SexyPrime, a blog by Susan Crain Bakos

Do You Squirt--and if so, What IS That Stuff?

Last night I attended a demonstration of Orgasmic Providing by Richard Anton Diaz at Sexy Spirits in midtown.

This was the second time I watched Anton work his touch magic on a lovely naked model gracing his massage table. Both were extraordinary events, so above anything I’ve ever witnessed as a peripatetic sex journalist that I cannot put them into one of the usual categories, like Tantra/WooWoo and Relationship Yada, Yada, Yada. Anton operates from a place of great integrity and intelligence, attracts like-minded people--and takes everyone in the room on a journey.

Each time the audience was composed mainly of men who watched in rapt and respectful silence as he massaged all the woman’s body before moving, at last, to her vulva. The first model some weeks ago seemed to go quietly and deeply inside herself during genital massage, gently pulsating beneath Anton’s fingers, her being defined by her sweet, bare little pussy. The second goddess, a little hair covering her mons, writhed and throbbed, wailed and moaned as she came--and even talked to the audience at times. Her prominent proud clitoris and her full juicy lips, purple in their passion, claimed pleasure. She made frequent eye contact with Anton in a power gaze of charged energies exchanged.

And she ejaculated. Copiously. Towels were placed around to catch the overflow.

Her pussy was positioned away from the audience, but a camera focused exactly on her so that we could see (almost as if they were 6 inches away) every detail of her, as well as how Anton stroked her, on the screen above them.

“The camera gives her more privacy because her pussy is not fully exposed,“ he says. “The audience is not focusing on her but on the image on the screen. They can see the orgasmic pulsing. And I want their attention on the strokes as that is happening.”

Yes, our attention was on the strokes--and, in this case, the generous squirts of fluid shooting out.

Some women are squirters, at least occasionally, most likely with G spot stimulation--which this goddess did not have last night. (Though Anton’s Orgasmic Providing strokes include internal ones, his fingers did not leave her clit and labia.) Many Western sex experts dismiss the “ejaculate” as merely a gush of fluid composed of urine and copious vaginal secretions. Others believe it is fluid from the Skene‘s glands, a string of several masses of tissue, embedded in the urethra, which when stimulated sexually in some women, releases the fluids into the urethral canal. Devotees of Amrita, the “nectar of the goddess”, base their cult on ancient Tantric writings. Men ejaculate sperm from the testicles via tubes that go through the prostate gland where the sperm mixes with seminal fluid--a very clear process that everyone understands.. There is no question that whatever this fluid that some women “ejaculate” or squirt, upon orgasm is--it is not the female equivalent of seminal fluid. Strictly speaking, there is no female ejaculate or ejaculation.

If not ejaculate, what? Something does happen for many women though no one [Sorry, Amritas.] has answered definitively the question: Pee or Amrita? I lean toward the Skeen’s glands theory because it makes the most sense to me.

Female ejaculation isn’t exactly a technique. If you want to try to make it happen, use G spot stimulation and don’t hold back when you feel the urge to urinate. Bear down. Anton’s goddess of the Amrita drinks water before the demonstration. Some women empty their bladders before trying to squirt because they want to be absolutely sure they aren’t peeing. Whatever soaks your towels!

Anton’s philosophy of life and sex is: Give a woman everything she wants. You see why women love the man?

In comparing the two demonstrations of orgasmic providing on two very different women, I realized how beautifully he does that, adapting his style to suit the needs of the goddess at hand, going with her flow, be it an electric current in her pussy or a gusher of wondrous fluid spurting forth.

I have squirted on rare occasion, always involving a lot of oral and manual play, a large dick and too much wine. One time was particularly memorable--a hottest ever sex adventure; and I will write about it for Christmas because it happened just before the holiday, a few years back in Soho.

Do You Know That Female Orgasm Was A Psychiatric Problem Until 1952?

“It has long been my unassailable belief that orgasmic women can change the world. By this I mean that a woman who is unfettered sexually is unfettered politically, socially and economically and is unstoppable,” Dell Williams in the introduction to her autobiography, Revolution in the Garden: Memoirs of the Gardenkeeper.

Last week I was an invited guest to a workshop on female sexuality at Eve’s Garden, a lovely art-filled erotic boutique on West 57^th Street, the Manhattan sex toy shop that was the first of its kind when Dell Williams opened it in 1974. (“Eve was scapegoat; I wanted to restore her good name,“ she says, explaining how she decided on the name.) She was born in 1922 when “Women didn’t have orgasms. Not officially.

