by F M Land
Nodding at Jeff, I answered, “Yeh, Terry got me in.”
“Wow! Do you think he could get me in, too?” Jeff became suddenly animated.
I, on the other hand, was feeling deflated. Would I always get a break because I was Davy Koster’s son, Blaise Morgon’s nephew, or Drew and Terry’s little pet? Would I never get credit for my own talent? I needed to talk to Terry about this.
I shrugged in response to Jeff’s question. “I’ll ask,” I responded dubiously. “Hey, can I borrow some smokes?”
Jeff reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a few cigarettes and a neatly rolled joint. “Don’t mention it!” He smiled at me brightly. “Call me, okay? Go to a phone booth, if you can’t call me at your place.”
I nodded and went back to where Terry was sitting, in a row of chairs along the wall in a darkened area of the large loft. Terry must have seen the look of dejection on my face because he held out his arms in comfort as I approached. Throwing myself down in the chair next to Terry, I fought back the impulse to break down and bawl. I looked into Terry’s eyes, smiled weakly, and tried to steady myself.
“You really like your friend, Jeff, don’t you?” Terry asked in his most soothing voice.
Afraid to speak, I merely nodded. I focused my eyes on a framed photograph hanging on the wall across the room, to keep from crying.
Terry watched me for a long moment, then threw his arm around my neck, kissing my cheek. “Cheer up! We’ll be in Europe soon! All this will be behind you, Paulie!”
“Great,” I responded sarcastically. Then I turned to Terry in earnest. “Terry, do you think I have any talent?”
“Of course you do, sweetheart!” Terry smiled at me warmly, his smile lighting up his eyes.
“I mean, do other people think I have talent? Or do they think that I look and sound a lot like my father?”
Terry was silent for what felt like a long time. The amber flecks in his green eyes looked quite dark in the dim light. “You do sound a lot like Davy. It’s uncanny!”
“But I don’t want to go around imitating my father, singing his songs. I want to be known for my own style, my own music. Do you think anyone will ever give me a chance?” Then it started. My crying. I didn’t want to lose it like that, in the middle of a party. I wanted Terry to take me home. Impulsively, I pulled Terry into my lap, amazed at my strength. Terry settled back in my lap, leaning against my chest. I began stroking Terry’s chest and arms as I sniffed back tears. I squeezed Terry’s biceps, admiring their bulk. “God,” I whispered to Terry, my voice husky with adolescent passion, “look at your arms, Terry! You are really built, man!”
In response, Terry flexed his arms and answered, “Hey, you should feel Drew’s arms! Now, Drew, he’s built!”
Our eyes met. I understood precisely what Terry was doing, bringing up Drew like that. He was reminding me about Drew, about his relationship with Drew. Not to be dissuaded, I began to concentrate my caresses on Terry’s neck and chest, tracing Terry’s pectorals with insistent fingers. Then I let my hands drop lower, down to Terry’s flat tummy, and lower, until they cupped Terry’s erect zizi. I was not surprised to find it hard. I pressed my own erection against Terry’s backside to let Terry know that I was at the same place.
Terry immediately flung my hands from his crotch. “Jesus Christ!” he yelped. “Hands off, for Christ’s sakes, Paul! Sometimes you are too much!” With that, Terry flounced off in a huff, leaving me to sulk by myself.
I decided I needed a smoke and pulled out a cigarette. Then I remembered I didn’t have any matches. Getting to my feet in the darkened room, I approached the nearest person, an older man, a little shorter than me, with longish mouse-colored hair and gold earrings in both ears. “Hey, can I get a light?” I asked, pulling the cigarette from my mouth. Too late, I recognized the man. He was Marshall LeBon, a rock star with several gold and platinum albums to his credit. Shit, how lame could I get?
LeBon smiled up into my surprised face. “Hey, those butts gonna stunt your growth, boy!” He laughed.
I laughed, too, in spite of my awkwardness. Marshall was cool.
Pulling out a lighter, LeBon asked, “Can I bum one from you?”
Delighted, I reached into my pocket and, in my nervousness, pulled out the joint. I held it out, without noticing it wasn’t a cigarette.
Marshall LeBon snatched it out of my hand. “Yeh!” he chortled. “Let’s smoke this instead.” His eyes met mine. “Huh?”
