4 comments/ 4777 views/ 2 favorites Between the Lines Ch. 02 By: ikhneumon November 6, 2009 From: Lawrence Ryan To: Douglas Monroe Subject: Re: Ronald Gordon's plays Dear Mr. Monroe, I hope you can forgive the slight prevarication in my earlier missive. I am, in fact, still here in Lexington, but I was expecting to leave the next day when I received your e-mail, and did not believe I had the time to fit in a visit with you before my departure. As it turns out, I have had to postpone the return flight that was originally scheduled to leave this morning. If you happen to be available any time this afternoon or evening, I would be pleased if you could join me for a drink here at the Hotel Lexington. Do let me know. Regards, Larry Ryan P.S. Our mutual friend speaks very highly of you. * * * * Larry * Doug Monroe's website sports a suitably moody black-and-white portrait, but I am more interested in getting the sound files of his work to play than I am in contemplating what some creative photographer's lens has made the man himself appear to be. Having been in this business forty-some years, I know all too well how skillfully deceptive an artful headshot can be. According to his online bio, Monroe launched his career fairly young with a well-regarded orchestral piece that still appears on concert programs from time to time. However, the bulk of his work since seems to have been chamber music: The website lists an array of testimonials from string quartets, wind ensembles, and less traditional groups of instruments that have performed his compositions to general acclaim over the last two decades. The most common word critics seem to use to describe his work is "neoromantic," whatever that means. All of which sounds promising, but gives me little to go on in judging his potential in writing dramatically for the voice. Monroe is already there and waiting when I stroll into the Lexington's handsomely appointed bar Friday evening, which at least earns him points for punctuality. He turns out to be tall, with the slightly hunched posture that often comes from years of unconsciously attempting to minimize the difference in height from others. Dark, tousled hair with a few fetching streaks of gray, receding at the temples but still thick on the crown and sides. Pale complexion, possibly genetic, but I imagine more likely due to spending long hours locked in a studio with his muse. Intense silvery gray eyes, a little spooky in that pale face. A charmingly crooked smile, poorly disguising the fact that he is nervous. Long, elegant fingers on expressive hands—well, naturally, he's a pianist. It's those hands that give him away. They fidget constantly with the stem of his wine glass as he talks—that is, whenever they are not waving around trying to illustrate some point. Fortunately for Mr. Monroe, I find the habit endearing. Ron fidgeted that way too. The usual round of small talk that opens our conversation reveals little that is earth-shattering, apart from the rather unwelcome revelation that we both saw Sunday in the Park with George on Broadway—when Doug was a freshman in college. I would have been thirty-five at the time. Now I feel positively decrepit. He is also somewhat cagey about his relationship with Scott, though he speaks warmly enough of him. Upon a little prodding, however, he reveals they met years ago when Doug was hired to write the incidental music for a play Scott was directing. They have stayed in touch since and, Doug acknowledges (with a slight blush, God only knows why) they make a point of getting together whenever Scott is in town. Still, Sondheim's esoteric musical about art and the creative process provides opportunity enough to launch us into a conversation about Doug's creative process and vision. After he has expounded on the way the painting scenes in the play mirror his own experience of losing track of time while engrossed in composition, I finally sense my opening and go for the jugular. "Let me ask you something that probably sounds insulting but I promise you is not intended that way: What do you think your music can bring to this story that Ron's words cannot?" That rocks him, and he visibly retreats inward for a moment or two, pondering the question. That's good, he thinks before he speaks. When he does, it is in a softer, lower tone of voice, as though he is weighing each word carefully. "I don't think any musical setting is a question of trying to improve on its source material. If that were the case, only the most arrogant of composers would ever attempt it—or would only write settings of inferior works. Music is a different art form, and the challenge of setting an existing text—and the fun of it—is in exploring the same material from a different perspective. Many operas pare their sources down to just the most crucial, dramatic scenes. They eliminate or consolidate