Unconscious tears came with just the first few chords over the speaker in the men’s store. Dabbed my eyes as the soundtrack of our lives played over the sound system. How he loves that Canon in D.
How he loves and how he loves me. Passionate man though Walter appears ordinary, without affectations. He cleaned up well.
“Blue and a gray tie?” Debonair attendant asked quietly.
“Yes, yes.” He remembered me.
Clerk brought several offerings draped over his forearm, “Finely knitted raw silk for a nonchalant flair….” Explained fiber content, stain-proof finish.
I selected the gray knit and an azure tie with random Prussian blue threads. Classy.
“Gift wrap?” His annual question before payment.
“Not necessary.” Watched as he wrapped the ties in tissue, carefully boxed them.
At home, I carefully hung the two ties on a hangar beside three other pair in front of his navy suit, black suit. Dusted his black kilties, oxblood wingtips and went about my day.
No other holiday traditions this year.
First Date?
You’ve seen the drawings of famous composers from the past. The first thing I noticed about Walter was his Beethovenesque countenance. Serious stare with wild, wavy hair. He was a music student, a cellist.
Always nodded to him in the hallways, in the cafeteria. Oddly attractive. Was he my kind of man?
Walter’s dorm room was five doors down. Uncluttered, neat stack of video cassettes labeled with the names of his courses—Trig, German, Italian…. Dominating a corner of the tiny room was a large curved case holding his instrument.
Quiet guy, as socially awkward as me, and appeared to be studying seriously.
***
Dorms emptied Friday and Saturday nights; football, parties, dates. Walt’s door stood slightly ajar.
Heard voices, conversation inside. Stepped close, glanced into his room. He had a small television and was that a VCR player?
“Why aren’t you out? The big game’s tonight.” Tried to sound cool.
“Cello in the marching band?” He chuckled.
His TV was on, screen was blank. Prodded by curiosity, “Whatcha watchin’?”
“Trip X.” He didn’t flinch with his admission but gave me the once over, smiled. Grabbed the cassette labeled Trig, “Wanna see?”
Grinned, stepped inside, shut the door while he rummaged around for socks. Found one clean sock and took another off his left foot. Turned the television to face the bed. He dropped his pants and briefs to reveal the most perfect cock and balls I’d ever seen in person.
White guys really got red balls? I’d only seen naked men in well-worn magazines, I thought they used ball blush, scrot makeup.
I stared, he smiled as his tool sprung upward.
Unzipped and pulled out my pink and black dick; bad circumcision and a traumatic zipper incident early in life. Noted that Walter’s knob looked like a budding flower, ready to open. Foreskin. Couldn’t take my eyes off it until he sat beside me.
Pushing his hair back, he laid one sock, then the other over his head, pulled a knit cap on to hold them in place. Eyes half-hidden by the socks.
“Whadda ya doin’?”
“It’s how I watch. Habit I picked up peekin’ on my parents. Mom always slung clothes over the door, so it never shut. I had to watch between the clothes at the hinges…. When I was older, had to watch the neighbors from behind my curtains. Early conditioning.”
***
“Fee-lá-sho?” He asked after we watched some bad porn made in a garage. Loud music, no dialogue, lots of hetero action. Couldn’t get it up for that.
Fee-lá–sho? Was this another kink? My mind cleared, “You mean blow job?”
He stood, stuck his dick in my face, “I like it hard, a little rough. Oh, wait.” He pulled me up, took me to the bathroom. Full length mirror hung on the back of the door. “Get here. I gotta watch. Double whammy.”
Socks still over his face, I knelt. This was my first time with a man. I acted confident. My strategy was to give him what I imagined I would like.
Kisses he didn’t want though I was intrigued by his soft blonde bush, his smell.
Hands on the back of my head. “Get going, make it rough.”
“Don’t you ever edge?” Dang he was in a hurry.
“Self-torture. Sadistic.” He stroked his rod and aimed it at my lips.
Sucked hard, nipped, grabbed his balls, yanked.
Flexed his knees. “Yeah.”