I nodded, only too glad to share some reefer with someone like LeBon. I sucked on the joint while Marshall held the lighter to it. Once I got it lit, I passed it to Marshall. “I’m Paul,” I told him.
“Yeh, call me ‘Marsh.’” His eyes settled on mine.
My mind worked frantically to find something clever to say, something to make Marsh laugh. Before I could open my mouth, Terry joined us. He put his arm around my waist protectively and intercepted the joint that Marsh passed to me, putting it to his lips. I had a sudden wish that Terry were dead, at that moment.
“Hi, Marsh,” Terry said brightly. “Haven’t seen you around for a while. How’s Paul?”
I knew that Terry was referring to Paul Priestly, Marsh’s partner for over a decade. It was just like Terry to pull something like that, to put me in my place. I glared at Terry when I thought Marsh wasn’t looking.
Marsh shook his head, looking suddenly sad, like he were about to cry. “We split up this summer. Things had been on the rocks for a while, but, get this, he left me for a woman in June. A woman, can you get that? A woman with two children!” He looked flabbergasted, as if Paul Priestly’s woman had two heads, instead of two little kids. “Hey, there are some things I can’t compete with!”
Terry laughed and clapped him on the back. “You’re right, there!”
“Shit, Ter, if he wanted children, we could have adopted some!”
Nodding, Terry hugged me closer. “This,” he said, kissing my shoulder, “is our baby, mine and Drew’s.”
Marsh studied my face intently for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Terry’s. “Hey, he’s a cute kid. But you let him smoke?” He laughed a laugh so hearty that it forced Terry and me to join him. Suddenly his interest in me seemed to disappear.
I was feeling quite resentful toward Terry when a balding, effeminate man joined us.
“Marsh,” the stranger said, “the band needs a break. Care to spell them?”
Marsh shrugged. “Shit, I don’t have a band. I don’t have a bass player --” His face became shadowed with remorse as he apparently thought of Priestly, the former bass player in his band who left him for a woman with two children.
“I can play bass,” I piped up in earnest. “Real well. I can play all your stuff!”
His eyes lit up momentarily, then went dead. “I don’t know,” he replied unenthusiastically.
I kept up the press. “Terry can do drums. And I have a friend here who can play guitar. He can do it!” My voice had a pleading edge, but I was too excited to care. Here was my big chance.
Marsh looked at Terry and shrugged. “Ter, what do you think?”
Terry returned his shrug. “A half hour? Three of your songs, three of mine, and something old thrown in?”
Turning to me, Marsh said, “Get your friend. Can he play ‘Seattle” and ‘Fast Track’?”
“Yes!” I dashed off to look for Jeff, who didn’t have to be persuaded to show his stuff. Both of us knew we could play with the big dogs, and we knew we needed the exposure.
Marsh, Terry, Jeff, and I, along with a keyboard player I didn’t know, took the stage. Following Marsh’s lead, we pounded out eight extended dance tunes. Our sound was hot. I was elated. Jeff and I exchanged looks of jubilation. Our summer of endless practicing was paying off. We were onstage with Marshall LeBon and Terry Walters. We were making it!
Somewhere during the third or fourth song, I noticed that Marsh was watching me with renewed interest. When I raised my eyes to Marsh’s, the message in
Marsh’s eyes was unmistakable. I experienced a tightening sensation in my pelvis. I smiled shyly and turned my attention back to my bass. My head was swimming with confusion as I stepped up to the mike to sing backup to Terry’s lead. I grinned joyfully at Terry. I hoped Terry wasn’t mad at me.
We finished our set with LeBon’s fast-paced “Fast Track.” The men on the dance floor screamed for more, but Marsh signaled that he was finished. So we left the stage, Jeff and I arm-in-arm. Brian leapt out at us, hugging first me, then Jeff. He kept his arm around Jeff’s waist and smiled up at him a lot.
“Paul!” Brian greeted me for the first time in two months. “We’ve missed you, man! Haven’t we?” He looked up at Jeff, his eyes twinkling. “Sounding great, man!”
I was aware that someone was standing directly behind me. Suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder and one on my hip. I turned to find myself gazing into Marsh’s face. We didn’t speak for the longest time. Just stood there, sizing each other up. Then, still without speaking, Marsh took my hand and drew me away from Brian and Jeff, away from Terry. He led me to an empty corner behind the stage.
