The following Monday, I was, as usual, sitting in one of the bench seats in the amphitheater playing my Strat  when a guy came walking up to me. "Hi!! I'm Pete!" he smiled, extending his hand. "Hi Pete," I acknowledged blandly, wondering in my head what his agenda might be. "So I hear you're a hell of a guitar player," he began. "Thanks!" I grinned, albeit suspiciously. "Judging by the way you're dressed, it looks like you're into either hard rock or English glam," he guessed. "Yeah, both actually," I informed him.

"I play bass and I'm looking to put a cover band together and maybe make us some money before I head off for college," he disclosed. "So you want to come over to my house and jam?"  I responded affirmatively to that overture and he wrote instructions on how to find his home in my notebook.

After school let out for the day, I went home, grabbed my Les Paul and put it on the backseat of my car along with the Strat, which were in their cases, and then placed a Marshall cabinet and one of my amp heads as well as my pedal board in the trunk and transported the lot over to Pete's residence, whereupon I loaded it into his garage, hooked it up, tuned up and we were ready for a musical conversation. "What do you want to do?" he asked. "I don't know, " I retorted. "Maybe 'Black Dog'?" "Yeah, I know that," he affirmed and we ran through it, extending it out to basically show our chops off for each other. Surprisingly, it was actually a pretty decent version! Then we jammed over a simple II-V-I progression for a few minutes. That ultimately petered out of its own accord and I inquired if he knew "Highway Star." He didn't, though he had heard the song before. Consequently,  I played it all the way through once just so he could get a visual of where all the changes were and then I taught him the bassline to it since it wasn't particularly difficult. That took a couple of hours before we had it fully nailed.

I queried if he had Yes' "Roundabout" in is repetoire. "I don't know, Chris Squire's playing is pretty complex," he whined. "I don't think I can do it." "Look, man," I rejoindered, "Squire is one hell of a bassist, but compared to some jazz guys he's not THAT much of a monster," I asserted. "So you need to know his stuff." I chose to let the matter drop after that exchange and went into "La Grange." He picked that up pretty quickly because it's just a basic blues tune that was made special by the fact that Billy Gibbons is such a cool stylist. Pete asked me whose song it was and I told him. "ZZ Top,  huh? I'm going to have to check them out," he stated.

"Well look," I interjected. "I have a soundproof music room at home, so why don't you come over and I'll show you more stuff?" He agreed to that. I also revealed that I had placed an ad in a couple of magazines looking for musicians and he was interested to see what would come of that.

Saturday, Pete hauled his gear to my place. For some reason, I was particularly horny that day and while I taught Pete how to play "Freebird" and we jammed on more Zeppelin material and some Black Sabbath, my curiosity about what was in his trousers kept my vaginal walls oiled up. When we got tired of blasting away, we debated what we should call our band and, after intense discussion, settled on Atomic Sunrise. Not a great name to be sure, but for a cover band it would do.

Once that was settled, I looked him in the eye nervously. "Hey look," I started hesitantly, "I hope you won't think badly of me if I ask you this, but you want to have sex?" "Woah," he blurted, obviously knocked off his moorings by this sudden turn in our short relationehip. I explained to him that I wasn't looking to have a boyfriend in the band, but that I was just really horny at that moment. He said "okay," but also admitted that he had never been to bed with a girl before even though he was already a 17 year old junior and had previous experience playing music. "No problem, sweety," I smiled brightly. "Just relax and let's have fun with it," I suggested.

I folded my knees in front of him and undid and unzipped his jeans before pulling them and his boxers down to the floor. I rolled his flaccid dick around in my righthand and then slid the tip of my tongue up and down and around it. It instantly came to life and I inserted it into my mouth. I could feel it swelling with each trip my lips made over its full, expanding length and it eventually grew to around seven inches as an increasing amount of his precum dripped on to my tongue and was swallowed into my stomach. I ratcheted up the vigor of my head nodding and that resulted in him spasming a huge, grunted load of his semen into my yapper. I gave him a long gander at his cream sitting on  my tongue before disposing of it in my tummy.

