning the front page 90 degrees upwards to hide my blushing cheeks.
-‘Oh, it sounded like a Jazz term’... Disappointment; her entire body speaks of it. Then she walks right past me, five thick books in her lap; with her holiday smile and that distant look that goes through doors, people and buildings. She glances over at me and her smile dies. I don’t look up, just let her leave quietly and painlessly; intently staring into my Beast and the Blonde behind the counter. The bell tinkles distantly as the door to the bookshop closes behind her.

She will be back, I sigh; feeling relieved. She will be back for more Jazz.