The Jazz

Eye of the Writer

The Jazz

By: Antwan Crump

< I >

I was just a boy when she thrust me into manhood. I had no business traversing her sumptuous curves -yet -somehow I was chosen. I’d seen men fall to their knees – weakened at the thought of her disrobed silhouette. Her dresses never left much to the imagination. Even at sixteen, barely accustomed to my own erection, I knew she was more than just another piece of trouser candy. I had to have her.

I wasn’t allowed in the jazz clubs. “Stay away young man, go home and study”. Oh, I studied. All it would take is some facial hair and swagger. Luckily, my brother knew how to stencil in a phony beard. Looking back, it was pitiful – a testament to my young desire. The bouncer knew, but I think even he could appreciate my determination. We were still friends until…

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