Sympathy For The Devil
In the morning I woke to find Ziggy tucked into my arm and my chest like a sleeping baby, his cheek against my breastbone. Sun streamed through the curtains that we’d been too busy to draw. He opened one eye and looked at me, smirked as his hand strayed between my legs.
I moaned and he giggled at that. I was as hard as usual for the morning until he teased me and then I was as hard as ever. Not fully awake yet, I wanted to pull him close to me and drive into him again but as I reached for him he slipped out of the bed, still smirking, then circled around to the other side of me. He climbed toward me like a cat, then dipped his head toward my crotch. As he began teasing with his tongue, I thought about what had happened last night, and what was happening now. We needed to talk. But I couldn’t stop him now; we could talk when his mouth wasn’t full.
I was just letting myself relax again when there was a knock on the door.
He seemed prepared to ignore it, but I pushed him off me and forced my bleary eyes to look for some clothes. Who could it be and what should I be wearing when I opened the door? I pulled on my crumpled jeans as the knocking became more insistent. The more I worried who it might be, the easier it got to zip my fly. “Who is it!”
The answer was muffled, male. I looked back at Ziggy, who was lounging on the bed, waiting for me, and motioned to him to cover himself up. He pulled the white sheet across his middle and lay back. I threw open the door.
Bart. He looked freshly showered and dressed. “You up for some sight-seeing?”
“I might be.” I brushed some greasy strands out of my face. “In a little while.”
He shrugged and reminded me we had only until five. I asked him where our road manager was. “In the suite,” he said, twitching his head toward the end of the hall. “You can get your per diem if you want.” Then he leaned in a little. “Are you okay?”
“Hangover,” I said. “I’ll be okay.” We both shrugged then and I shut the door. I thought I pulled it off pretty well.
“Sight-seeing?” Ziggy asked, mimicking the perk in Bart’s voice. “Does that sound droll?” He came to the corner of the bed, dragging the white sheet with him, and reached for me. “Come back to bed.”
I didn’t move. My voice caught in my throat, a pale echo of something I’d said the night before, now almost silent. “I can’t.”
“What’s the matter?” He sat back, his lip curled.
A thousand thoughts crowded my head. We couldn’t be lovers, the rumor would spread; no, Ziggy’d never keep it a secret, he’d want to trumpet his newfound bisexuality to the world; he had no morals whatsoever, I couldn’t let this happen… I took a step back from him, my stomach in knots. What had I done? He didn’t force me to go through with any of it. I took another step back when I saw he was smiling.
“Daron,” he said, his voice low, “are you… afraid?”
I found some words. “This can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” He stood up now, and when he stretched and yawned I could trace his ribs under his skin. He sauntered near me, then turned toward the bathroom. “Come on. Who’s going to know?”
“You mean…” The tightness in my throat threatened to suffocate me. “You won’t tell anyone.”
“Relax.” He flicked on the light and examined himself in the mirror. “It’s no big deal.” He didn’t look any the worse for wear, other than a little scabbing on the back of his knuckles. Then he turned his black irises toward me. “After all, it’s not as if I love you.” And he shut the door, leaving me standing there in the too bright sun, alone.
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Daron's Guitar Chronicles: Vols 1-3General Fiction
Daron’s Guitar Chronicles tells the story of Daron Marks, a young gay guitar player, from about the time he is eighteen onward. He arrives at RIMCon (Rhode Island Musical Conservatory) in the mid-1980s, desperate to leave behind a dysfunctional fami...