John West

The sexy crooner spills a little on the inspiration for his tunes, what gets him in the mood, and his wild cat tendencies.

After moving from his hometown of Baton Rouge, La. to Chicago, it was either New York or sunny California for singer-songwriter, John West. Lucky for music lovers on the Westside he found a steady rhythm to the beat of his new home in Los Angeles in late 2005. With only a few street performances and shows at local clubs, the 26-year-old indie talent quickly gained buzz in the LA music scene and managed to reach top artist on the MySpace unsigned jazz list. John West’s acoustic sets of sexy and sophisticated soul have produced an ever-expanding and diverse following. “I love the way my music can bring people together,” says West over breakfast at the Brite Spot Restaurant in Echo Park. “It feels like a real calling.”

You have called yourself a romantic lover and we can definitely see that in your lyrics. How do you describe your music?

My music can be laid back, soulful, soothing, sexy, romantic, whimsical. I think whimsical describes it, though it sounds sort of silly but I think it’s almost what romantic can mean in a way.

What inspires you to write these sexy and romantic songs?

Sometimes it’s a girl or sometimes it’s someone else’s situation. Like “Loved You Tonight” was very much inspired by someone else’s circumstance of MySpace crushes. A lot of songs came from moments of struggle and pain and then getting through it. My life inspires me and the people I meet in my life.

Which one of your songs would be perfect for love making?
Nice…my favorite question. Well personally I don’t like listening to my own music while I’m doing anything cause it’s sort of weird in my ear. It’ll be like a girl trying to lick my ear, but they’re doing it bad, so you’re like ‘ew stop that!’ I like “Change If I Can.” It has a nice little snap, sort of neo-soul groove, duet. [Sings] “Change if I can for you…” and you and the girl are going at it and you’re singing it to each other [laughs timidly].

If you had to compare yourself to an animal, who would you most resemble in bed?
a- ferocious tiger b- cuddly bear c- sexy wild cat

I’ll probably go with the cat. The lion would be too aggressive. I think a good lovemaking situation is when both people are attentive to each other and also are able to know what makes themselves feel good. Cats are not quick, they’re sooth. Maybe like a leopard or something. Yeah, a wild sexy cat cause I bite on occasions [laughs].

How do you get in the mood? (to make music, for sex)

Musically, it’s random— a conversation, or a beautiful moment, or a painful moment. Sometimes you just sit down with the guitar and bang at it for a while until you hear two chords and they feel good and you sneak in that way….I’m talking sexually of course [breaks into laughter]. For sex…I don’t think it’s rocket science, you know. In a more intimate setting….massages are nice, little but not no clothing is nice and uh, yeah all the classics.

Pretty traditional?

Yeah I’m not trying to tie anybody up…I like kissing.

What about kissing?

I like kissing somebody all over…head to toes [laughs]. I always like to think that some places people have never been kissed, one little square inch on their back. Not like you mark your territory but you’re on new terrain and it’s a special new spot and it sort of pays respect to the female form.

What do you value as your most enchanting quality?

I’ve always been very sincere. I think that could be very sexy. I mean the things I say.

Does it get the girls?

I don’t use sincerity to get with girls. Being a musician you don’t have to necessarily approach girls, girls approach you to say they enjoy your music. I say ‘thank you, what’s your name?’ I want to know who I’m talking to but I don’t want it all to revolve around sex. I like that my music can bring people together and that’s more important to me than whether my music can get me some.

Any one-night stands lately?

I can honestly say I’ve never had a one-night stand with a random fan. Yes, things that are random or sort of forbidden are sexy. Unfortunately that’s not the healthiest way to live I think— Especially when you have something established…I haven’t had any of that recently. I like to be in a meaningful relationship. And how many songs have been written about one-night stands? Oh, wait…what about [sings in a high pitch] “Girls, Girls Girls” by Motley Crew? [laughs].

Top three sexiest songs?

D’Angelo’s “Shit, Damn, Motherfucker,” Erykah Badu’s “Next Lifetime,” Otis Redding’s “These Arms of Mine.”

Swingin’ the Sex Scene Brooklyn-Style

Three’s a charm, at least when it comes to naughty nights out in The Big Apple’s hippest and most recently renovated borough; Brooklyn. Turns out to get into one of Manhattan’s own hundred-plus chic and sexed-up glamorous swinger clubs, couples have to pay anywhere from $25 to $175. Single women usually pay half, and single men are rarely admitted without a female escort

Then there’s the raunchy sex clubs. The ones that have glitter falling from the ceiling, sex swings strategically placed, and delicious red lights pouring onto the dance floor. Originally, this was the type of club I wanted to experience (with my boyfriend of course!) and write about. However, like much of life and lust, it didn’t necessarily go as planned.

Instead, I settled for a very plush purple and red sensual swingers club named Casbar. There was a spot for bondage, glory holes, orgies and private sex, but the best of all was its inexpensive cover and convenient location in Brooklyn. I decided to embark on what would later be known as attempt number one.

It started on a Saturday night with an obscene amount of Beringer’s White Zin, an inappropriate taxi driver and a very tolerant Robbie. We pulled up to the unmarked door with no doorman and stumbled inside. I heard the taxi idle as the driver watched my barely-harnessed breasts try to escape my transition Jersey. He took down my number to make sure that we knew he was coming back at 4 a.m. to pick us up and deliver us safely back to my apartment.

We staggered through the doorway and around the corner to pay our way inside. A tacky old woman in a flowered moo-moo with purple hair, fake nails, bright blue eye shadow, and a cigarette-stained voice warmly welcomed us inside. “Come in, Sweethearts. You’ll have a blast,” she smiled as she handed me two release forms to fill out and sign.

