Jazzing Through The Schmoe

Standing there, I was struck, riveted, spasms of hormonal rush and envy pumping from my ventricles to my pubic region. I tried to dispel my escalating fascination by struggling not to stare but my neurotic impulse was already wheezing past my self control regulators and zipped past me like a Frisbee going berserk.

The object of this enraptured lusting? A cutie blowing his horn like there’s no tomorrow.


Listen. Before you reach for your scapulars and scribble your impassioned indignations on the comments field do me a favor: keep your lewd hyper-imaginations in check. I was talking about a trumpet player.

First, a digression: Like yesterday I woke up late. Office work be damned, stupor is the name of the game this holiday season. So I wandered aimlessly in Galleria for overdue lunch and finally settled in Teriyaki Boy for Shake Don (that’s salmon slab in sweet sauce topping steamed rice to you). Then I heard it. Brass, wind, standard, spliced in a hip pop mash up that is bop-ish, catchy and has that swinging vibe. It’s a free symphony performance by the central area of the mall. I wolfed my meal hurriedly and rushed to the scene.

Second digression: In the past I have repeatedly written about how two of my greatest frustrations were the inability to play the saxophone and the violin. I play the organ (the instrument, not the excitable appendage) but deep in me is a well of discontent that always rises over when I see someone playing the aforementioned instruments. For me, the saxophone is a feisty yet sexy instrument while the violin is the most passionate and sensual devil capable of stirring undiscovered emotions within someone who hears it. I almost had the chance to learn how to play the violin. Two years ago I met a retired Philharmonic Maestro and his gracious wife who both offered me tutorial classes so I can set my disgruntlement over this instrumental ineptitude. They even offered to lend me their personal violins, which was rather generous. I was then working in an international firm and merciless deadlines quashed all hopes to finally learn how to pluck strings.

I love jazz. I have hundreds and hundreds of CDs from the classic Coltranes and Goodmans to the more contemporary ones. My college best friend, she educated me more on the genre by opening her extensive jazz and standards library and I got hooked all the more. So when I heard the U.P. Jazz Ensemble skewering the mall with spirited renditions of jazz, standards, a swinging medley of Christmas tunes and movie themes I hurtled towards the lower section to have a closer look.

That’s when I saw him. Yes, him. Elfin meets anime hairstyle, boyish charms, and eyes that cackle of roguish waywardness and sexy mischief. He casts off an impression that he’s capable of chuckling like a kindergarten but his rocking hips will warn you he can break bedposts on a testosterone fit. Cute but stable, adorable with impish streaks. If you’re watching earlier and facing the stage he’s standing second to the last trumpet player on the right side and his body moves with the music, totally exuding that fluid jazz swagger that’s making my nipples assume the tautness of a Mongol Number2 eraser.

A coupe of instances I thought he caught me staring and I deflected meeting his eyes by looking at the guy playing the Electric guitar. Then the trombone players stood up and in the name of everything holy, rose another fuckable, talented dude! The saxophone row had another cutie and the girls are not bad looking at all! Is there anyone out there possessed of information on how to audition for this fantastic UP Jazz Ensemble? If I fail the audition given my ignorance on playing instruments, then stalking would be in order. Kidding.

So there I was, bobbing like a demented woodpecker, getting into the vibe of jazz while hormones spurt out of my pores. I’m trying to look cool but was actually struggling to contain the leakage of an idiotic dopey smile. While Cutie Trumpet Man-Boy blows his pipe, I register my appreciation and approval by clapping vigorously while in my head carnal imaginings swirl like tornadoes on a rampage. In my boorish mind I can see him puffing a flawless blow of Chuck Mangione’s Feel So Good while I’m puffing on something that will make him feel so good. And Vice Versa.

The gig ended to appreciative rounds of applause and I hurriedly slithered off the mall’s agoraphobic chaos. I should have stayed and introduced myself but preferred to go home and not ruin the mood. To bastardize Miss Saigon, I’d rather that in the movie in my mind, he’ll go on and on, the anonymous Trumpet Cutie, the object of my wildest wet jizz dreams.

Yeah, all that jazz.