“Women had the vote but we still didn’t have orgasms. Women had ‘hysterical crises.’”

What’s an hysterical crisis?

It could be fainting, loss of appetite, strange feelings of heaviness in the way lower “abdomen“--or a series of involuntary contractions that, in descriptions of the day, sounds suspiciously like orgasm. Yes, women’s sexuality was categorized as a medical condition by The American Psychiatric Association until 1952--when Dell Williams was thirty years old. Her own sexual awakening didn’t happen until she was fifty. That’s what led “a nice Jewish girl from the Bronx”, also active in the women’s movement, to open a sex toy store built on the belief that “Regular orgasm is vital to a wholesome lifestyle--it enhances our health, our appearance, our self-esteem, our ability to function effectively.”

Dell is one of my heroines; and she will be yours too if you read her book. I was thrilled to meet her at the workshop--and disappointed when the speaker gave her (and another interesting woman) so little time to talk to us. The audience was a mixed bag--women in their twenties/thirties, a couple in their late thirties, a man who looked about that age, some older women. We wanted to hear more from Dell. The speaker, who does this for a living, was warm and engaging, but way too in love with the sound of her own voice and committed to the agenda of her notes to engage in open dialogue.

Babes, if you are ever giving a presentation on any subject and a member of the audience is a pioneer in your field, give that person a little time to address the group.

During the “tell us your name and a little bit about you as we go around the room” phase, Dell said:

“When I was active in the women’s movement, I forgot about sex, until I helped co-ordinate the first Women’s Sexuality Conference for N.O.W. [National Organization for Women]. I took Betty Dodson’s workshop on self love. I saw that the vibrator was a liberating tool for women.”

I can’t read my scribbled notes on what the speaker had to say, but I remember it as being women’s sexuality rooted in relationship yada, yada, yada. At one point, a woman volunteered this comment: “In 1974, I was married with three children and had never had an orgasm.” Later she said, “I had my first orgasm in bed with my husband after a group of couples got together to smoke pot and watch porn. I was so stimulated from the pot, the porn, the sexual energy in the room.”

Shortly after that, Dell told one of her own orgasm stories:

“When I masturbate, I say I am going to the goddess. Sometimes I worry about being too loud when I come. What must the neighbors think? I live in a Manhattan apartment! Recently, I was visiting upstate; and I heard a woman’s scream coming clear across the lake. I knew she was having an orgasm. The sound sailed proudly and joyously across the water. A woman’s orgasm is life-affirming.”

I was sitting on one side of Dell, a pretty young woman on the other side. As Dell described the sailing orgasm, the young woman and I exchanged delighted smiles. We need more of this--talking about sex across the generations. The conversation brings us together, all goddesses in our own lives, each, no matter her age, having to overcome some obstacle in claiming her sexuality.

Orgasm. “Partake of it daily,” Dell says. Yes!

The New Sexuality In The City, Two Parties

Party Number One

I love walking around with him. Every woman should have a little person,”

Founder of One Leg Up, a "floating erotic country club," (New York’s premier sex party venue) the glamorous and voluptuous Palagia celebrated her birthday at a membership, plus invited friends, party on October 9 at The Park on Tenth Avenue. The membership paid $100 each to attend. The paid entertainment included a dancing woman on stilts, three women and a man who danced in their underwear on top of a big cube—and the little person. He followed her around the room--filled with thin, well-toned people dressed in their finest "sexy" and posing--with a bland, bored expression on his face that said, "We all have to make a living somehow."

Is Pretty Bland Posing the new sexuality in the city? Is that all there is?

Maybe there never was much more. Erica Jong famously said that the crowd at Plato’s Retreat back in the day was composed mainly of "dentists from New Jersey with zits on their backs." Woodstock, or so I’ve been told, was a muddy, smelly place where women bared their breasts to the scorching sun and serviced men. I wonder how many women had orgasms there or in the steamy questionable waters of Plato’s Retreat. The Sexual Revolution was really all about men getting laid without having to pay for dinner, much less feel pressure to commit. It wasn't about female orgasms. That was the women's movement.

Men still get that "free sex" in "hook-ups", the meet/fuck/leave separately interaction, that has supplanted dating among the young. BUT—that women control sexual access has never been more clear. Palagia's events are driven by female sexual energy. The men are not fully present. Girl On Top is the ruling sexual dynamic all over the city now.