secondary characters, gloss over time-consuming exposition, sometimes even eliminate entire acts. What's left is intensified, concentrated to its essence. That's what I would hope to do with Ron's work—not attempt to embroider on it, but to present a... a... distillation of it at its most dramatic and poetic." He pauses a beat, eyes searching my face. "Did that make any sense?" Not bad. Not bad at all. But I am not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing his answer has pleased me. "And what scenes stand out to you as being worthy of setting in this proposed 'distillation'?" Now Doug has warmed to his subject, he's more willing to push back. "I don't like the word 'worthy'—again, that's implying that I know better than the playwright, which obviously is not the case. What I can tell you is which scenes 'sing' to me, if that makes any sense: Thomas's farewell speech, of course, which first inspired me; his fiancée's internal struggle in Likeness of a Sigh; uh, the scene when the lovers first kiss at the end of Lamps by Day; the doctor's meditation on the limitations of medicine in A Grave Man..." "You've done your homework, I see," I interrupt drily. "I've done nothing but read those plays and think about them lately. I have to admit, I'm obsessed," he confesses. "It's an occupational hazard, I believe," I assure him. I have my own confession to make: I'm beginning to like this man, who speaks so passionately and articulately about his art, and who appears to respond to Ron's work with both intelligence and sincerity. He's let his guard down under my probing, and revealed his artist's soul. But I can't trust a job like this to passion alone. "You know, I went through every work sample you have on your website," I tell him, "But I couldn't find any examples of your writing for voice." Doug's face turns wry. "Do you know how much demand there is for art song these days?" he archly inquires, then silently answers his own question, holding up one hand with the fingers curved into the shape of a big fat zero. "I write vocal music for my own pleasure, but hardly any of it has ever been performed. I do have a few recordings in my files, though. I'd be happy to send them to you." "Please do. Am I to assume you've already begun working on your setting of A Grave Man—for your own pleasure, of course?" He nods, avoiding my eyes. I can read you like a book, Mr. Monroe. Do you realize that? Fortunately for you, I'm rather intrigued by what this book is telling me. "Then why don't you send me whatever you have just as soon as you think it's in suitable shape and we'll talk some more once I've had a chance to hear it?" His face lights up with surprised gratitude. He obviously thought he had blown his chances. Funny how those gray eyes don't seem creepy to me at all now. We part with hearty handshakes and a promise that he will keep me posted on his progress over the next few months. We will reconvene at some mutually convenient date to discuss whether we think the project is worth pursuing further. I head back upstairs to my room to pack for the flight I so abruptly postponed early this morning. I realize, to my exasperation, that I'm humming Sondheim to myself. ————— * Doug * I get to the hotel early and plant myself at the bar to wait for Dr. Ryan. When he shows up, it's a bit of a surprise. He's tall—not as tall as I am, but definitely above average height—with a head of thick graying hair that once must have been a striking auburn. He has what appears to be a trim, solid body beneath his well-fitted dress shirt. None of which matches the mental picture I had formed from the little I knew about him. I had half imagined a paunchy fellow in a tweed jacket with elbow patches, possibly complete with bow tie, pipe, and horn-rimmed glasses. (In point of fact, he's wearing a stylish, unobtrusive set of wire-frames.) Instead, I find myself exchanging a firm handshake with someone who was once, clearly, a formidable leading man in his own right. "Mr. Monroe," he says. "I'm so pleased you could meet me on such short notice." The sexy, articulate baritone voice throws me off, too. But it instantly helps make clear why Jeffrey Williams had been ideally cast to play a character modeled after Ryan's younger self. "Thank you for taking the time," I answer. "I'm grateful for the opportunity." I'm less grateful, however, once Ryan begins grilling me. He's not an asshole, not really, but it's clear I'm stepping on his turf, and he's not going to tolerate these plays being fucked around with. It's an audition, I remind myself, gritting my teeth and attempting to project the right combination of confidence, respect, and enthusiasm. That voice is quite distracting, though. Every time he speaks, it seems to set the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. I fumble and stammer and bluster my way