By Mark Kodama
I saw her standing there near the front of the crowd, below the stage, behind the barricade. She had gold piercings through her nose, above her mouth and above her right eyebrow. Turquoise tattoos covered both arms and the back of her hands. Her large breasts and wide hips jiggled and nearly burst from her skin-tight leather outfit as she madly danced to the voice of my guitar.
At first glance she looked young but upon closer look she had crow feet emanating from the corners of her eyes and her skin was weathered underneath her painted face. Her hair was jet black but roots gray. She licked her purple lips, her wide brown eyes hungrily stared at my fingers stroking my Stratocaster electric guitar that hid my lower body, like a giant electronic fig leaf. I knew I would take her at the after party.
I sealed the deal with my guitar solo as our front man Mick crooned his cover of the Eagles “I Can’t Tell You Why” and our drummer Dougie rattled his drum set. Those guitar licks were so seductive, a siren call to our most primordial desires. When my eyes met our roadie Sammy, he nodded and then waded into the sea of people to give her an after-party invitation.
When Sammy whispered in her ear, she leered at me, leaned forward, grabbed her breasts and touched her mons pubis through her tight black leather pants. I rhythmically thrust myself against my guitar slung low.
At the after party at the hotel penthouse suite, Sammy introduced us. “Welcome to the Hotel California,” Sammy said, his hand on the back of her upper arm. “You can check out any time but you may never leave.”
“Billy,” I said, offering my hand.
“Circe,” she said in a deep melodic voice. She took my hand in her hand. The back of her hand was tattooed with a blue-green pentagram.
“Excuse me guys,” Sammy said, taking his cue. “I see some friends at the bar that I must greet.”
“Are you going to hold me hostage on your desert island too?” I asked.
She laughed. “An intelligent rock star,” she smiled. “That is an oxymoron.”
“I’m neither intelligent nor a rock star,” I said. “But I must confess I graduated from the university with a degree in English literature.”
“Who would have thunk,” she said “that a working brain resided under all that hair.”
“The Odyssey is one of my favorite works of literature,” I offered. “I’m just playing the part.”
“You must be the band’s songwriter,” she said.
“That I am.”
“What is your favorite song of ours?” I asked.
“I don’t know. This is my first concert of yours.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“You are interesting,” she said. “Let’s dance.”
She danced like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, her bangs hanging down, just above her eyebrows. She danced to the fast-paced beat of the music without breaking a sweat, her perfume sweetening the air. Her smile was bewitching.
As she danced her diamond-studded gold pendant bounced against her neck. “What is that?” I shouted above the music, pointing to her gold pendant.
“Ithaca,” she shouted back, referring the ancient island kingdom once ruled by the mythical hero Odysseus.
After the song, we returned to our table. Prawn and cream cheese hors d’oeuvres and Cuban sandwich sliders with pork bellies were served with pink champagne on ice.
I nodded to Sammy who brought back two more glasses of pink champagne from the red jacketed hotel bartender assigned to our private party.
“Where’s the beer?” Mick our front man joked as Dougie our drummer laid passed out on the couch, incapacitated by booze and marijuana. “Such debauchery,” he said, winking at me.
“I love your guitar,” Circe said.
“I love your eyes,” I said.
“I play a stringed instrument too.”
“What songs do you play”?
“Tales of Brave Ulysses.”
“Do you want to see my collection?”
“Absolutely,” she said, playing with her hair.
We rode the elevator to my floor. I took Circe to my hotel suite. Despite the late hour – it must have been 3 a.m. – I was wide awake, still on an adrenaline high from the rock concert. I went to the bar. “What will you have?”
“A whiskey sour,” she said eyeing my crotch. “I like your snakeskin pants – tight the way I like it. It allows you to examine the merchandise before buying.”
When I handed her the tumbler, she reached into my pants with her other hand. She pulled down my pants.
“Do you like it?” I asked her, grabbing myself. Most women were surprised at my size. I did not realize just how big I was until I had to shower after gym class in junior high school.
She laughed. “I’ve seen bigger, ” adding “I’m older than you think.”
“Just wait until I do what I do,” I said. “It will be almost a religious experience.”
“Don’t blaspheme the gods,” she said, seriously.
We undressed. “How about a quick shower?” she asked, taking my hand. After washing and then drying me, she led me to bed. She looked at me dead in the eye, her brown eyes penetrating my soul. “Destroy me,” she said.
I pounded her as hard as I ever pounded anyone as she stared at herself in the mirrored ceiling. Some woman have a hard time taking all of me but she grabbed me with both hands and I slid in. Circe’s body swallowed me like I was a small little guppy.
She thrust her pelvis forward and grabbed my buttocks forcing me forward at the same time. She did not moan but grunted like a man. I don’t know how many times I came. At some point, I just lost count.
After about an hour and a half Sammy knocked on the door. “The next one is here,” he called through the door.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sheepishly. “Duty calls.”