Turning toward me, Marsh raised my hand to his mouth and kissed it. Slowly. With his eyes on mine. “Paul what?” he asked, smiling. “You didn’t say ‘Paul Koster’!”
“I am Paul Koster,” I admitted, with a heavy heart.
“A chip off the old block, eh? You do your dad proud!”
I shrugged. “I’ve more talent than my father ever had,” I replied, unashamed of my lack of modesty.
Marsh chuckled. “How old are you, boy?”
“Twenty,” I lied. I wished that he would stop calling me “boy.” I looked at the dance floor, packed again as a new band started to play. “Want to dance?”
On the dance floor, there was no need for talk, no need for more lies. I felt comfortable there. Apparently, Marsh did, too. We danced through several fast tunes and then fell into each other’s arms for a slow number. Marsh was a couple of inches shorter than me, and he felt comfortable in my arms. We moved slowly, rhythmically, pressing our bodies together to the beat of the music. My center of gravity shifted to my pelvis. Everything felt so congested down there, so heavy.
The next thing I knew, Marsh’s mouth was on my neck, then on my mouth. We stopped moving and clung to each other passionately. I looked into Marsh’s eyes and saw my own desire mirrored there perfectly.
Marsh cleared his throat. “I want to be alone with you.” It was a statement, not a question. He spoke for both of us.
I nodded and allowed myself to be whisked into the next room, smaller and darker than the dance floor. As we turned the corner to enter the smaller room, I caught Terry’s eye from across the room, where Terry stood talking with Jeff. I sensed Terry’s disapproval wafting over the dance floor to me. I grinned sheepishly at Terry, then turned my attention back to Marsh.
Inside the next room, men were messing around in different stages of dishabille. I tried not to gawk too much, but I was extremely turned on and curious. I thought this kind of stuff only happened in porno flicks. In one corner, a couple was actually going at it doggy style. Several men were receiving blow jobs. Watching the action, I felt at once horny and intimidated. Did Marsh expect me to whip it out here in front of all of these strangers? I suddenly wanted to be with Terry, safe and secure.
But, Marsh had other ideas. He opened a door to a small office and ushered me inside. Quickly he threw the bolt. We got down to it right away. Marsh began laying stinging kisses on my lips, kisses so raw in their passion that I nearly came in my pants with every contact of our mouths. To distract myself from the insistent cry for release welling from inside my pants, I unzipped Marsh’s fly and grasped his zizi. It was shaped like a mushroom, with an enormous glans. I dropped to my knees to take Marsh’s mushroom in my mouth. I liked the way that Marsh groaned with pleasure, except that it made me frantic with desire.
Marsh hauled me to my feet so he could open my pants. He groaned when he saw my enormous zizi. “I want you,” he murmured. “I want you, Paul Koster.” And he took me. There on the desk, on top of the neatly stacked documents. I had never been so turned on in my life. I lost it, almost immediately, when Marsh entered me, and then again when Marsh stroked me into a frenzy.
We stayed alone together in that room for a long time, maybe an hour. Marsh remarked that it was the first time in over ten years that he’d made love to anyone besides Paul Priestly.
“I’m your Paul, too,” I told him. “You just made love to your new Paul!”
Marsh laughed heartily. He was so sweet, I couldn’t believe it. We made plans to meet at Ziggy’s on Monday night.
“It will depend on Terry,” I warned him. “I can’t go unless Terry wants to go.”
“Shall I mention something to Terry tonight?” Marsh asked.
I shook my head. I feared Terry’s reaction and, worse yet, I feared Drew’s, even worse than I feared my parents’ reaction to my new lover. And I was right. The next morning – it was nearly noon before I stumbled out of bed – Drew started up as soon as I hit the kitchen.
“He’s as old as you are, Ter,” Drew was saying, his voice heavy with disgust. “Forty years old, and he’s raping our Paulie. What will Davy say?”
Terry had his back to me, but I knew that Terry knew that I had entered the room. “Drew, for God’s sake, don’t blow things out of proportion. He’s only 36 and ---”
“Thirty-six,” Drew echoed in disdain, clucking his tongue.
“And Paul was a consenting party.”
“Yes!” I chimed in. “Marsh didn’t rape me!”
Drew turned his cold, dark eyes on me. “Shit, man, you’re only a kid. He sure as hell took advantage of you!”
“No, he didn’t! Please,” I pleaded, “believe me!”