When I turned to make a sarcastic comment to Robbie, he was gone. I filled out the sheets and saw him moments later with a look of disappointment on his face. “Are you sure you want to pay the $40?” He asked. “There’s no one in here. Look.”

I walked over to where Robbie had been and saw exactly what he was talking about. In the blue-lit lounge there was probably a total of six or seven couples randomly strewn about the club.

I walked back to Robbie who waited with a slightly drunken blank expression on his face. As soon as he saw my matched look of despair, he grabbed my wrist and took off running. We ran out of that barren swingers club in such a drunken stupor, that somehow we ended up down the block and hanging out with an overly-friendly Arabian college student who didn’t know English. Our night quickly descended into wandering around in a flurry of drunkenness, enjoying a long talk while sitting on the streets of Brooklyn at 2 a.m., and later crashing a 40-year-old’s birthday party near my apartment. That was our night; that was attempt number one.

Our second try was about two weeks later. I thought it smarter to be better prepared, more researched and less drunk on attempt number two. There’s an elite group of swinger, sex-party lovers who live and screw in the Lower East Side, Manhattan. Robbie and I sent photos, registered and RSVPed to attend one of their thrice-monthly “PlayGroups.”

Although this organization is a legitimate sex group full of fun-seeking sensual individuals, there was something slightly shady about meeting a flock of people for the first time with expectations of sex out in the open. We were instructed to the 11th floor of a building and to whisper “Eric” to the doorman. It was all a little frightening. “I don’t know, babe.” Robbie had his doubts.

I didn’t want to tell him that I agreed because I was the reason we were going to this sex fest in the first place. “Let’s just go and stay long enough for me to get the info I need. Then we’ll go and have a normal night.” I convinced Robbie, although a normal night for us had yet to be defined.

“Fine, but I’m not letting you stray too far out of sight.” He sighed, rolled his eyes and opened the door into the wide world of a Manhattan private sex party.

We were greeted immediately by a female dominatrix and a man wearing a tux with a Phantom of the Opera-esque mask across his eyes. “Come in, friends.” The man opened the door wider to let us through as I gave Robbie a little push inside.

We entered the lusciously sex-filled and spacious apartment filled with half-naked attractive and unattractive men and women, varying in age from 20 – 50 years old. There were men on women, women on women, women on men and men on men. There was an abyss of sex toys, and buzzing filled the air. Flasks, bottles and cheese were being passed around the room like they were water, and the excitement of fantasies realized were in abundance.

Now panning back to Robbie and me, standing, awkwardly a few feet into the apartment. “Wine?” Robbie looked at me.
“
Yeah…”  We passed a threesome in the corner, tripped over a huge black dildo, and headed to the cheese and wine bar.

Things rolled along smoothly like this for awhile and eventually Robbie and I unwound enough to make some friends. All the fetish characters eagerly tried to make us feel at home, and with over 150 horny attendees, that was a pretty hard task.

A few shots from the chilled flask of a generous and anonymous liquor donor, mixed with a couple of glasses of deep red wine later, and Robbie and I were ready for action. We successfully opened up and must have portrayed this outwardly because following our inhibition-release, we were swarmed by fantasy beggars, sexoholics and bondage-goers. This is where it started to get weird.

Robbie and I had no problem enjoying our monogamous sex-capades out in the open once the numerous drinks set in, but once we received more than desired amount of attention from eager-to-participate sex fiends, our comfort level began to fade.

An old man came out from nowhere and with a huge grin, tried to convince me to suck his – while he fondled himself in front of me. Next to me, Robbie was being spanked with a whip and looked terrified. I’m sure he would have enjoyed himself more if the woman doing that was not actually trying to give him welts.

The last straw of our second failed attempt came when a tipsy man approached Robbie. I’m not exactly sure what happened here because I was trying to deal with my own minogue a trois-type situation and fending off the out-for-blood (albeit extremely attractive) couple. This is when I heard Robbie shout to me on his way out the door, “That’s it, I’m leaving!”

We learned a valuable lesson at the sex party that night; we’re too into each other and care about each other too much to share our sexual experiences with a group of strangers. This learned, Robbie and I decided to go for attempt number three, taking our services elsewhere.

There we were, a mere few nights after the sex party debacle, out for an innocent night of New York City barhopping and finally I got the material I needed to write my column. This was our true sexploration; exhibitionism in regular Manhattan nightclubs (Illegal? Yes.). Unsatisfied with the first two tries, our unplanned, spontaneous and organic libidos caused us to act scandalous enough to get away with public sex. Well, more-or-less. Beautiful.

Our first sexual PDA occurred one randy Saturday night at a cute little bar in The City, Puck Fair. We didn’t enter the dim-lit bar with the intentions of getting kicked out from having sex in a closet downstairs, but we did and it was fabulous.

Robbie knew the bouncer and doorman at this place and was informed of an uninhibited utility closet below the bar. We soon occupied the closet and were about to get busy atop a bouquet of balloons that kept bursting beneath us in the dark, musty-smelling closet when all of a sudden the door flung open and a harsh light filled the room. “Out. Get out.” A club worker was staring straight at us from the doorway.

Fortunately that happened when it did because we weren’t quite having sex yet. Robbie was orally busy with me and both of us were in a provocatively vulnerable position, perched and stretched all over random props.
At that point I can’t remember if we were kicked out first or scurried out, clothes in disarray, from the sheer horror of it all. Either way, we relocated.

I’ve managed to alter the already loose definition of sex clubs (at least in my own mind) and transform it into something more personal entirely. For me it was far more full-filling to partake in my own sexual endeavors with my own partner than to join in on chaperoned sexual adventures.

Sex clubs don’t have to be confined to administered sexual escapades. Go your own way, be a rebel, pave your own path, but most importantly fuck like no one’s watching.