through, convinced I've sunk my case but determined to soldier through and make the best case I can. And he agrees! Well, at least he doesn't say no right away. I've bought myself the right to at least experiment with the plays, see where they take me, and whether that direction is one he would be willing to support. Not a full-hearted endorsement, but I'll take what I can get. My hand tingles from Ryan's firm, manly handshake all the way home. He projects an authority that's hard to shake, yet without seeming unapproachable. I envy him his apparent ease and self-confidence. But then, he's an actor. Putting on a persona like that must be second nature to him. If I want to completely win him over to this project, I'll need to find out what the real man is like behind the mask. * * * Alex is waiting outside my building when I get home. It isn't our usual Sunday rendezvous, but I knew after this interview I would need help either celebrating my success or distracting myself from my disappointment. He obligingly made time for me, though I'm sure he'd rather have been spending his Friday evening with friends closer to his own age. Albeit most likely through an electronic forum. "Thanks for coming," I tell him, deliberately pressing close to his body as I unlock the front door. His little shudder and the way he involuntarily leans into me tells me he's already hot and ready for play time. Which, to be honest, I don't recall him ever not being, but it's still an ego-boosting response, particularly after having been set so firmly in my place this evening by Dr. Ryan. "Hey, thank you, you saved me spending all night in the library avoiding a frat party in my building," Alex answers. I swing the door open and usher him in with my right hand suggestively planted in the small of his back. "I'd have thought you'd be in your element at a frat party; taking advantage of horny drunk studs and adding notches to your headboard," I joke. He makes a face. "Yeah, right—'cause lame music, puke, and homophobia are such a turn on. You, on the other hand..." He turns to kiss me, and my hand slides down his back and worms beneath the waistband of his pants to cup his butt. Cheeky bastard, he's going commando. "...You are a total turn on," he concludes. With language like that, we might not even make it to the bedroom. I pull him down onto the living room couch, my hand inside his pants exploring until it finds that tight, smooth hole. Alex pushes back eagerly against my probing finger, whuffing in approval and opening before my touch to let me continue my exploration inside his hot depths. His hands find my shirt buttons and begin methodically undoing them. I'm still not quite ready to let the subject go, though. Maybe it's the voyeuristic image of Alex making conquests out of a whole string of randy college boys. Or maybe I'm hurt by the thought of him holed up alone all night in the library stacks. "Don't you have any friends you enjoy hanging out with? You must know more people besides the frat crowd." "Sure, sometimes, I guess," he shrugs, more interested in making me groan at what he can do to my sensitive nipples with his fingers, teeth, and tongue. I withdraw my hand from his pants just long enough to lube up with a little spit before introducing a second finger to his welcoming bud. "Well, don't be afraid to blow me off if you have plans with any of them. I won't be offended." "Yeah, okay. If I ever think it's worth my while to hang out with them instead of bangin' you, I'll let you know." The words "as if" hang unspoken in the air. Alex has gotten my belt and slacks open by now. My cock is standing up straight, proud, and sticky out of the fly of my boxers. He puts an end to any further conversation by taking it right to the back of his throat, rendering me speechless. Well, I assure myself, listening to his moans crescendo as I tongue that perfectly rounded ass deep as a prelude to delivering a victory fuck we'll both remember for months, I may not be a drunken frat boy, but at least I do know how to make it worth his while. * * * Erica Bowen isn't happy. This is the third draft of her latest composition I've criticized, and she's reaching the end of her patience. "Look, I did everything you told me the first two times," she argues. "Even shortening the coda, which was fucking painful, by the way. If you didn't like my other choices, why didn't you tell me before?" "Because I didn't notice them until you'd fixed the more obvious faults in the piece," I explain, with more patience than I feel. "Fine-tuning a composition is like restoring a painting sometimes—you have to strip away layer after layer of crap to get to the masterpiece underneath. Part of the craft is in recognizing whether it's time to stop or whether there's still another layer of grime—or six—between you and the art." Back to the painting metaphors again. I