"Whomever slept with George woke up with him wrapped around them." ~ Paul McCartney
1964
Do you know that moment when you wake up and all you want to do it turn over and kip a bit more but you can't sleep anymore? That was me, to a T. Even with my eyes closed, I could see the daylight. No bloody chance of falling back asleep with the fucking sun being that fucking bright. I tried just the same, mind. You can always give it a go, you know. So I buried my head back into the pillow and tried to clear my mind.
Well, I told ye it was going to be no use, didn't I? The more I tried to think of nothing, the more I became aware of everything. I heard the fangirls crying and screaming outside the building. Above me, people were stomping about their room like a herd of bloody elephants. I could smell the impersonal scent of the hotel sheets, mixed with a whiff of soap and nicotine. And I felt the weight of someone's limbs wrapped around mine.
"Geroff George," I grumbled, for it was of course none other than Harrison lying half on top of me - insolent little tosser. That is why I prefer Paul or Ritchie as roommates, you see. At least they have the courtesy to not cuddle up to me in their sleep. Unfortunately, I got paired up with the other guitarist in the band and wasn't it just my luck that we were assigned a room with nothing else to sleep in but one double bed. I managed to pry my left arm from the lad's death grip and tried to push him off, to no avail. If anything, the daft sod clung onto me even tighter.
I gave up on that battle and opened my eyes. The world looked perfectly blurry. Of course, it always does when I'm not wearing my glasses - which is 95 percent of the time - because I can't see the hand in front of my face without them. But it was even more hazy than usual. Being unable to do much else, I occupied my time by picking the crusts out of the corners of my eyes, and then those wet bits from between my lower eyelids. I flicked them about the room; not much else to be done with them is there? My sight was then restored to its normal state, a little less out of focus than a minute earlier. Without much else to entertain myself, I focused my gaze on our youngest band member.
I could just make out his features beyond that dark, tangled mop he calls Arthur. His thin, angular face was just a picture of quiet serenity, which was a rare event. Whoever nicknamed him the Quiet Beatle must have met him when he was asleep because that's just about the only time he ever shuts his gob, you see. Well, that, and when he's stuffing food into it. Although.... More often than not, he'll just keep nattering on with his mouth full. Not even Paul talks that much when it's just us lads, and that's saying a lot.
But anyroad, when I strained my eyes, I could just make out that he must have been dreaming, for his eyeballs were moving beneath the closed lids. Must've been a nice dream, too, considering how happy the blighter looked. It was rather a beautiful sight, really. Hang on a mo'... beautiful? Whatever am I saying? Why not just say 'peaceful', or even 'touching'? That would be alright, if not borderline queer.
Then again, 'touching' was one way to describe the scene if I were to be literal about it. But why on earth did I choose that moment to become aware of the way young George was in close contact with certain parts of my anatomy? That's the last thing I wanted to be thinking about. No, scratch that. The way my body was responding to it was what I wanted to think about the least. I tried to convince myself I had already been in that state. It was the morning after all, and how else would a healthy 23-year-old bloke wake up? But deep down, I knew something... erm, increased just then. There was an infinite supply of adjectives to describe that too, and 'beautiful' wasn't one of them.
Right?
As if on cue, George stirred. It seemed I was finally going to be released from my embarrassing predicament.
"Move, you lazy git, I need to use the bog," I said to him because I needed to use the loo.
"No," the addressed mumbled. "I'm comfortable. Sleep some more." I'm paraphrasing of course. In reality, it sounded more like "Hmmmmno'mcomfblsleepsummrrr," but that would leave too much to the imagination.
"Well, sleep on your end of the bed," I protested. " I'm not yer bloody pillow!"
"Aren't ye?"
The little fucker must have mistaken me for Paul or something because that's no way to talk to the leader of the band, is it? I decided to let that one slide, being the forgiving kind an' all, but I at least wanted my right arm back. I was in dire need of a wank and my arm was numb. Can't toss yerself off all that well with a numb arm, can you? And I suppose playing guitar with dead fingers is a bit tricky too. People might say, 'you've got two hands, why not just use your left?' but I never seem to manage a nice, steady rhythm with that one. So, ultimately, I needed both arms and sleeping beauty was pinning one down. Bloody gobshite. Never should've let him in the group, I'm tellin' ye.
"Fuckin' hell," I complained, "At least get off my arm, you bleedin' pillock! I can't feel my fingers."
"Possibly."
Cheeky git. "It wasn't a fucking request, right. Move!"
"Gorra cob on, Johnny?"
By this time, I could have just written what he said, because that's clearly what he said. Our princess on the pea - or should I say git on the fab rhythm guitarist - was well and truly awake, and taunting me.