I was REALLY hot for him now and I led him to my bedroom, where I shed my clothes, and pulled him on to my bed. We made out for a few minutes before he smothered my nipples and drew some killer jolts of pleasure out of them. I entreated him to eat me and I pointed out where my clit was along with elaborating on how I wanted it licked and sucked. He set about his appointed duty and was successful at it, his ministrations creating several orgasms within me until I felt the emptiness inside me that badly needed to be filled by dick and basically ordered him to fuck me.

He snaked his way on top of me and I ushered his weapon into me, my vaginal muscles eagerly surrounding his meat tube. I held on to him while he screwed me, me needing every thrust of his hard on so much I could have been said to be desperate for it. As the sensations mounted so did my inability to harness my own breathing, culminating in a nice, mellow orgasm before he attained maximum stimulation tolerance and doused my love furnace with his life giving liquid.

We cuddled for a while afterward and then he went home. Pete indeed didn't think ill of allowing him to bone me and we continued to jam on a lot of different material, with me showing him other tracks he hadn't already learned. Pete was a really good guy and so it was fun playing and sleeping with him.

Another month went by and responses to my ad began coming in. Of course, some of them were of the, "chicks playing guitar? Yeah right!" variety. Now think about this for a moment: in the pre-internet era, you had to actually write your message out longhand, fold the piece of paper you put it on, tuck it into an envelope, get a stamp for it and either walk a couple hundred yards to drop it into a mail box or take it to the post office and leave it there. So these people had so little going on in their lives that they would make all this effort to just basically say, "chick guitar players suck!" Pathetic.

Fortunately, there were a few constructive responses that were from our general area. Pete and I ultimately auditioned a couple of drummers and settled on Cliff Swann, a 6'3" 240 pound hulk of a blonde haired skinsman who not only hammered the shit out of his kit, but was fundamentally sound, too.

There was only one singer we tried out, Danny Hartzell, whose influences were Robert Plant and Steve Marriott. He also had the long blonde curly hair on a skinny body thing going on with loads of power. It was perhaps no surprise that he was raised in the surfer town of Huntington Beach. I told Pete, though, that I still wanted to bring in a keyboardist and second guitarist so that we wouldn't lose any rhythmic balls when I went to do a lead break plus it would enable us to do a wider variety of songs.

That Sunday, Pete and I went shopping for proper PA, lighting and monitor systems. I spent about $30,000 on gear that day, including a new bass rig for him. "Where are you getting all this money?" Pete interrogated. "Honey," I said, "there are four things you never ask a woman about: her age, her weight, her money and whether she came." He got a good laugh out of that. 

We all began rehearsals and hashed out what songs we wanted to do in our set, coming up with a list of about 30.

I took care of the keyboard issue a couple of weeks afterward. There was this little hole in the wall club in the City of Orange that occasionally booked hard rock acts. Playing there one Friday was a group called Blackbeard's Ghost. I didn't have anything better to do that particular night and looking at the name I figured that they would be appropriately heavy. Unfortunately, they must have known someone to obtain that booking because they stunk. Their material shouldn't have been allowed out of the garage. However, I did like the keyboardist, John Harris, who was armed with a Hammond B-3 organ, Moog synthesizer and Yamaha electric piano. He also played some rhythm guitar. I walked up to him after the show and basically got him to admit that his band sucked and wasn't going anywhere. He confessed that he joined them only because he didn't have anything else going on at the time.

I convinced him that his only chance, at least at this juncture, to be a paid musician was to join my band. At 22, he was several years older than anyone in Atomic Sunrise. He nonetheless was willing to come down and check us out the next day and was pretty blown away by what he saw. He grabbed one of my guitars and jammed with us for a little while. He was really impressed by me, saying that I was miles better than any other guitarist he had ever played with in his previous bands. So he was in, though I was still advocating for another guitarist because while John could definitely play guitar competently,  he was pretty challenged by more complex solos.

John also knew a good sound guy who could do our live mixing and so we brought him on board. After that, we rehearsed for hours and hours several times a week. I continued to have sex with Pete, too. He would hang back until everybody had left and then we would take a shower together and head for bed. So Pete was a happy boy both musically and sexually and I have to say I was likewise well chuffed with my situation.