When I pulled back, I shook my head threatening his dick with my teeth. Reached around behind him, pulled cheeks apart, shoved my finger in a bit. Had no idea what I’d done, only being rough.
Strong taste filled my mouth as he moaned, “Couldn’t wait.” Held my head against him till his dick let me breathe again. “Thanks.”
Looked down to see a puddle of my own cum between his feet.
***
Weekends we engaged ourselves and as often as possible, same during the week. Walter gave me more confidence, sexual assertiveness, nothing my hard-shell upbringing allowed.
Class schedules and lust dismissed romance. Kinda wanted niceties, and we were both carrying full course loads. I did get one gift.
To celebrate his newly found queerness, he burned a CD of him playing Canon in D over the Cuba Philharmonic’s rendition. Gave me a kiss and the CD, “I think I love you.”
Cuba, Minnesota, not Key West Sur.
***
End of semester, music department made a presentation at the chapel on campus. Small, old building, filled with families of the students hauling their instruments, music stands.
Walter said I had to attend. “Show me some support.” Don’t know why he wiggled his eyebrows.
Afterward, Walter kept examining his cello, the case, shuffled sheets of music. Told his instructor we were waiting for our ride.
When everyone left, he pulled me to the altar, dropped trou, pulled out his lucky charm. My mother would have been in rigors, but I knelt and began lingually worshiping that cock. Glanced at him and began to understand.
Walter was looking upward smiling at the life size figure nailed to a cross. The figure was looking downward.
I cleared my throat, “You like being watched?”
“It’s absolutely divine.” Wink and a grin.
Another kink but nothing too goofy considering the reputation of the clergy. This place had been christened before.
***
Took Walt to meet my parents, told them I was queer. Mom’s lips started moving—praying.
Dad said I’d better be sure, this could be an errant experiment, bemoaned “If being black ain’t enough….” Dad need to chronologically adjust his mindset.
With an angelic countenance, Walter sidled up to my mother with his cello, bowed a short melange of sacred tunes. Captivated, she was smiling before we left, “Come for dinner anytime.”
Meeting Walter’s parents was strange. Neither parent changed expression when Walt introduced me as his boyfriend. Poker faces, they were both corporate attorneys. Seemed unfazed about their son’s sexuality, I figured them for swivel-eyed liberals but liberals all the same.
Discussed the great bankruptcies of the twentieth century through the evening as I nodded off.
***
Next semester, Walter dropped out of the music program. “Not enough well-playing slots for me.”
My heart fell as he told me what the head of the music department said: “Cellists are a dime a dozen. At my best, I’m mediocre. Cheesy weddings and retirement home wine events, that’s my future. Shoulda gone into psychology, like you. People pay gobs for your time with no guarantees.”
Tossed him a pair of socks and his knit cap. Sympathy sex was in order.
***
Walter switched majors to Audio Technology and Engineering. Sold his instrument, began finding short gigs on campus operating soundboards.
More lucrative working the pop concerts though he hated the music. With his trained ear he wanted to record the best of the best around the world. Symphonies, operas, world-class tenors.
Next semester he left for California. Enrolled in a one-year program to study the new digital equipment. Said he found work between classes, a gig here and there. Part-time income wasn’t steady, but it appeared to keep him housed and fed. Sounded excited about his work.
World was kissing analog good bye, thrift stores filled with 4, 8 track tapes and cassettes. Walter was riding the crest of the wave in digital sound technology. Got his certificate and he was proud, worked as an assistant for the biggest pop bands at huge concerts on the West Coast. Still, work was sporadic.
Stayed on the West Coast another year, making a reputation, building his contacts and returned to Atlanta.
Home Studio
Began my professional work at a group home in the OFW, the Old Fourth Ward in Atlanta. Bad back then, crime, drugs were rife. Residents had a reputation for slicing and dicing outsiders.
Being racially mixed brought mixed encounters—dark enough to appear I knew the “big black secret” and light enough to appease the ol’ timers at the county who supervised me.