haven't been able to shake them since that conversation about -Sunday in the Park with George. Erica shoots me a "you're so full of shit" look. It's okay, students usually do. I'm used to it. The honest truth is, I'm in a bad mood myself. That first spark of inspiration on A Grave Man did what they usually do, fizzle out after the first giant blaze and leave you relying on hard work and technique to keep the momentum going. I'm more or less satisfied with the progress I've made so far, but it's been both slow and painful. I'm also wondering about the wisdom of starting my work at the end of the story. The further I get into the earlier parts of the trilogy, the more doubts I have about Thomas Reeves' final big aria, even though it was the starting point for this whole project. Every time I go back and reexamine it, it looks solid, but something still seems to be missing, and it's starting to undermine my confidence that I can't spot the flaw. I'm too close to it, just like my student is to her own work. But I'm not going to share it with anyone, not yet. It's not ready to withstand another's scrutiny. Erica, on the other hand, has thought her work was ready for prime time viewing for three weeks, and it still isn't, though it's getting a lot closer. "Let's go through this together," I tell her. "I don't have any other students this afternoon. No extra charge. We'll talk through each of those problem spots I identified and discuss strategies for improving them, okay?" She's still grumbling when she leaves an hour later, but just when she's finally on her way out the door, she turns and says, "You know, if you weren't such a good teacher I'd really hate you." Believe it or not, I'm flattered and caught off guard by the backhanded compliment. So she surprises something out of me I hadn't planned on telling her. "If you weren't such a good composer, I wouldn't be so hard on you." Her jaw drops in turn. Oh, what the hell, might as well give her the full spiel. "Seriously, Erica, you're my best student. That's why I push you this way. This business is tough enough, and as a woman, you'll have to work twice as hard as your colleagues to get your work noticed. Sad but true. So you need to be as ruthless as possible with your own compositions. Because if you aren't, there's a whole world of people out there who'll be more than happy to do it for you. The good news is, you're more than capable of being ruthless with yourself... with a little encouragement now and then." Her mouth forms an "O" of surprise and comprehension. Then compresses into a tight, predatory smile. I may have handled that better than I could have planned, all things considered. Erica enjoys nothing so much as a challenge. That's why I took her on as a student, after all. "So I'll see you next week?" "If it kills me." "Let's hope it doesn't come to that." She laughs. I close the door and turn my attention back to my own challenge. Which, in its own way, has begun to seem likely to kill me instead. ————— * Larry * Scott is uncharacteristically nervous when we gather in a performance studio on campus shortly before Christmas: Jeff, Daniel, Angela, and myself. We have all been searching as best we can, given our chaotic schedules, for an actor to replace Jeff in the trilogy's Texas premiere, so far to no avail. Scott doesn't seem to realize that he is wringing his hands, or that he can't seem to meet any of our gazes. "Look, guys," he begins, "I know this is kind of a long shot, and if it crashes and burns we can just say we gave it a try and it didn't work out, but I've had someone contact me about the part, and he's really interested, but I wouldn't have said yes to having him read unless I thought there was at least some potential there..." "Scott," Angela interrupts. "You're rambling. Just tell us who it is and why you're so freaked out about having him audition for us." Scott stares at the floor for a long moment before mumbling, "It's, um, well, it's... it's Shawn Fletcher." Angela's eyes widen and she sits up straighter. Daniel sits back in his seat, exhaling in surprise. But Jeff leaps out of his seat as if he's been burned, shouting, "What?" It takes a moment longer for the name to connect in my mind. Shawn Fletcher is the actor who played the lead role in Timothy Spencer's film Fortinbras last year—a role for which Spencer had campaigned unsuccessfully and, I gathered, somewhat underhandedly, to cast Jeff. The film had received respectful but unenthusiastic reviews, gone on to earn a few award nominations for Rebecca Sutton's admirably crafted screenplay, and quietly disappeared into the vast catalogue of minor titles in art house lovers' home video collections. None of which entirely explains Jeff's reaction, at least as far as I can make out. Fletcher is an aspiring leading man in his prime, just a few years younger than