But Drew refused to even listen. He sighed and looked at the clock. “I’m going to have to tell your parents, dear. Terry and I are leaving for Paris on Wednesday, and you’ll need looking after.”
I felt extremely humiliated. My entire social life was under constant scrutiny. I felt like a prisoner. I thought of a line from a Bob Marley song, “This morning I woke up in a curfew.” I hummed it menacingly as I slouched out of the kitchen. Why did Terry have to tell Drew about Marsh? I was pissed. It was plain that I couldn’t trust Terry anymore.
Later I gave Terry shit about it. About the fact that Terry couldn’t seem to keep secrets anymore.
“Hey, you didn’t ask me to keep it a secret,” Terry replied, shrugging. “If you had, my mouth would have been sealed.”
I regarded him skeptically. “Look, Ter, from now on, my social life is my private business. Will you please allow me some privacy? I used to be able to trust you.”
The expression on Terry’s face was pained, as if he’d lost his closest friend. Perhaps in that moment he felt that he had. He spent the next 24 hours trying to placate me, reading to me, playing me music. I responded with measured appreciation, to increase Terry’s sense of guilt. It was all part of my plan to guilt trip Terry until Terry offered to take me to Ziggy’s on Monday night.
And it worked. On Monday night, I was at Ziggy’s, jamming with Marsh and some regulars. There was a light turnout that evening, so I was able to play for several sets. I hardly got to speak to Marsh until it was time for me to leave. It didn’t matter, really. It was such a trip to play music with Marsh that I didn’t mind that we didn’t get a chance to be alone together.
“Tomorrow?” Marsh asked me when Terry and I rose to leave. He looked from me to Terry.
Terry shrugged. “Listen, Marsh,” he said to him, keeping his voice low, “Drew is very unhappy about this.”
“About what?” Marsh looked sincerely puzzled.
“About your taking advantage of our boy.”
Marsh laughed. “Come on, Ter, he’s hardly a boy anymore.”
“Fuck, he’s sixteen. That’s still a boy, Marsh.”
I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t look Ma
rsh in the face. My lie was out. I felt extremely foolish. But, I could feel Marsh’s eyes on me, so I raised mine reluctantly. To my surprise, Marsh’s face was redder than mine.
“Sixteen!” Marsh repeated. “Oh, my God! Does his father know?”
Terry nodded.
To my irritation, I was again reduced to the status of a child, with Marshall and Terry talking about me as if I wasn’t able to understand their conversation.
“Give him my number, Terry, please. Have Davy call me. Please? I don’t want the old man after me!” He giggled uneasily. Then he hastily made his exit, without even a good-by to me.
Terry gazed at me for a long time without speaking. I resented the gloating expression on Terry’s face. I raised my eyes to Terry’s challengingly. With a coughing laugh, Terry hugged me close.
“How old did you tell him you were, Paulie?”
In the end, Dad’s conversation with Marsh landed me my first studio gig. Marsh pleaded with Dad to let me sit in on his recording sessions as Marsh worked on a new album. Since Marsh’s breakup with Priestly, Marsh was without a bass player. And he convinced Dad that I was the only musician for the job. In exchange, he promised Dad that he would keep his hands off me.
The studio was only four blocks from Terry and Drew’s apartment. But, since Drew and Terry were in France, I spent every night in Valhalla. Every morning Marsh sent a car up to Westchester to drive me into the city. Sometimes Dad and Maman accompanied me to the studio to watch us record. The idea was to give Marsh and me little time to be alone together.
Marshall was nearly finished with the album, so the sessions were pretty intense. The first few days, Marsh’s manner with me was casual and polite, almost patronizing, as if I were a small child, fragile and innocent. But, as we fell into the rhythm of working together, and really appreciating each other’s talents, we both were forced to deal with an undeniable tug. An irrepressible urge to join together in other ways. Our eye contact became unbearably charged. I made a lot of trips to the toilet to jerk off.
Then it happened, during the second week. We made it in the men’s room at Chiros Restaurant while we were at lunch with other musicians from the studio. The intensity between Marsh and me just got to be too much. I felt it. And it appeared to me that Marsh felt it, too. I chewed mechanically on my cheeseburger as I stared deep into Marsh’s eyes. Marsh touched my leg. He let his hand rest lightly on top of my thigh. I squirmed in my seat, about to lose my mind.