Party Number Two

I went to a rooftop sunset party in midtown on Sunday night October 12 in celebration of Sexy Spirits. The men outnumbered the women four to one; and they were disappointed in that. A young man who'd discovered Sexy Spirits online confessed he was hoping he'd meet some beautiful girls who wanted their feet worshiped. (Two beautiful girls, one from Rome, did show up late in the evening, but they did not seem particularly interested in having their feet massaged and especially not their toes sucked.)

Most of the other men had participated in Anton Diaz's workshops for men on giving erotic touch. With the exception of a big, tall massage therapist from Trinidad (whose date passed out shortly after their arrival), the men were earnest and courteous, representing a wide range of professional skills and no few accomplishments. Yet they did not walk around the party detailing their resumes in the proud and boastful way that men did at parties in the Nineties and early 2000s. No. They asked about me (and the other women.) The ubiquitous What do you do? was followed by thoughtful questions.

A lawyer from Guyana took me out for coffee and a nightcap afterward and expressed his interest in expanding his sexual repertoire to include more ways of pleasing women--less penis-oriented sex. Alas, he said, it is not easy to find women in the city who are open to this kind of experimentation. I was ready to argue that. Isn't sex defined by women now and wasn't he describing a desire for women-centered sex?

Yes, we are defining and sex!

And, No, things are not always as women-centered as they appear to be. A lot of women still have trouble reaching orgasm, an issue I talk about a lot on the blog. And more: We do like to fuck. We do want a hard dick. The tongue and the hands--lovely erotic tools. But the dick....

The most sexually alive and thus attractive man at either party was the guy from Trinidad, a little rude, definitely brash and possibly not the most considerate escort a woman ever had to a party. (After his date passed out, he flipped open his cell phone and tried to talk another woman into joining him. I had to prod him to check on the sleeping woman a few times.) But he took my foot into his lap and massaged my ankle and calf. There was nothing submissive in his touch. He looked me in the eye and said, "You need me to massage you." We both knew what he meant: You need a hard dick and I've got one.

But I thought he should take care of his date and left for coffee with the serious lawyer who wants a woman to please.

Uptown, Downtown Thursday Night

And you can make both eventsThursday August 21 because the timing is perfect.

Uptown, from 6:30 to 8:30 at my favorite upscale style emporium for men and women, N Boutique, (114 W. 116th Street), Alexthemagazine.com is presenting an event that will be fun for you and good for others:  Come shop with R&B singer Mashonda and The Lorenzo Jackson Foundation Inc.  Shopping and charity!  It's like a guilty pleasure with the guilt removed--plus there's a celeb in the store.  RSVP to the N website.

The Foundation's mission is to inspire young people living with HIV/AIDS to move forward in pursuing their lives.  Their immediate goal is to raise a million dollars by September 29, 2008, to help send deserving kids to college.  They are asking everyone to donate a dollar (more, if you can) to the cause and pass the request along to friends and family.  If you can't come to N with your dollar, contact The Foundation through the link above or call 347-482-5087 or mail your donation to:  The Lorenzo Jackson Foundation, 435A, Suite A, Brooklyn, New York, 11238

Hor d' oeuvres provided by Massawa Restaurant, Ethiopian honey wine by Sheba Te'j, live entertainment by Rain.

Then grab your shopping bags and head downtown to Happy Ending Lounge (302 Broome Street) for free cupcakes and InThe Flesh Erotic Reading series, beginning at 8 (and lasting usually til 11-ish), hosted by Rachel Kramer Bussel, editor of the new anthology Spanked:  Red-Cheeked Erotica.  Some of the anthology's authors will read.  There will also be readings from erotic poetry and a novel.  And you can buy a copy of the book which Rachel will autograph.  (Scroll down to the entry "Late Summer Treats" to see the fab cover.)

A Female Sexual Empowerment Manifesto

"Sexual empowerment is the next wave of the women's movement," Carlin Ross, writer and champion of female sexual empowerment.

Carlin made that statement when we were podcasting a year or more ago.  I agreed with it then; and I find it even more true today.  If we aren't sexually empowered--comfortable in our sexuality, supportive and not judgmental of other women's sexual choices--we are not completely empowered as women.  Sex is a big part of all our lives.  It helps define us.  Allowing someone to draw their own lines around her sex life diminishes a woman and dilutes her power in the world.