Jeff. Why shouldn't he throw his hat in the ring for a project as high-profile as this? Jeff, however, clearly has a different opinion. "After everything that snake pulled, you want to reward him by casting his substitute for me as my substitute all over again? What kind of message do you think that sends?..." Between the Lines Ch. 02 "Jeff!" Daniel interrupts, calmly but very loudly and clearly. All our heads turn to him. None of us expected that tone of voice from quiet, sensitive Daniel. Jeff chokes on whatever he had been about to say next. "Jeff," Daniel repeats, more gently this time, but with emphasis, "this isn't about Timothy. Timothy's old news. He played his hand and lost. He's out of our lives. And that has nothing to do with Shawn Fletcher. If it hadn't been Shawn, Timothy would have cast someone else. It's not a reflection on you. Why don't we at least see what Shawn can do?" Jeff's jaw is set, but he's not saying no. Daniel stands, goes to him, and puts his arms around his shoulders—a rare public gesture of affection for him. "You know whoever plays this role, you're always gonna be my leading man," he murmurs. This piece of Hollywood writing elicits red faces and averted eyes all round from me, Scott, and Angela. But it seems to do the trick with Jeff, who relaxes and slumps toward Daniel until their foreheads are touching. "And do I need to show you again how we calm down overwrought leading men around here?" Daniel archly inquires. Scott and Angela both stifle laughs. Clearly I'm missing out on some inside joke—the proverbial fifth wheel. "Maybe you do—and I'll hold you to it," Jeff answers him with a faintly wicked grin. "You do that," Daniel replies. And just like that, the awkward moment appears to be past and we are ready to hear Mr. Fletcher's audition. Angela greets him when he steps onto the stage, coolly professional, giving no hint of the drama that preceded his arrival. "Mr. Fletcher," she says, "thank you for taking the time to meet with us. You and I will be reading a scene from Act Two of Likeness of a Sigh." I suppress a gasp as Fletcher turn to look out at us. He's tall, handsome, well-built, and blond-haired. At this distance, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Jeff, who snorts and grumbles something under his breath. "Before we begin," Fletcher says, his voice a tone or two higher than Jeff's, but still commanding, "can I just say thank you for agreeing to let me read? I know this might be a bit awkward under the circumstances, but I caught the performances in Lexington and fell in love with these plays and this role. I appreciate this opportunity more than you can imagine." Daniel surprises me again by taking charge. Well, of course. He's the director now. We're all having a little difficulty adjusting to that. "Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. Why don't we begin and let you show us what you can bring to this role?" Fletcher is superb opposite Angela. They don't have the easy natural rhythm together that she shares with Jeff, but that actually helps the interpretation. This is supposed to be a couple in the process of learning they are really strangers to one another. After the scene is finished, Daniel and Scott huddle in conversation a moment. Then Daniel stands up and walks toward the stage. "Okay, Shawn, thank you," Scott says. "Your co-star Tom wasn't available to be with us today, but we'd like to see you read through one of your scenes together with Daniel standing in, please." Jeff, who despite his promise of good behavior has been hunkered down and glowering at the stage throughout the process, stands up and leaves the theater. I wait long enough to ascertain that Fletcher is doing a more than credible job with the love scene from the end of Lamps by Day before nodding my approval to Scott and going in search of Jeff. I find him pacing the lobby, rubbing his face with his hands. I draw a breath, preparing to once again play the patient and supportive mentor, and instead to my surprise find myself seething with anger toward my favorite student, itching to kick him in his pretty ass. "Jeff, for God's sake, what's the matter with you?" I scold. "Your lover is in there facing his first directing job. Daniel must be terrified, however well he's hiding it. He needs your support. And instead you're sulking like a spoiled child!" He looks up at me, startled. I'm startled myself to discover that his blue eyes are swimming with tears. "I'm jealous," he whispers. "So fucking jealous." He looks away again. "And ashamed of it." I swallow my anger and wait. Now that he's said it, now that the issue is out there, now is the time for patience and support. With ass-kicking to follow as called for. "I've wanted this so long," Jeff explains. "Ever since we first read those plays. Every time I said those lines, every time I stepped