"I will if you don't get the hell off me. And don't call me Johnny." Nobody calls me Johnny, not if they value their lives, anyroad. Finally, George shifted his weight, and I quickly pulled my arm out from underneath him before he could change his mind. "You know, yer dead heavy for a sack of bones, son."
"Am not," the lad protested, and instead of getting off me as he ought to, but climbed further on top of me. "See? Not heavy at all."
"Tell that to my bladder, son. If you don't move soon, I'll be pissin' all over ye," I told him.
"Sorry."
"Is that the best you can do?"
He shrugged. I'm not blaggin' ye, he just shrugged. No respect for his elders, that one. "What do you want me to do then?"
"Give us a kiss!"
I swear I didn't think he would. I always say shit like that, right? I was sure he'd do the opposite and finally get off me. Any sane person would have, wouldn't they? But the fucker just smirked and planted his lips on mine like I was some bird. It only lasted a second. Any longer and I would've decked him. With my left hand, because the right was waking up in pins and needles.
"Fucking hell, what'd you do that for?"
"You told me to." Yeah, but...
"I didn't want you to actually do it!"
"Well, don't say it then." I must admit, he had a point.
"Fine, I won't."
He sort of cocked his head to the side and pulled his unibrow together, asking "Why not?"
"Eh?"
"Why won't you say it?" Was he testing me? I think it was a test.
"Well, I'm not bloody queer, am I," I said. Because I'm not. Am I? No, I'm not - definitely not.
"Are you sure? You liked it, admit it." But of course, I didn't.
Did I? "I did not!"
Next thing I knew, he propped himself up on one arm and grabbed my hair with the other. Bloody arse bandit was fast, too. Before I half knew what happened, his lips were on me again. And I kissed back. Didn't mean to, but there's no doubt about it that I did. Bloody hell. You should've seen the smug look on that face.
"See, I knew you liked it." Now, what was I to say in reply?
I swallowed a few times, wondering what happened to my quick comebacks. All I could bring myself to do was stare into that face. He was so close, I could make out every little detail of it, even without my glasses. I saw the twinkle in those dark chocolate-coloured eyes. I noticed the little scars and spots that remained after his acne cleared up, not too long ago. I found myself drawn to that smile, which lights up the room on those rare occasions he laughs freely.
And as if it had developed a mind of its own, my hand reached up and brushed those high cheekbones. It didn't stop there, though. No, it landed at the nape of his neck, so that his hair fell over my fingers. Before I knew what I was doing, I closed the gap until our lips met for the third time in less than a fucking minute. There might have been some tongue there, too. How's that for a bloody comeback, eh? In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. Must be going soft in the head or some such.
And you know what? He moaned. He fucking liked it. I didn't really know what to do. It was only for a lark. I think it was, anyroad. He was supposed to be disgusted and pull back so that not only could I go to the bog for a piss and a wank, he also would think twice about hugging me in his sleep again. But the tosser liked it and he seemed to really get into it. What was I to do? I couldn't be the first to pull back, that would mean admitting defeat. But going on with it? I'm not queer, you know.
Having said that, I've been thinking about it for years, you see. Brian obviously likes snogging blokes, as do some of our closest friends. There must be something appealing about it, or people wouldn't be doing it, would they? I've often wondered what it'd be like to get it on with a bloke, but I reckoned it'd be with Brian since he's been keen on me for years now. Or Paul; I reckon I can convince him to do just about anything; always have, right? Or even Ritchie; have you seen that lad's chest, all muscular an' all? But George? He looks like a fucking twelve-year-old for fuck's sake. But there we were right, snogging something fierce. And did I mention the bloody poofter liked it?
But here's the thing. I liked it too. A lot. Truth be told, the little wanker kissed better than Cyn, and I was beginning to dig it, you know? And why stop if you're having a good time, right? There's no shame in it. Besides, when opportunity knocks, it's rather rude to lock the door, isn't it? Next thing I knew, we were at it. And I mean: really at it, like rabbits. Pyjamas and knickers flying every which way, hands going places neither of us ever thought they would, and...
Well, I think you get the picture. I don't know what came over me, or him for that matter. Who would've thought little Georgie boy would be up for the things we did, eh? Can't say it seemed like something you'd expect me to do either, but there you have it. You can use your own imagination to fill in the specifics, but I will say I no longer needed to rub one out by the time we were done. Nor did he, for that matter. Did need a bath, though. Hazza, too. And I still needed that piss, of course.
That was a week ago. I'm sharing a room with Ritchie now, so I don't run the risk of waking up with someone lying all over my naughty bits. But you know what? I can't wait for the next time Harrison and I get to share a room again because as it turns out, my naughty bits don't mind having Harrison's bony arse all over them at all...