“You do like two girls at once, don’t you? Sit in that chair,” she said, pointing to the soft leather chair.
Circe walked naked to the door, her perfect alabaster buttocks swaying as she walked. Her flawless skin seemed to glow in the dark. She stood on her tip toe as she looked through the peephole. “Send her in, Sammy,” she said.
It was Vanessa, one of my favorite groupies. “Hi, Billy,” she said, walking past Circe. She looked stunning with her straight blond hair running down her open-backed red dress. She turned to Circe and said ”My turn.”
Circe merely laughed. “Billy said I could stay here.”
“Oh . . .” Vanessa said, coldly.
“He wants to watch us play.”
“I only do men, not strange women,” Vanessa said.
“Well, you’ve always secretly wanted to do a woman, haven’t you,” Circe said, walking over to her.
“No,” she said. “Never.”
Circe reached underneath Vannessa’s backless red dress. “Liar,” she said. “See those fluted pillars in the middle of the suite? I am going to handcuff you there. I’m going to dom you and you are going to love it.”
Two hours later, after furious lovemaking, Vanessa laid spent on the bed, the sheets drenched. Circe cradled Vanessa to her breast like a mother holding her child. “I love you,” Vanessa whimpered to Circe.
“I know,” Circe replied, smiling. “Now, it’s time for you to leave. I will call you.”
“Okay,” Vanessa said, meekly. “You promise?”
Circe patted her arm, opened the door and teasingly moved to kiss her lips. Vanessa lurched forward and opened her mouth to receive her tongue. Circe deftly kissed the corner of Vanessa’s mouth.
Vanessa pouted and hesitated ever so slightly before leaving. “I’ll call you,” Circe said flashing a wide grin and then gently closing the door with both her hands. “Let’s see. Where were we? Do you want more?” she asked me.
“I could use one more before rose-fingered dawn shows her pretty face,” I said.
Circe took me by the hand and led me to the bed. Afterwards, I fell asleep in her arms.
After breakfast, Circe said she would see me again for a three-night gig at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles before the band flew to Tokyo.
I never met a woman with a stronger sexual appetite than Circe. She was absolutely insatiable and her hunger only increased as nights wore on. When it came to chicks, I was a real satyr. But even I could not keep up with Circe.
In Los Angeles, Circe took on a new look. Gone was her green hair and turquoise tattoo. She now had blond hair, a gray suit and the high-heel shoes of a corporate lawyer. She even had a brief case and glasses that she wore at the end of her nose.
Between the rock concerts and extracurricular activity, I began to evaporate. My leather jacket began to fit so loosely. My jeans slipped down. I had to send Sammy to get me a new wardrobe of jeans, slacks and a belt.
Curiously, my alligator leather shoes were so loose on my feet that I stumbled. My band mates also appeared to grow in height.
“You appeared to lose a couple inches,’ Mick kidded me. “It is all the sex you are having with your new girlfriend.”
I had to admit I had never had it so good. We did it during the day and at night. We did it in public and in private. We did everything, exploring every conceivable kind of position and every kind of perversion.
I had to keep reminding myself I was married with two young children. If Penelope knew I had affairs, she never mentioned it to me. I am a rock star after all. Groupies are part of the lifestyle. Everybody has heard of the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. The fish story in Seattle is legendary.
We were on a grueling ten-month odyssey to Europe, the United States, Japan and then Australia. I needed sex to fuel my creativity and play at my best. Music is a rough business. You are here today and then forgotten tomorrow.
You have to make all the money you can while the dream lasts. Tomorrow, I could well be a 30-year-old has been, playing Chuck Berry tunes at Knott’s Berry Farm..
As a rock star, I was a kind of modern Odysseus. Rather than carrying bows and arrows into combat, I carried my electric guitar on stage. Rock journalists in their newspapers and magazines, like the traveling bards of yore, sang of our exploits. I was a juke box hero with stars in my eyes.
It is easy to lose perspective when you are a rock star. Everyone wants to be your friend – to claim some piece of you for themselves. You can give and give and give until there is nothing left of you.
Moreover, it is easy to start believing the myth that you are someone special. Where at one time, you would be just happy that someone would go out with you to see a movie, you start to really believe you have some special sex appeal. It is easy to forget that people are in love with the image, their distorted picture of you, and not you.
Who was I before I became famous? I can tell you who I was. I was Billy Nobody, a self-delusional unrealistic loser chasing a ridiculous dream. Now, everyone hangs on my every word and laughs at my most trite joke. It is easy to become stale.
I had to tell Circe that I was by nature not a one-woman man – that I needed many ladies in my life.
“Me too,” she said.
I was both happy and sad to be traveling overseas with the band. Never before had any one woman ever satisfied me. My appetite for sex was usually insatiable.
On the plane, I dreamed I was Odysseus tied to the mast by my crew. My crew stopped up their ears with beeswax so they could not hear the sirens’ songs and crash upon the shoals. I screamed at my crew to untie me so I could swims to the evil temptresses. Circe, whip in hand, stood over me, naked in the storm. Someone or something was trying to warn me.
