Hello, Eric. Here's a possible submission for the blog. Best wishes to you.
Ever so often I go back to Mexico. Occasionally I'll take some friends along so they can see the real Mexico beyond the border (instead of the tourist traps). So on Memorial Day weekend, with a four-day break ahead, four of us drove across the dry concrete canal that masquerades as the Rio Grande and headed through the desert for the city where I spent a great deal of my youth.
For supper Saturday night I steered us to a back-street cafe that the family of one of my Mexicn pals introduced me to many years ago when I was a boy. I guarantee, it's the sort of genuine South-of-the-Border place that is not in any of the guidebooks. My friends and I were lucky that night. Not only was the food great, but the conjunto was really good, far above average. Conjunto means a small Mexican band, usually just four or maybe five players.
Conjuntos earn their pesos by strolling back and forth among the tables, taking requests and pocketing tips. This particular group was composed of a smiling old man plucking a big string-bass, a guy riffing on accordion, and another guy with a drum kit strapped to his waist. Plus the astounding fourth performer, a trumpet player taking lead and generally improvising all over the place. Why, you may ask, did I call the trompetista "astounding?" Because the little dude must have been all of fourteen or fifteen years old. The group wore black trousers, red shirts, gold vests and black sombreros (traditional Mexican hats) decorated with silver trinkets. The young trompetista's pants were a little too tight and his hat was huge.
The ensemble visited our table several times, earning generous tips while we grooved on their music and on the drama that the trumpet boy brought to his performance. He was a born showman as well as an incredible musician.
Up into the evening someone requested "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." It must have been one of the band's favorites. They all nodded and smiled and communicated with each other in some sort of visual code while they got into the song. The band first gave us a straightforward performance in beautiful harmony, perfectly executed. And then the bass player faded out, followed by the drummer. Just the accordion and trumpet for a moment. Then suddenly the accordion was silent also and the young Mexican trompetista in his too-tight slacks took over the entire song in a solo performance.
And what a performance. The young guy put himself completely into the music. He kept shooting unexpected high notes into the song, each note higher and higher, all requiring extra breath and a tightening of all his muscles. He tilted his head back with each high note, seeming to stretch taller and appearing to become sort of hypnotized as he performed. Finally he came to a real screamer of a note at the culmination of a phrase. He began that note with one knee on the floor. As he held the note, he gradually rose until he was standing as tall as possible. And that's when it happened: As he held that final note with every ounce of breath and stretched as tall as he could, his vest lifted above his crotch and a cigar-shaped bulge was revealed in the front of his skinny-legged black slacks. Perhaps it was not noticeable to everyone, but I knew exactly what it was. He held the note for what seemed like minutes, as tense as his body could stand, the shadow of his diagonal bulge clearly visible in the tight pants.
The other performers now joined him again. Together they brought the old song to a sentimental finale. El trompetista held the final note, standing on tiptoes, pointing his horn at the ceiling, arching his back and (incidentally) projecting his bulging crotch forward. Then they released together and the boy sagged back to normal. He closed his eyes during the applause, quickly pulled his vest down, and stood holding his horn across his crotch to hide what the vest couldn't fully cover.
I have never heard a musical performance quite like it. But beyond the music, I've definitely never seen a trompetista display an erection during performance.
I kept asking myself: "Do you suppose the boy climaxed as he played? Did he fire a load right in his tight pants when he hit the highest note? Are his underwear full of ooey-gooey?"
We'll never know.
Arnold Stockford
Ever so often I go back to Mexico. Occasionally I'll take some friends along so they can see the real Mexico beyond the border (instead of the tourist traps). So on Memorial Day weekend, with a four-day break ahead, four of us drove across the dry concrete canal that masquerades as the Rio Grande and headed through the desert for the city where I spent a great deal of my youth.
For supper Saturday night I steered us to a back-street cafe that the family of one of my Mexicn pals introduced me to many years ago when I was a boy. I guarantee, it's the sort of genuine South-of-the-Border place that is not in any of the guidebooks. My friends and I were lucky that night. Not only was the food great, but the conjunto was really good, far above average. Conjunto means a small Mexican band, usually just four or maybe five players.
Conjuntos earn their pesos by strolling back and forth among the tables, taking requests and pocketing tips. This particular group was composed of a smiling old man plucking a big string-bass, a guy riffing on accordion, and another guy with a drum kit strapped to his waist. Plus the astounding fourth performer, a trumpet player taking lead and generally improvising all over the place. Why, you may ask, did I call the trompetista "astounding?" Because the little dude must have been all of fourteen or fifteen years old. The group wore black trousers, red shirts, gold vests and black sombreros (traditional Mexican hats) decorated with silver trinkets. The young trompetista's pants were a little too tight and his hat was huge.
The ensemble visited our table several times, earning generous tips while we grooved on their music and on the drama that the trumpet boy brought to his performance. He was a born showman as well as an incredible musician.
Up into the evening someone requested "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." It must have been one of the band's favorites. They all nodded and smiled and communicated with each other in some sort of visual code while they got into the song. The band first gave us a straightforward performance in beautiful harmony, perfectly executed. And then the bass player faded out, followed by the drummer. Just the accordion and trumpet for a moment. Then suddenly the accordion was silent also and the young Mexican trompetista in his too-tight slacks took over the entire song in a solo performance.
And what a performance. The young guy put himself completely into the music. He kept shooting unexpected high notes into the song, each note higher and higher, all requiring extra breath and a tightening of all his muscles. He tilted his head back with each high note, seeming to stretch taller and appearing to become sort of hypnotized as he performed. Finally he came to a real screamer of a note at the culmination of a phrase. He began that note with one knee on the floor. As he held the note, he gradually rose until he was standing as tall as possible. And that's when it happened: As he held that final note with every ounce of breath and stretched as tall as he could, his vest lifted above his crotch and a cigar-shaped bulge was revealed in the front of his skinny-legged black slacks. Perhaps it was not noticeable to everyone, but I knew exactly what it was. He held the note for what seemed like minutes, as tense as his body could stand, the shadow of his diagonal bulge clearly visible in the tight pants.
The other performers now joined him again. Together they brought the old song to a sentimental finale. El trompetista held the final note, standing on tiptoes, pointing his horn at the ceiling, arching his back and (incidentally) projecting his bulging crotch forward. Then they released together and the boy sagged back to normal. He closed his eyes during the applause, quickly pulled his vest down, and stood holding his horn across his crotch to hide what the vest couldn't fully cover.
I have never heard a musical performance quite like it. But beyond the music, I've definitely never seen a trompetista display an erection during performance.
I kept asking myself: "Do you suppose the boy climaxed as he played? Did he fire a load right in his tight pants when he hit the highest note? Are his underwear full of ooey-gooey?"
We'll never know.
Arnold Stockford
I just remember that when I was his age I don't think I was ever 100% limp. My 'cigar' was I think almost always at least a little bit firm and spongy. So I would not be surprised if his boyhood was between 20% and 40 % swollen all the time he was playing, and there wasn't a darn thing he could do about it (except let folks like you enjoy the special show!)
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