into that character, Daniel was my Henry. It was his face I imagined, his voice I heard, his body in my arms. "And then we finally made it into production and Daniel wouldn't play it opposite me. He'd be perfect for the role, you know he would, you know how talented he is. But he did what he always has done, chose the backstage role, chose to work with Scott instead of acting with me. I can't tell you how much that hurt. I know it's irrational, but it made me feel like I wasn't good enough for him. Like I've never been good enough for him. "And now he's in there, playing one of our love scenes... and with Shawn Fletcher of all people, Timothy's second choice! I just couldn't sit there and watch them do that, couldn't listen to them say those words to each other. It... hurts too much." My anger is back. That ass deserves kicking. "And what do you think it's like for me?" I demand. "How do you think I feel, seeing scenes Ron and I played, conversations I remember as if they were yesterday, his goddamn death played out in public like that? Do you think that I don't hurt? Remember that role was written for me—that is me in that script, up there on that stage. Do you think I don't know jealousy?" Jeff looks stricken. He has known this all along, of course. I haven't kept my feelings hidden. But I never expressed them this forcefully. He needs to be shaken out of his self-pity so he can start seeing the people around him. And shaken he clearly is. "Jeff, Daniel loves you. He loves you just as fiercely as you love him. And he needs you. He may be the brightest, strongest young man either of us knows, but he has to know that you have his back or he will crumble. Your love for him is what keeps him strong. Haven't you realized that yet? So be that strength for him, damn it! Don't make it about you, because it never has been. Make it about the two of you. Together." I grab his head and force him to look into my eyes. He swallows, intimidated. Good. Let him be intimidated. I summon all the considerable authority I can muster into my voice. "Right now you have one job to do, my boy. And that's not to be an actor—you can save that for Queen Mab. And it's certainly not to be a diva—you've always been above that. Right now you are a... a... a husband. And it's your responsibility to support your husband. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, get in there and be Daniel's husband. Now!" Jeff skedaddles, posthaste. But before he reenters the theater, he turns to look at me. He even musters a wan smile. "Husband," he says huskily. "You know, I kinda liked the sound of that." "Go!" I bark. He goes. Once I'm sure he won't be returning to see, I allow myself to grin. That felt good. * * * My subconscious seems to have developed a creatively obscene bent. Tonight's dream of Ron—my first since returning from Lexington—finds him rousing me from my slumber by giving my balls a slow, thorough, and painstakingly slow tongue bath. By the time he surfaces to talk to me, it feels like there's a sizable pool of precum collecting on my belly beneath the tip of my cock. "Evening, lover. Shawn did a fine job playing you, don't you think?" I wish I could see him. I wish I could open my eyes and look at him, at that face I remember so well. I know exactly the expression he's wearing, an adorable mixture of lust, affection, and mischief that never failed to charm the pants off me. Which, incidentally, he seems to have once again managed to do while I was sleeping. But I can't look. If I open my eyes, the dream ends. Instead I answer, as casually as I can manage, "He was good, yes. Not as good as Jeff, but he'll do nicely. A good balance of naturalism and theatricality. Though I was never as melodramatic as you write Thomas... aargh!" He's sucked one of my testicles into his mouth, where he plays with it, gently and lovingly, before releasing it with a soft pop. "No, my love, you were worse. No audience would ever believe the amount of drama you can bring to a situation." "If you weren't doing such a good job down there, I'd smack you," I retort. "The least you can do to atone for such blatant slander is give me a proper blowjob, not just a tease." "Oh, you object?" He knows me better than that. The teasing and the banter are the best kind of foreplay. I hiss and writhe feebly while he subjects my other ball to the same treatment. Eventually he relents, leaving me panting, and comments, "And speaking of Jeff and drama, weren't you a bit hard on him this afternoon? After all, you yourself said you've had exactly the same sort of feelings." Oh, he's sneaky, getting me all worked up and blissful and then attacking like that. "You know, he told me once I was the closest thing he had to a father figure. If that's the case, I figured it's my duty to do the most important thing a father can do for his son: Show him what it