On advice from an old man in the planning department, I bought a small, narrow house in the OFW. He told me the city changed the route of the freeway, “Fourth Ward’s goin’ to gentrify, developers are licking their chops now. I’d give it ten years max. OFW’s gonna be homogenized, its soul extracted, and worth plenty.”
Parents weren’t sure about me living in the OFW but supported me, visited. Recalled all the protests, the community organizing of their time in Old Fourth Ward.
Living in the area where I worked upped my street cred. Unfortunately, I had a continual flow of roommates to keep the lights on.
***
Met a different Walter at Hartsfield-Jackson. California cool in shorts, vintage Ziggy Stardust shirt and sandals. Brought a number of large cardboard boxes.
“What’s all that?”
“Equipment. We’re gonna convert the back room, record local artists.”
Sounded good though I wondered how he’d saved up that much money for all the electronics.
What could I say to a studio in the back room? We would need funds till Walter got on with a legit company. I was about to apply for food stamps.
***
Walter posted resumes everywhere. Went back on campus to speak with his former professors. Called all his friends. Got a few leads.
That happened during the day. Nightly, the backroom was filled with crappy musicians, worse vocalists. “Cash up front.” Lots of auto-tune goin’ on until the wee hours.
Upgraded the house inch by inch. Pinched our nickles to stay ahead of the bills.
Chasin’ Work
Walt’s big break came, he called me at the group home: “Gotta fly to Colorado next week. Three day gig with a big group.”
“Getting paid what you’re worth?”
“Sure, plane tickets, hotel, top-notch all the way.” Several thousand to set-up, record, edit, ready for mass marketing, he explained.
I’m no expert on sound or precision recordings. The pay sounded right to me, seven thou for three days in high gear. They’d sell his CDs for plenty. Rightfully or not, symphonies are exceptionally proud of themselves.
Called me from Denver, “Flying to Boston, got another gig. I’ll be back on the first.” Told me he dropped his check in our joint account.
That check kept me out of the food bank but I missed him.
***
Picked him up at the airport, he was humming his Canon in D, pleased with himself.
“Who wrote that piece—Bach? Beethoven?”
“Pachelbel. German composer.” He muttered between kisses.
“Pahk-ah-bell?” Sounded like he said the name of my favorite Mexican fast food, “Okay, we’ll make a run for the border.”
Don’t know if it was satisfaction with his work or the spicy, orange grease, Walt’s libido was in overdrive.
Knit cap and socks came out along with a vibrating butt plug he said he found in the hotel gift shop. “You had to have this.” It wasn’t in any packaging, figured he tried it out first.
Didn’t have time to ask what kind of hotel offers sex toys in their gift shop. Oh, yeah, I had to have that toy.
***
From those gigs, more followed. Walter was gone more than he was home. Couldn’t complain. Tacos with a hot gettin’-home sex brought relief from tedium of completing forms and endless platitudinous conversations with clients.
***
Walter’s professional career was paying off more quickly than mine. Felt bad about it, but invested spare funds in a refurbed refrigerator with a cranky ice maker.
I’d earned my Masters, decided to take admin courses, operate a group home myself. Figured out how to make the money come my way with a degree in management and certification by the state. Two more semesters for me would be worth an extra 15K a year.
Played Walt’s Paco-bell CD while he was gone. Something about the strident notes in the middle of the Canon in D that lit my fuse.
Would he ever settle down?
Lost Recordings
Good life continued the next year. Shoulda suspected it wouldn’t last:
“They’re gone. Lost! Went through all the trash cans, the restroom, benches, under the benches, went to the offices, security, they’re gone. Someone must’ve stolen them.” Highly agitated, screamed into the phone. Breathless, Walter was in a state.
“Hold up. Where are you?”
“Penn Station.”
“What did you lose?”
“The recordings, my CDs, all my work….”
“No copies?”
“Not like those.”
“Call the cops, file a report.” My mind went into high gear, “Retrace your steps, ask every bus driver, cabbie, waitress, homeless….”
