It was well past eleven when the guitar player, an old black man with music written in his very face to be seen in every wrinkle and pore, came out fr...nt to grab a quick smoke between sessions. I let him bum one of mine then began what had to be the greatest conversation of my life. His name was Charley Simpson. He hadbeen a studio player longer than I had been alive. His cords had backed up the legend of the jazz, blues, and the Motown music business for decades. At first he humored me when I. His pretty dick became splendidly erect. I sloshed the flannel in the water again and extended my arm out between his legs and began to wash his buttocks.“Oh…” He murmured surprised.“Turn around Tom.”I instructed calmly but with authority. The young man dutifully rotated on the spot and presented his beautiful bottom to my enlarged glory hole. I washed him between his cheeks and asked him to dry himself off with the towel. “Make sure you dry everywhere.” I stated firmly. He did as he was told,. More

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