Three young women have one thing in common: Music. They have their own issues such as suicide, alcoholism, weight gain and depression to deal with, besides their husbands rather fragile egos. These young women are going places, on their own terms and must overcome lifes’ obstacles. Do you think suicide, weight gain and fear will hold these woman down? No way. Beth must deal with her own inner demons and overprotective mother. She is in love with Jon, her guitar playing boyfriend. She is his muse, his inspiration for his music. He loves her except when she screws up. Stephanie has to learn to let go and shake off her abusive past, destructive parents and be free to love Ian, her bass playing husband. Heather is stuck in a humdrum relationship with Phil the pessimistic drummer and learns that breaking away sometimes is the payoff to success in the world. Catch up on all the hilarius girl talk in High.


1. High

Chapter 1


Beth lay in bed, naked, drowning in a sea of white damp, crumpled sheets, cheap vodka and pills. She lay flat on her stomach, all life drained out of her. Her long blonde hair was matted to  her face, her tattooed arm was limp. She felt herself sinking  down into a black hole, she wanted to die. What use was living anymore? She had forgotten sunrises and rainbows and love. She felt unloved and ugly, there was nothing but emptiness now. Death was finally at her door. She drank one more glass of vodka to wash down the Oxycontins in her hand. She was Marilyn, tragic and beautiful.


“Please let me die.” she whispered. But no one was there.


It was time to go. She felt herself floating…..She could hear an angels voice in her ear, whispering to her. She could feel the roar of a mighty wind blowing her dingy to a distant shore…..



It was yet another night in a loud, smoky bar in South Florida. We band wives were relegated to a booth in the corner while our mates played on stage. I was married to Phil “The Preacher,”drummer, Stephanie was married to Ian “The Stoner,” bass player and Beth was dating Jon “The Lover,” guitar player. The band was rocking tonight.


Two skanky girls in skintight spandex dresses began dancing together in front of the band. The guys were definitely checking out the leg and breast action in front of them, their lesbo fantasies abounding. Smiles stretched across their faces as they tried to look cool.


I looked at Stephanie and raised my eyebrows. “See that?”


“Yup”. She sipped her drink, staring at the obscene scene unfolding before us.


“He would never let me out of the house in that getup. But he sure digs it on her. Look at the smiles on their faces…” I said. They all that goopy look on their faces.


“Men, they are strange.” she mused.


“Hypocrites.” I added.


“Chauvinists. The double standard still exists.”…..she ventured to say.


I agreed. The two voluptuous chicks continued their bumping and grinding until it was time for the band to take a set break. The guys came and joined us at our table. It was a sanctuary from the crowd. My husband was definitely buzzed out of his mind from the Captain Morgan and Coke. He reached over into my pocketbook, the large bag that housed the flask with the illicite hooch in it.


“Quick, give me another shot.” Phil said.


“Alright, is anybody coming?” I looked around nervously. You didn’t want to get caught with your own shit in a bar. It was a definite no-no. Not to mention illegal.


“No….Hurry up.”


I poured a decent shot into his glass. I didn’t like him getting so wasted but it mellowed him out, like Zanex for the soul. Phil was a good husband, loyal, loving, talented and a musician to his  very core. I didn’t mind sitting around for hours while he played. It got boring sometimes hearing the same songs over and over again, but so what? It was better than staying home. Sort of…..Although sometimes I wouldn’t mind staying home and cleaning out my closet or organizing the kitchen. But I usually came to the gigs. I was his roady after all. Somehow I got suckered into carrying his gear due to his double hernia….


The guys talked shop. It was a never-ending conversation about tone, loudness and who fucked up which song. Seems like tonight Jon was the bad guy, speeding up all the songs. I tried to get Phil’s attention but he was engrossed in band talk, which left me feeling somewhat neglected. Maybe I should don a sexy outfit and dance the maiden dance in front of the band, maybe that would get his attention. That’s a laugh!


The guys went back to play the last set. Stephanie and I were deep in conversation about our love lives. Stephanie was a five foot five inch fiery redhead with a blunt haircut. She weighed about two hundred pounds, had a beautiful face and hazel eyes.



“I feel like something’s missing in my life.” murmured Stephanie.


“What do you mean?” I asked.


“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing….” She sighed.


“If you’d rather not say anything…”


“What I mean is…Since…Since, the weight….” She hesitated….“Since the weight, Ian hasn’t been as turned on by me anymore.”


“Really?” I choked on my soda.


“Yeah, I’ve been on a diet but nothing helps.”


“Have you tried some sexy lingerie? A porno movie? Or scented candles?”


“I have tried everything. Sex with us is just a chore for him. He says only skinny girls  turn him on. He says it’s a visual thing. Some shit like that…”


“Right. It’s all in their heads. Men are such pricks. I don’t know what porn they are looking at, but they all must watch the same thing. Some ninety-pound chick doing another ninety-pound chick or some shit like that. It’s totally manufactured garbage. Those women are not real. They don’t have real needs. They never ask for or need anything.”


“Tell me about it. They don’t have to do the work. They never get PMS…They just get the reward.”


“Exactly. I have the same issues with Phil. He keeps pointing out to me how fat I am. I am really getting pretty tired of it. I told him to find a new hundred pound girlfriend. There’s a ton of anorexic supermodels on crack out there. But I’ll bet they would be too worried about breaking a fingernail while moving his shit.”


It was true. I had also gained some weight. I was five foot eight inches, weighed about one seventy-five and counting and was far from the one hundred and twenty pound beauty he had discovered a decade ago. I called it getting older. He called it getting fatter. Either way, it was no good for our ailing love life.


My self-esteem was at an all time low; it wasn’t easy changing clothes in the fitting rooms anymore or going to the beach. I was conscious of the weight. I tried to diet but it was hard. All these late night gigs. We’d get hungry and stop at Wendy’s for a late night snack of fries and chicken wraps and wash it all down with tons of Coke. My diet sucked. Living the life of a working musician meant lots of meals on the go, late nights, smoke filled bars and generally unhealthy stuff. It wasn’t like I could survive on salads and juices, or have the money to have those low cal gourmet meals delivered like celebrities did.


“I am getting pretty tired of it.” Stephanie said


“I hear you girlfriend…I guess you can always try the E word…Exercise….”


“I’m doing four hours a day.” Her voice rose to a fever pitch.


“Really? Are you kidding me?” I gasped.


“No. I bought this tape, it’s really good. I can feel my legs getting all stretched out and my arms hurt. It kills me….”


“That’s good…We’ve been golfing. I’ve been walking five miles a day! Now that’s some exercise, walking eighteen holes and chasing a stupid ball. I am sure that golf was invented by men, because women could never come up with anything as useless as golf.” It was true. We golf every day, walking the course. It’s an escape from music, a way to clear your mind and get some exercise.


Beth came back from the ladies room. She was perfect. A petite blonde, perfect face and tiny perky boobs. She couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. You just had to hate her but you couldn’t, she was fragile.


“God! The ladies room is disgusting, looks like a bomb hit it.” said Beth


“I went in there and there was no toilet paper.” said Stephanie.


“I went in there and some dude with a skirt on had the toilet seat up and was pissing in there.” I added.


We all laughed. It was pretty disgusting. Ladies rooms were to be avoided as much as possible during gigs because they inevitability got fucked up by drunk people during the course of the night. If you had to pee, do it early. The later you waited the more likely you were to catch a disease, see something you wished you hadn’t or walk in on a stink bomb from hell or worse!



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