Breathy silence, then “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” I’m thinking encheeritos and his perfect cock.
“Nope. There’s some music on the CDs, but most of it’s, uh, well, it’s porn. Fetish stuff.” He covered the phone with his hand, “Have you seen ‘squish porn?’”
“You mean like using a zucchini, a squash?”
“Sounds like the put a mic inside a guy’s butt when he gets pounded—lots of squishy noises.”
“You did that?”
“No, I edited in the sounds later with a dry cleaner bag and corn oil. Messy, but it worked.” He described hot anal action, “Marketing it to the visually challenged.”
“Porn, huh? No kids, no animals, no coercion or blood, right?” Had to think about my career, my future.
“Nothing like that.”
“If it’s legit, why worry?”
“My contract was on one of the CDs.”
“So?”
“They paid in e-funds, I made a note of my pass code on the contract. Now, I can’t remember the pass code and can’t get my funds out.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Thirty-three thousand. I’ve been working non-stop.”
Stymied for a solution, “Get home, we’ll find a way to deal with it.”
Hypnosis might uncover the missing pass code.
***
At the airport Walter was sheepish. Head hung—he’d just lost a big chunk o’ funds and a month of work.
“Taco?” I asked.
He burst into tears, apologies, “If we were married, this’d be grounds for divorce.”
“That’s gospel truth.” Stopped myself, “You want to marry me?”
We stared at each other with silent, weighty thoughts.
***
Over a bowl of canned soup, it came out. He’d been working in porn since he was in California. “Some of it wasn’t so, well, standard.”
“You mean kinky, strange perversions like socks hanging from under a knit cap?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” Shot me a glare.
“Were you starring in any of it?”
“No. I’m too fast.”
“What kind of non-standard porn, are you sure it wasn’t anything illegal?”
“Hmm.” He thought a moment, “Depends on your perspective.” Touched my hand. “Don’t be upset, I wanted to keep you, let you know how much you mean to me. I knew you were broke, sending money let you know I love you.”
Heart-warming but he dodged my question. Kept at him:
There was the “rub cam” series—men adjusting themselves, lengthy rearranging of their junk in public places. A few damp spots appeared. Nothing new.
“Casino Undercover” was heavy frottage under security cameras among retirees playing slots. Another series revealed clips showing a scruffy guy hanging around in a self-serve shoe store sniffing footwear other people had tried on. “He emoted well.”
Then, a guy in a library using personal fluids to glue the tables of contents together in how-to books.
His last series he called “axle-something sex.”
“Auto parts? Mechanics?” I asked.
“Armpit sex. Guy got his pits shaved, then got his arms taped to his sides. Makes a tight fit.”
“No pit sniffing?”
“Before the shave, yeah. Lots.” Explained that after the shave, the hefty actor’s arms were taped to his sides after his sides were generously lubed. Big guy got tickled when two men inserted their erections between his arms and rib cage. Got his head yanked back when he started laughing, told to sit up straight while the two knobs peeked out from under his arms. “Great cums, almost simultaneous.”
I grunted, considered that fetish for a moment. “Good. Let’s talk about the money, the cosmic funds or whatever they’re called.”
Questioned him thoroughly about the pass code. He’d created it himself, from something from his childhood and something important. “What were you thinking about before you came up with it?”
Drew blanks, but he knew it was long. He could only remember his pseudonym on the porn releases. “Dandy McRandy.”
Dandy McRandy? Dandy wasn’t so randy that night. Morose and quiet.
Hammered (Dulcimers)
Went back to my schedule while my man looked for work again. Got hired on at a music shop, sold instruments, accessories. Walt tuned dulcimers repeatedly, arranged displays and assisted neurotic parents choose an instrument that would become long-term residents in their kids’ closets.
Lots of perfectionists came in for repairs—tuning pegs and capstans. Walt ran the sound booth for several congregations who recorded their sermons events on Sundays.
He was miserable as he continued to record in the backroom but he couldn’t close the studio, we were still teetering on the edge of beggary. We needed his funds, but couldn’t get to ‘em.