If you read the blog often, you know that I wrote an essay for The New York Press on the end of my "romance with Harlem" when I was mugged by a thug posing as a hairdresser.  Some of the reaction was predictable.  Ugly racist Internet trolls, black ones and white ones, crawled out of their muck and wrote their predictable drivel.  (Isn't it amazing that trolls can type?)  Some of it was surprising--like the fact that a few ignorant people, women as well as men, didn't get that the romance was my romanticized concept of Harlem, not with a thug.  (The next day I wrote an entry that I hope explains where I am with Harlem now:  The NREU, crazy love, phase of my relationship with this part of the city is over, but the love is still there--but I wish Harlemites would stand up to the thugs.

You can probably guess what the trolls had to say.  Referring to an essay I wrote in the same publication three years ago on how I (at the time) found black men sexier than white men--they said:  You like black men, therefore you are a slut and will fuck any one of them; you were on a "booty mission" in the words of one particularly ignorant troll; and you deserved to be mugged.  Nasty, huh?

I'm not the only woman castigated for stating a sexual preference--for a skin color, age, eye color, dick size, height.  (We are supposed to be blind to "type" and love purely from the soul.)  Men, on the other hand, can date, marry and divorce a string of cookie cutter cuties, say "I only date blondes" or, like my pal Ira, who is white and Jewish, "I only date black women, but not black women with big booties."  They are not threatened with bodily harm.

If I had it to do over again, I would write that first essay on black men differently, with more sensitivity to black women.  (I would also be clear on this:  It's educated, professional black men I love, not thugs.  I hold black men to the same standards as white.  I date international bankers and their ilk, not, thank you, thugs.)  If you read me carefully, you also know that I acknowledge my own shortcomings and hubris--and can admit to a change of mind or heart which is more than I can say for my critics.

Women all over the world are verbally (and sexually and physically) assaulted daily for expressing their sexuality.  Sometimes other women say they deserved what they got: raped, killed for the family's "honor", living with abuse.  The hatred and pain that these shunned women endure alone is unimaginable for most of us, even those of us who've been taken to task by trolls; and thank the goddess for that.

I was pondering my life philosophy--and thinking about maybe creating a Female Sexual Empowerment Manifesto--when I went into my mail service this morning.  The UPS store on 116th between Fifth and Lenox--owned by the fabulous ABu and managed by the stalwart Mike-- is more than a very efficiently run business; it's a warm little community center for those of us who do business there.  We stand and sit around, opening our mail, drinking coffee, making professional connections, aided by Abu who is as proud of our careers and accomplishments as if we were his family.

C came in behind me.  A sophisticated African American woman in her 50s, she is a successful entrepreneur and an interesting, insightful woman.  We sat down to catch up; and the subject turned to women judging women's sexuality.

"When I was in college, I became friends with a beautiful call girl," she said.  "I was a little put off by her profession at first, but gradually I accepted her.  She loved sex; she loved getting paid for it.  She was in charge of her life; and who was I to judge her choices?  She taught me a lot about female sexuality.  That opened up my world."

As I was gathering up my mail, N, came in.  A stunning African American woman, she is in her late 30s, running an upscale retail business, and newly married.  She told me that I am one of her role models.  "You are one of those women who make me realize that life isn't over when you get older.  Women in their 50s and 60s have it going on now."

I left the UPS store feeling spiritually buoyed as I often do after spending a little time there.

Walking to the subway, I thought more about my philosophy/manifesto, a work in progress.  A sexually empowered woman needs good lovers in her life.  And she needs sisters.  My late sister Ellen loved and believed in me; she was there when I needed her.  My friend Carolyn has filled the sister role in her absence.  Neither of them have judged me; and that is their greatest gift of all.

I am also very lucky--through the books and this blog and associations with other women in the sex world-- to have a supportive network, a sisterhood of sex-positive women.  Some of them have struggled against religious, family and cultural repression or overcome sex abuse or rape.  Their journeys have not been easy; and yet they celebrate and support other women in their sexual journeys.

I will keep thinking about the manifesto; and send me your thoughts too.  And I will ask Carlin to guest blog on the issue.  She's more informed about women's sexual rights around the world than anyone I know.

My Harlem Romance Ended With A Bang--A Head Bang

Go to www.nypress.com and read my story about being assaulted and robbed in my Harlem neighborhood earlier this year.

Some people are not happy with me for writing about the experience because they don't want to shine a light on the darker aspects of the 'hood.  But I don't think we get rid of rats by ignoring their existence.  This little piece is some of my best writing.  The scrappy New York Press ran it without editing out "the litigious bits."  I am grateful for that!

Read it.  Yes, there is still much about Harlem to love.