means to be a man." Ron's hands slide up my torso to caress my face. "Which you did admirably. If dramatically." I seize his hands and blindly turn to kiss each of them in turn. "And do you know why I could do that, love? It's because you taught it to me." "Flattery will get you everywhere, Romeo." I pause for a moment, considering a new idea, as best I can when Ron is nuzzling at my neck, my hands are stroking his back, and his penis is nudging delightfully against my thigh. "I think I may have planted a seed there I didn't intend," I confess. "Hmmm?" "With Jeff," I clarify. "You could practically see the wheels turning in his head the moment I used the word 'husband.' You know, I'd only intended it metaphorically." I sigh. "Times are changing, Ron. Gay people are getting married in Iowa now. Iowa! Back in the day, you and I never would have even considered doing something so bourgeois and... domestic." Ron backs off me. I push my hips up to maintain contact with him, eyes still tightly closed against cruel reality. "Would you have?" he asks softly. "If you were given the chance?" "What, married you? We were already married in spirit, Ron, as much as any two people could be. We didn't need any government's permission or approval to validate that." Ron says nothing and waits. "But yes, I would have," I finally admit. "In a heartbeat. If only to say 'fuck you' to the Anita Bryants of the world." He kisses me, long and slow and tender. "And I would you. If only to discourage some of your more persistent students from hitting on you quite so hard." "You know about those, eh?" I laugh. "You're not the only one who can get jealous, Larry," he laughs, his long hair tracing its way back down my torso as he descends toward my waiting groin. Thirty years dead and he can still make me light-headed. When finally he engulfs me in his hot, wet, inviting mouth, I'm more than ready to explode. It doesn't take long before his eager suckling brings me roaring to a climax. My eyes involuntarily fly open as I peak and tip over the edge into ecstasy. I realize my mistake and close them again immediately. Too late. Once again, I am truly awake, and Ron has vanished. But this time he leaves at least one trace of his presence behind. My pajamas are soaked through from what must be the first wet dream I've experienced since I was twenty. ————— * Doug * "Aw, fuck, man!" Letting his thick, stubby cock slip from my mouth, I cautiously open my eyes and look up at Aaron. He's slouched back against the piano, breathing heavily, with a hint of shuddering laughter in his voice that tells me he released a whole lot of tension along with the sizable load he just blew all over my face. Speaking of which, I reach for the hand towel strategically placed nearby and start wiping Aaron's cum off my forehead and cheeks. Reluctantly, because it feels and smells amazing enough to leave me dizzy with lust, but we still have one more demo to lay down, and a dripping facial will only get in the way. "Here, let me help you with that," he says, chuckling, lifting me to my feet, pulling my face down to his, and using his own tongue for that purpose. I feel a little like a kitten being cleaned by its mother, but in my state of arousal it's a surprisingly pleasant sensation. Particularly when that exploring tongue finds its way into my mouth and we share the flavor of his spunk while he kneads my aching crotch. Aaron McBride is a hot, humpy baritone I've had the pleasure of knowing (and screwing around with) for more than a decade now. As if his powerful voice, excellent musicianship, and easygoing personality weren't attraction enough, he's also well-muscled, fuzzy in all the right places, and perpetually unabashedly horny. These days he's sporting a beard that makes him look like a pirate, for added appeal. It's chafing my face (and other parts) when we make out, but I find a little beard burn sexy now and then. I've finally scraped together enough material for the Ron Gordon project to send Larry Ryan some recorded demos. Aaron might not be quite the ideal physical match to the character, but he has just the type of voice I was looking for. Being an old friend, he was delighted to lay down a few tracks for me. And, as I'd expected, the incidental benefits of having him over to my private studio aren't too shabby either. Without breaking our lip-lock, Aaron whirls me around—God, he's strong, even though he's nearly a head shorter than I am—and backs me up against the piano, reversing our positions. He then nibbles his way down my neck and chest, pausing to pay extra special attention to my nipples and navel before ripping open my button-fly jeans. He jerks them and my boxers down to my ankles in one move, and dives down on my dick with growling enthusiasm. I growl back, planting one hand lightly against the back of his head and fucking his face