Funding shortage forced us to find our own entertainment. Nights, we took our iced tea, strolled the OFW the hours between dinner and drive-bys.
Noticed Walt glanced at open windows we passed. Checked out the second floors where the drapes were opened. “I could get a camera….”
“Get it out of your head.” Old kinks die hard.
***
Took him to a bakery that just opened, smelled delightful. To my surprise, behind the counter was an old elementary school friend. “Hey, Jeeter, zat you?”
Made the introductions and chatted with Jeet, Walter studied the display cases. Cookies, pies and pastries.
Suddenly, he yelled “I got it! Gimme a pen.”
Walter began scribbling on his hand, up his wrist. “Seeing those peach tarts, the ones with the pecan on the top… it all came back. I got the pass code!” He’d used his childhood phone number and the date we met.
I could filch lunch from the group home kitchen tomorrow, bought him a peach tart and laid a big, wet kiss on Walt’s cheek. “We’ll be back.” Hollered as we ran out the door.
Fired up the computer and Walter opened his account. Yep, his funds were there but he didn’t want to pull them out or transfer to our joint account.
“Why not? We need a dishwasher.”
On another site he showed me graphs and charts: American dollars held fairly consistent value. These cosmic funds were based on whims of unidentified investors, currency manipulators. I didn’t comprehend complex financies but knew enough—this was a dark money washateria.
Walt decided to wait, see if the value increased.
Dang, I was tired of peanut butter.
***
Every morning Walt checked the value of his funds. Until the holidays came around, there was little change. Almost overnight the value of his funds tripled, his $33K was now almost a million.
“Convert it to dollars! It could drop to zilch tomorrow.” Serious debate ensued over a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches. Decided not to be greedy. He took the next day off to get his funds transferred to an account in a local bank.
New suits and shoes were in order. My guy plied his skills to chamber ensembles, rock stars and even styled his hair. Nothin’ but proud of him as he planned selling sound equipment online, become a consultant.
Holidays were great, we hosted our parents. Big tree, all the trimmings. I’m sure that old house was smiling. All our parents were smiling and the socks and knit hat came out after the eggnog and guests were gone.
With life back in order, our bedroom heated again. This time, with romance.
Walt told me he loved me, couldn’t have found a better man. Stroked my bony body, told me I was the best of the best.
Wrangled him around until he leaned over the side of the bed. Behind him, and with lotsa personally manufactured lube, I entered his tight hole. So good, so hot and tight around my throbbing dick. I pushed, pulled and pushed again. Hard to concentrate on a holiday cum.
No squish sounds.
Tax Man Cometh
Cosmic currency went defunct as quickly as the value had risen. Investors lost all and we’d escaped with triple Walt’s pay. Whew.
Laws hadn’t caught up with creative grift. The sudden increase in Walt’s income raised red flags at the IRS, it also caused confusion. We hadn’t gambled for the income, and it wasn’t in dollars at first….
Tax man didn’t care about anything other than taxes. Everyone’s taxes on any form of income. Walter had been the minnow with the headphones swimming with sharks.
A deal was struck. Four years in a federal pen—medium security with white-collar criminals. No further charges filed regarding Walt’s cosmic windfall, it was his to keep. Suspected friends of his parents made it happen keeping Walter’s professional reputation unbesmirched.
He’d never admit to it, and I suspected he was gathering info on some of his neighbors while he did time.
***
Couldn’t bring him a peach tart, but brought plenty of good news as I opened my group home, filled it with formerly incarcerated brothers.
An anonymous person found Walt’s CDs, was able to access our address and returned the bundle of chipped, cracked cases and contents. Included nasty critiques on the most of the porn. Admitted he’d copied the ‘squish porn’ though. Found it titillating.
***
Walt’s coming home tomorrow. Socks washed, knit hat in under his pillow and I’d hung mirrors at the foot of the bed. Roll of duct tape, disposable razor on the nightstand. Canon in D CD at the ready.
On top of the new dishwasher, a box with two gold bands.