The Sexual Power Of The Creative Man

I remember the first time I heard Makane, a drummer from Mali, play the djembe drum.  He is one of the best djembe drummers in the world; and you don't need to read his press clips to know that.  The power of his drumming is so great that it opens your soul. I wanted him to fuck me.  (He did, of course, and that is a Cougar Chronicle episode for another day.  You will even learn how to say "good penis" in Mandingo while reading it.)

Musicians and artists, actors and a few writers exert a primal force that some women feel immediately and intensely in our genitals.  We are aroused by their creativity, especially if they are very good at what they do.  (Do other women feel the same way about titans of industry?  Yes, I suppose they must.)  Personally, I have vowed not to let that happen to me again.  The muse thing--no.  And these creative men keep impregnating young women into their senile years.  I thank the goddess I'm beyond childbearing.  So, really, I'm immune now--right?

But I have been pondering the power of art, erotic and otherwise, the past few days because I am working with a wonderful artist, Bara Diokhane, and art dealer, Robert Durant, to bring Bara's work to greater public attention.

Saturday night Robert and his beautiful wife Yolanda and I had dinner at Baton Rouge restaurant on 145th Street in Harlem.  Our art discourse got sidetracked by the comedy of the service.  The waiter Lucias was new to the job and not exactly in command of the menu.  Placing our order was slow going, rather like trying to explain why women fake orgasms to a man who just discovered that we do.  He said that he wanted to be my assistant; and I am thinking on that one.  After ordering, we waited thirty minutes for a glass of wine.  We all agreed that we would eat whatever Lucias brought out, whether we'd ordered it or not.  (The food is great, no bad choices!)  Just as we were tucking into our appetizers, a crew began breaking down tables all around us and setting up a bar and DJ area for a private party.  By the time our entrees arrived--two out of three exactly as ordered--the noise of the very loud music made conversation difficult.  Lucias was sweet and apologetic.  We said:  It's fine; we're fine.  A manager came to ask if we were okay.  We said:  It's fine; we're fine.  Whenever one of us went downstairs to the restroom, the bartender inquired about our general happiness too.

We decided that they must be shrugging their shoulders and saying in mystification:  White people; they'll put up with anything.  (We were the only white people in the restaurant that night.)

We were well-fed and in a marvelous mood when we went a little further downtown to Minton's Playhouse on 118th Street to hear my pal Michael Karr and his group play.  They were so good--hot and sexy, perfect for a sultry summer night.  After Robert and Yolanda left for home, I sat at the end of the bar and chatted with the musicians as they took breaks. 

The legendary drummer Dennis Davis (who played with Stevie Wonder and so many others) sat in for Victor Jones at one point; and Victor and I reminisced about sexual escapades (not with one another) at the Gramercy Park Hotel back in the pre-renovation days when it was deliciously shabby.  (Who has stories of sex in the old lobby bar, that big, winding space filled with overstuffed sofas and chairs?  I gave some great blow jobs there!)

Ron Afif, the guitarist--catch him with his own group at Zinc Bar on Monday nights--said this to me and Gina, Michael's girlfriend:

"The way we play is directly related to sex.  When I was in my twenties, I knew I played especially good if I got laid that night.  Now [at 40] I'm happy if anyone gets laid.  We all celebrate for him."

Gina and I laughed. 

But I realized:  He's right; he's got it down.  Some women are erotically charged by creative men.  Art and music (and literature) touch our minds and souls but also our pussies.

That seems like a revelation in America where obviously erotic art is almost missing from our museums and galleries.   Even most sex books are artless, relying on stock photos that emphasize the difficulty of positions as if sex were an Olympic event. I am proud to say that Quiver books stand out from the others because they are beautifully photographed and designed--and because the people who make them understand the art of sex.   

I get a charge out of good art and music; and I want my sex charged with art. 

SEX AND MONEY

New York City is not the sexiest city in the world. 

For one thing, few women and men practice the art of flirtation.  This is a hook-up culture; and the come-on is fast, the answer equally so.  Copious amounts of alcohol are typically involved.

More importantly, New York City, especially Manhattan, is about money and power, not sex.  It's not uncommon to eavesdrop on a dating couple in a restaurant or bar and hear them discussing money.  Last night the couple next to me at the Primehouse bar on 27th and Park Avenue spoke of trust funds--the kind he will set up for his eventual children--and men who expect a woman to pay for her own dinner.  (She'd been out with a few of those.)  Maybe they're just friends or business associates, I thought.

But the evening progressed, his hand rode up her thigh, he picked up the check and they left together, getting into the same cab.