I certainly needed a break. I felt Circe was somehow consuming me sexually and physically. I seemed shorter and thinner.
We were scheduled to tour Japan and then Australia. It was just the break I needed to get myself together before getting home to Penelope and the kids. The boys in the band and I had one rule and one rule only. What happens on the road stays on the road.
We flew from LAX to Narita International Airport. A limousine whisked us to the hotel and then to the Budokan in Tokyo where we played to a sold-out crowd. It is where the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and Cheap Trick jammed, among other greats.
The whole time, we were surrounded by our handlers and the police. We were prisoners in a gilded cage. At the end of the show, we had arranged to meet up with some real Geishas. We really looked forward to meeting some real people for a change.
Contrary to popular belief in the West, Geishas are not prostitutes but artists – the highest caste of entertainers in Japan. It takes a five-year apprenticeship before a Geisha can even entertain a customer. At one point, the country had more than 80,000 geishas. Today, they are part of an exclusive club of only about 1,000.
After performances in Tokyo and Osaka, we were flown to a private party in Kyoto. It was a fulfillment of another fantasy cross off my bucket list a night with one of the famed Geishas of Kyoto.
Tiny Kikuyo — face painted white, lips red and black hair pulled into an elaborate bun — scuffled in an absolutely stunning yellow silk kimono. She played her shamisen – a three-stringed ancient Japanese instrument – with impeccable skill.
The guests ate a ten-course dinner and drank hot sake on low tables, each small dish complete in flavor and look – each a work of art in itself. We had Kobe beef, roasted miso cod, lightly battered jumbo tempura shrimps, and tuna belly sashimi wrapped in dried seaweed. So many subtle flavors to taste, each gently bathing the tongue in Epicurean ecstasy.
Afterward, all the guests left but me. I do not know what it cost our business manager but at last I was alone with Kikuyo.
I was on fire with desire. When I took off my own kimono, the geisha began to laugh. “Hey, Billy,” said the familiar voice in impeccable English. “It’s me Circe.”
“What?” I looked closer. This woman definitely was Japanese, even under her makeup.
“Pretty good disguise, don’t you think?”
I was speechless.
“Don’t think to hard about this,” she said. “Now, give me that giant cock of yours. I want to see if we can break our own records.”
When we boarded our flight from Osaka to Sydney, Mick and Sammy looked at me in amazement. “Dude, what is wrong, with you?” Mick asked.
“Yeah, man,” Sammy said. “You used to be taller than me by a couple inches.”
“No, you are mistaken,” I said.
“When we get to Sydney, you are going to have to see a doctor,” Mick said. “You look like a skeleton. This seems serious.”
When I saw the doctor in Australia, I had indeed lost a good four inches and twenty-five pounds. The doctor took my vital signs and ran blood tests. My blood pressure and glucose levels were high but everything else appeared to be normal. He could not explain why my body was wasting away.
I decided to lay off the drugs, alcohol and groupies for the rest of the tour. I called my wife Penelope afterwards. For some inexplicable reason, I began to cry.
“What’s wrong Billy?” Penelope pleaded.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I miss you and the boys something awful.”
“We love you Billy,” she said.
To my amazement, I think I played even better sober. But my sex drive was as keen as ever. I avoided groupies but who was to judge me for entertaining myself.
After releasing myself three or four times in my hotel room, I was about to release myself again when I heard that familiar laugh.
“Do you need any help?” Circe asked. This time she had olive skin and black plaited hair that ran down her back. She looked like those paintings on an ancient Greek amphora.
“How did you get through security?”
“I walked past by them,” she said, smiling. “They were sleeping.”
Her dressed dropped to the floor. “I hate to waste things,” she said, climbing on top and putting me inside herself. She began to rock back and forth like she was scrubbing clothes on a washboard.
“No stop. You are doing something to me,” I said, panting.
“I am a witch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time I make you cum, you get smaller and smaller.”
“Have you men shrinking?” she laughed.
“What is your real name?”
“I told you, Circe.”
“Get off me,” I angrily said.
“Don’t you want to cum again?”
“No, get off me.”
“You are my prisoner – a prisoner of your own desire.”
“You want another one?” she asked. “I’m going to bring you home to my island in a handbag.”
“You are crazy,” I said, feeling myself shrinking again. “No more.”
“You are my love slave,” she said, rocking back and force, pinning me to the bed. “I am going make you cum again, again and again.” She began saying a chant in Greek. Her eyes looked they were on fire.
I tried to throw her off of me. But I was now the size of child. I kept shrinking, shrinking and shrinking until I was the size of a Ken doll.
She grabbed me around my body with her right hand, as I struggled to escape. She then put me into her purse. Before closing the purse, she said: “When I said I was Circe, I was not kidding. You are my Odysseus. This time I am not going to let you leave.”