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Someone Broke Into A Guy's Home And Violated His Trombone

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PJ Star- Peoria police are investigating the unauthorized fondling of a man’s trombone.

The trombone is Sam’s. And he is not happy.

His trombone has been brazenly violated — its case ripped asunder, the mouthpiece pounded harshly, the slide tossed aside cavalierly. A newcomer to Peoria, he is mystified: why would someone slip into his apartment and manhandle nothing but his trombone?

“What the heck is that about?” he says.

Sam is a nickname. He doesn’t want his real name or address in the newspaper. You can’t blame him, not with a trombone-groper on the loose.

[On arriving home], Sam glimpsed the bedroom closet. That’s where he’d placed his trombone, zipped inside its canvas case. But the case had been torn open — “They didn’t even bother to use the zipper,” Sam says — and the trombone left disheveled.

The slide was pulled off. The mouthpiece, which is supposed to gently sit in place, was jammed into the instrument. The parts, along with lubricants and oils, were haphazardly thrust back into the case.

“It was just all thrown in there,” Sam says. “I guess they couldn’t figure out how to put it back together.”

Sam called police. Crime-scene techs dusted the trombone for fingerprints. So far, there are no suspects.

Meantime, Sam thinks the intruder damaged the instrument, which now makes a scraping sound when he moves the slide. He’s not sure how much it’ll cost to fix.

What the heck is that about, Sam? It’s about cumming. Sometimes, you break into a home with the intention of stealing shit, only to spot a beautiful brass instrument, the moonlight dancing off its buttons. And you have to fuck it. But first, a story…

It had been a while since Phillip “Pipes” Tremblay’s last tryst with a brass instrument. A disgraced former high school jazz band instructor, Phil had been forced out of his position when he was discovered at lunch in the janitor closet mid-foursome with a trumpet, a french horn, and the business end of a tenor sax. “Better the instruments than the students,” he’d screamed, as he threw his belongings into his ’03 Saturn Ion, surrounded by whispering pupils and teachers. Some were filming the scene with their phones. One student posted the video to twitter with the caption, “My jazz band teacher just got fired for playing the instruments… with his dick! #blessed.” The video currently has 24,000 retweets. Needless to say, the life Phil knew was over. He peeled out of the parking lot, disgruntled and alone.

Phil spent years in and out of therapy. He’d attended meetings for sex and love addiction, went to a furry convention, and even dated humans for a brief period. But nothing compared to the thrill of making love to a beautiful, glinting trombone. He loved taking the instruments into the bath with him, soaping them up and telling them stories of the great jazz titans of yesteryear. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk… their music gently scored the foreplay between man and horn.

But then, in 2015, a dark day–the darkest of Phil’s life. A knock at the door announced the arrival of the Peoria police department. They had received an anonymous tip from a concerned neighbor, who’d complained of strange grunting sounds and “elephant noises” throughout the night. The police quickly discovered his stash of instruments and, with rancid judgment, confiscated his beloved friends.

“Even the guitars?! But I actually play those!”

“Tell it to the judge,” they said, carting out the only thing he’d ever loved.

Phil was broken. He began to spiral, sticking to the dark corners of the city, finding solace at the docks where like-minded deviants would pay for illegal minutes with contraband instruments, shipped in from foreign countries. These episodes would satisfy him briefly, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t know these instruments, or where they came from; they didn’t speak his language, didn’t ask about his day. They were cold and unfeeling… transactional.

Needing money, Phil began to steal. He would break into small homes at first, but his crimes quickly grew more brazen. One night, he was rooting through a closet when he spotted a black instrument case. He let out a low, quiet whistle. “Ohhhhh boy,” he said. “Don’t do it Phil. You’re not here for that.” But he couldn’t help himself. He tore the case apart, a feverish lust pushing any thought of safety out of his mind. Before him, a trombone, his favorite. We all know what happened next.

The case had been torn open — “They didn’t even bother to use the zipper,” Sam says — and the trombone left disheveled.

The slide was pulled off. The mouthpiece, which is supposed to gently sit in place, was jammed into the instrument. The parts, along with lubricants and oils, were haphazardly thrust back into the case.

Phil Tremblay: star-crossed lover, or sexual monster? Who are we to say. Wherever he is, I hope he’s found happiness.