Playing bass, with her.

Okay so I played a few basslines yesterday.  I can go without sex; music is not an option.  It's a must have.  It's touching skin of a different kind.  She leans against a chair in the sunlight.  She's been with me for 23 years.  "Touch me. Play me."  She says.  "You're so easy,"  she whispers as I dig into her four strings.  It's funny; I've heard that before.  She was not my bass, by the way.  She's growly today.  Clean with a hint of dirty.  Oh man, how I love that!  She is in full song, and I'm committed for at least an hour.  It ended up being more than that, but she never complains about it.

I snap her strings and she clicks at me.  I think I just had one, but I'm way too into it to check.  I could be out in the snow right now, but I can't tell and I don't want to know.  Snap!  Click!  She is with me in every sense today.  This popping and snapping thing is going to set my CT back a bit but I really don't give it much more thought than that, and I never miss a 32nd note.  She is on, and if they have to cut my arm off tomorrow, she is giving me the goodbye performance of her life.  I should be recording this, but it's our moment.  SHE told me about moments years ago.  I think I got it.  I pop my low E string, which is tuned down to B to compensate for my current lack of a 5 string lover.  She understands and responds accordingly.  Boom! Flap!  Every speaker in the room and the ones on my head flap as the paper they are made of struggles to stay together under the ginormous weight of her notes.  As usual, she gives me what I'm looking for.  Everything else flaps, except for Bee.  She is the one who is my bass amplifier.  Her speaker cone is aluminum, it doesn't flap, and she's not going to let everyone else have the glory.  She reminds me of this by sending an electrified low B into my back and out of my chest.  My spine is now sticking in my heart but heaven is right here on earth at the moment.  I'll look into the bleeding later.  Who's playing who?

I turn to observe Bee's violence and notice the LED on her front panel flashing wildly in response to every note I'm playing.  This serves to indicate to me that she is limiting my signal to protect her insides.  Why do I always do that to women?  Here I am, waiting for my head to explode in the shear ecstasy of this moment, and she's keeping me alive.  There had better be a good reason for this.  I turn my back to her without worry.  She will keep pumping her waves into me and I won't forget she is there.  Bless her.  Snap! Click! Pop! Boom!  Fuck my wrist!  I play with her knobs a little, and she goes nasal on me.  We are in funk territory now and I know she loves this the most.  Mild lows, loud highs, and almost no midrange.  All of the dead spots force me to look for and play in the sweet spots.  This is the kind of attention every woman deserves.  Not only am I touching her, I'm listening to her.  I am all over her looking.  Playing faster in some places and lingering in others.  Who's playing who!?

Despite the fact that the entire room is vibrating, I can feel her every note in my hands.  She doesn't seem to mind that I'm going from John P. Kee (gospel) to Danzig to Prince to DMB to the stuff we wrote ourselves; although the neighbors must think me insane and possessed.  Good, maybe they'll stay the hell away from me.  She is no longer growling, but yelling at me.  Most likely in angry passion at having to wait as long as she has for this.  Men...  I know this because I now have to bump the volume up slightly to compensate for the small amount of hearing loss that is occurring as this affair continues.  Thirty tunes later, we are beyond an hour and I'm laying on the floor.  She is on top of me and my head is at Bee's feet.  Where else would you find a guy with a foot fetish?  We are playing Weekend in Monaco as we begin to go through my Rippingtons collection.  There is no pain, but just a little pressure in my right forearm.  It's a signal that I must take seriously.  Knowing this, I launch hard into the jazz, and we are all reminded that jazz is where the bass player in me started this life.  I'm hitting her all over the place now and she's loving it.  Her tone has cleaned up now and I can't get any grit, no matter how hard I hit it.  I'm challenged.  I ask again; who's playing...?  Aw fuck it.

I end with some Pantera.  Mildly in tribute to Dimebag, whom I've been thinking of lately, and my nephew, who doesn't play much since he left me.  I'm exhausted, sweaty and just damn satisfied.  She is quivering in my hands, demanding that I play more, but understanding my condition.  Bee is no longer blinking at me, but she's pissed.  Her internal fan is on and she's blowing hot air out of her back.  What?  A reach around is only common courtesy at this point.  I sit down to catch my breathe and wonder how soon I'll be able to do this again.  The ringing in my ears is the only thing I hear.  I'm spent.  They are not.

Nothing new.

I always finish before they do.