My words wouldn't flow,I couldn't think up new music, or even adapt other music into somethingnew. It was more than writer's block; it was me being tossed into a wellduring a relentless rainstorm. So there I sat, in a booth, pondering about my future. I'd left home atseventeen, keen to see the world through my own eyes. My parents were,of course, still there at home. I could still go back, but it's beenthree years of minimal contact, and I'd hate to share the burden of thisdefeat with them. They wouldn't take it very well and they'd be wrecks,and I wanted them to think I'm doing fine. A phone call here, a letteror email there, and some promising words would tide them overindefinitely. They wanted their 'baby boy' back home in Iowa, while Iscrounge up a living each night at a local pub in New York playing coversongs. Not that I wouldn't rather play my own stuff, it just wouldn'tfill the seats so well.It probably didn't help that I didn't have anywhere to live. I'd beenliving in. After about 30 minutes our host announced that the show would be starting in about 5 minutes, and that it was time to take our seats. A few more lights came on to help us find our way to the show area which consisted of a very well lit small round stage with four double lounge chairs spaced out around the perimeter of the stage and facing the stage. From our seat to the centre of the stage was no more than about 6 feet. Miranda and Pete disappeared off into the darkness as Celia and I took our seats. With just a few minutes to go, I extracted a very small pump bottle from my pocket. I took Celia’s hand and pumped a small dob of the clear liquid onto her index finger. ‘I want you to rub this liquid onto your clit and all around it’ I told her. I had hoped that she hadn’t added panties to the outfit that she was wearing. She looked at me apprehensively for a moment. I nodded to her, indicating that I wanted her to proceed. She parted her thighs a little and slipped her hand between her.
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