Tomas, the bartender, told me that "money talk is Manhattan foreplay."

We laughed.  Isn't this state of affairs also a little sad?  Money is a wonderful thing, but it's not inherently sexy--at least not to me.

I'd give away a copy of any of my books you choose if you'd send me a story that makes me feel the sex appeal of money.

A Little Jazz, A Little Sex

On Thursday night before the 4th of July, I went downtown to Zinc Bar with my pal Michael Karr, superior jazz and R&B trumpet player, to hear his friend drummer Victor Jones play.  We ran into saxophonist Dave "Mullen" Mahoney; and he said, "There's a party uptown at Gary Keyes' apartment.  Let's go."  So we abandoned Victor, who wasn't happy about that, and headed uptown in Dave's car.

I did not know anything about Gary Keyes, but it wasn't the first time a jazz musician took me to a party where I didn't know the host.  We had a copy of The Sex Bible For Women with us.  I knew I would make friends.  In the car driving uptown Michael, Dave and a third musician complained about the sorry state of jazz in the city.  Fewer good venues.  Low pay for gigs.  A diminishing American audience.  Jazz musicians have to go overseas to make good money and be appreciated. 

But as soon as we stepped out of the car with The Sex Bible For Women, a man came up to me and said, "Tell me about this beautiful book."  And we were led into the party like special guests.

Gary Keyes, I soon discovered, is something of a legend as a jazz documentary film maker, a wizened little man who looks to be in his seventies.  His shabby apartment, a rambling warren of cramped rooms on two floors,  had some interesting art and was packed with an even more interesting melange of people:  a mix of ages, races, nationalities, professions.  The people moved restlessly from room to room, floor to floor, the outdoor garden area and back inside--pausing to chat about music, art, architecture, politics, jazz and sex, of course.

In the kitchen old wooden cabinets were taped shut with masking tape to keep the guests out of the host's food supplies.

At one point I was in the tiny bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed talking to a pretty girl who had managed to find me a glass of red wine.  She asked:  "What is this about the G spot?  Does every woman have one?"

Yes, every woman has that place on her vaginal wall though the skin is more roughly textured and sensitive in some women than others.

"Oh, I have one," she said.  "I found mine.  It works."

I realized there was a foot in my back and turned to see a hot young blonde horizontal and making out with an equally hot young guy.

"Get up!"  Keyes yelled.  "Get off my bed!  I don't even know you!  Go home!  If I don't know you, go home!"

The red-faced couple got up and did move toward the door followed by several other people.  The apartment was hot; the garden packed--and I was good to go myself.  Michael came in, took my hand and led me downstairs. 

"It's cooler down here," he said.  "Never mind him.  When he's drunk, he throws everyone out, but he forgets about it five minutes later."

It was cooler downstairs in what was once a boiler room and now serves as a private jazz lounge with piano, drum kit, mikes, comfortable chairs and sofas--and more art, including a mixed media collage of Basie in a leather jacket that I particularly liked.  I took a seat beside a handsome man named Chris who is very knowledgeable about Eastern sexuality.  On the other side of me, a man explained that he is working on a sex documentary and would like to interview me.

And the music was hot.  Several guys jammed but Michael and Dave were the best (and I am not just saying it because they brought me to the party.)  Young Alex Violette whom I 'd heard play at St. Nicks Pub when I still went there was playing here too.  Keep an eye on Alex; he knows and seems to respect the greats and works very hard at his craft.

So many pretty girls and women!  In the corner an Asian girl swayed her hips to the beat, her little black dress flirting with her body as the moved, her wedge shoes perfect for the moment.  An interesting looking woman, likely in her fifties, dressed in a print summer dress accessorized with winter boots and a feather hat, came over to ask me about The Sex Bible For Women.

"Don't you think it is always all about the young girls?"  she asked.

"No," I said.  "I really don't."

Why deny the appeal of youth and beauty?  But there are plenty of sexy older women and men who are attracted to us too.

Gary Keyes, surrounded on a sofa by Asian girls as perfect as summer plums, requested "So What?"

"That needs a vocalist," someone said; and the interesting older woman took a mike in hand and sang.

I love jazz musicians.  They go out into the night with their horns in hand and jam where they are invited to sit in and play--for no money, maybe not even a free drink.  Jazz is a great American art form.  Go out and support your local jazz artists.  If nothing else, buy the guy (and his gal) a drink.

Around three, Gary asked us all to leave within fifteen minutes, but he asked nicely this time.

"I'm tired," he said.