as forcefully as I dare. He responds enthusiastically, taking me deep—no gagging, that singer's training has taught him how to relax his throat—then backing off with a flourish of his tongue and lips around my cock head that makes me weak in the knees. I lose track of how long we stay like this, me feeding him the man-meat he craves while he devours it like a starving man, but I finally I start to feel my nuts tighten up, getting ready to shoot. And as sweet as Aaron's mouth is, I know something even sweeter. I pull him off me, ignoring his yelp of protest. "I can't take it any more," I explain, groping for the condom and lube I set aside earlier. "I have to get at that ass of yours." His cock-entranced daze immediately shifts to enthusiastic compliance. "I thought you'd never ask," he says, turning and draping himself over the piano bench, presenting his tight, well-furred butt to me like a good boy. A very good boy, I amend, once I'm suited up and sunk deep inside his well-trained hole. Aaron's making appreciative, encouraging noises beneath me, urging me on to completion. It adds spice to the fuck, but it's really not necessary, since I'm already right on the edge. There's no way I'll be able to last as long as his warm, pliant ass deserves. Instead I surrender to the inevitable, pull out, strip the condom off, and let loose my own load in big, thick streams across his butt and back. Then I collapse to the floor, panting and laughing, pulling him down on top of me with his head against my chest. I guess I must have had a good amount of tension in need of release myself. "God, I needed that," I tell him. "It felt like it. How long have you been saving that up?" "Two weeks. Alex is engrossed in mid-terms." Aaron nods sagely. "Too bad Todd couldn't be here. He'd have loved to be part of this." Todd Molina is Aaron's partner, a gentle, burly bear of a fellow who has the distinction of being one of the very few men with standing permission to top me. Believe me, it's no hardship being the meat in the sandwich between the two of them! I've been friends and fuck buddies with both Aaron and Todd since before they were a couple, and somehow my "with benefits" status wound up getting grandfathered into their relationship. Not that I'm complaining. "Tell him I missed him. Where is he again?" "Austin. He's got a part time position there, so he's setting up a condo for us. With a guest room, so you can come visit us whenever you feel up to dragging yourself away from this studio and your little college friend for a while." "Texas is an awfully long way to travel for a three-way," I complain. "Aw, c'mon, Doug, it'd do you serious good to get out of Lexington now and then. Shake things up a bit. In fact, why don't you come down and visit us this spring? We'll help you find yourself a nice cowboy to shack up with for a long weekend." I scoff at the suggestion, then concede that it sounds like it might just possibly be fun. Aaron doesn't press the issue. He knows me well enough that, having planted the seed of an idea, he can trust me to work it through in my own time. Not everybody gets me that way. We lie quiet a little while longer, enjoying our companionship in the afterglow of hot sweaty sex. Alex is a dynamo in the sack, but he's got nothing on Aaron when it comes to a good post-coital cuddle. Finally, the hardwood floor starts to become too uncomfortable with Aaron's well-muscled weight on top of me. "Well, I suppose it's time to get back to work," I conclude. We clamber to our feet, both groaning a little and sharing conspiratorial smiles as we wipe off the worst of the cum and lube and gather our discarded clothes. I step back into my jeans, forgoing underwear, but remain shirtless. Aaron chooses to record this final track in nothing but a well-worn jockstrap. It adds an extra bit of titillation to the proceedings, knowing no one who hears the finished product will ever dream the performers recorded it while mostly naked after screwing each other silly. I can't help trying to imagine Larry Ryan's face if he ever found out. The man acts like the proper gentleman, but something tells me there's a raunchy streak buried somewhere behind those glasses and that mid-Atlantic accent. And the sexy leading man voice. Don't forget the voice. I must be developing some kind of fetish for baritones. "You know, Doug, this is terrific stuff you're writing," Aaron tells me, picking up the score to the last of the three arias we've chosen to record. "I hope this guy Ryan appreciates it." I sit down at the piano and throw off a few scales, limbering up my fingers in preparation for the last push of the day. "Oh, believe me," I tell him, "with a voice like yours performing it, he'll be a fool if he doesn't give it the green light." If only I were as confident as I sound. Ryan's no fool. But will he buy what I'm selling?