Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"He sounds good, don't he?"

I turned my head at the sound. I'd been so mesmerized by the smooth saxophone playing, though, that I hadn't heard what Art said. I gave him a glazed look.

"I said he makes a good sound with that saxophone, don't he?"

"He sure does," I answered. Beyond good. So good, it made me go hard. Smooth jazz got to me that way. Of course, the saxophonist was part of that package. A bit morose and thuggish looking—and older—but that was a turn on for me. Something about him drew me in. Like there was something deep and deliciously illicit inside him.

Art was behind the bar at the House of Blues, cleaning glasses, getting himself ready for the crowd that would appear later in the night. The club didn't normally start to fill up until nearly eleven, the peak was at midnight, and it was deserted again at closing time at one. Mostly regulars showed up—and then just for an hour or two to get their fix. It was Friday night. Lenny's night to shine on the saxophone, with piano backing. Other nights Lenny was playing somewhere else. He was so good that Friday night was the big night at the House of Blues.

I was standing in front of the bar, drying the glasses as Art washed them. He'd noticed I'd stopped drying as soon as Lenny started playing.

He'd come in only about ten minutes earlier, right before his first set at eight. A young blond guy, probably a college student, and probably rich from the looks of his preppy clothes, had come in with him. The ebony-black piano player, with the look of the ages about him, Thaddeus, who provided the regular backing throughout the week, had started playing an hour earlier. Lenny just sauntered in, the college guy following him, and slouched onto the stool next to the piano, took the sax out of its case, and worked his way naturally into the tune that Thaddeus was playing. The blond sat at a table in the first row, leaned an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and listened, instantly transported. He look clean, vulnerable, and innocent sitting there, with the gnarled black and the somewhat sinisterly jaded-appearing musician in the background.

The young blond sat, mesmerized by the music, just as I was, as if it didn't appear that he had temptation sitting on his shoulder. I had never heard music that smooth and sexy before in my life.

Lenny was supposed to play forty-minute sets with twenty-minute breaks backstage, which I was to find he sometimes stretched out to as much as an hour and got away with it. There was really no management that showed up here outside of Art, and at peak hours in the club Art didn't have time to keep track of what the musicians were doing. Thaddeus, the ancient, substantially sized very, very black man, didn't seem ever to take breaks, though—as long as Art regularly walked over with a fresh beer for him.

At the first break of this Friday, Lenny got up from his stool and stretched. It was then that, without his sax hanging from his neck in front of him, I got my first full look at the physicality of him. He was butt ugly—at least on the first look. But looking at him longer brought everything into balance and he suddenly was charismatic and arousing. He was of above-average height and was lean and wiry. His arms were well-muscled and so lean that I could see the blue of the veins popping out and running close to the surface—at least on one arm. The other one, his right, was covered with a swirling, multicolored tattoo that ran down to his wrist and then v'd down on top of his hand to swirl around his middle finger. His fingers were long and sensuous. He wore a tight muscle T-shirt that v'd deep in front. His pecs bulged prominently as did his crotch in his tight, worn-nearly-white low-rise jeans. He had a gold chain choker necklace, and he was as bald as a billiard cue.

His face was craggy and he looked exactly like someone who had been singing the blues for years. In stark contrast, his eyes were a milky blue and whenever they fell on me, I nearly melted on the spot. So did the college student when Lenny looked at him.

After he'd stood up, I saw him look at the blond guy and incline his head and then turn and walk back to the beaded-curtain covered doorway at the back edge of the small stage. The blond stood up from his table and followed Lenny into the back.

Not more than fifteen minutes later, Art sent me into the back for another tray of glasses. The door was open to the break room as I passed and I was so surprised by what I saw that I stopped, withdrew into the shadows across the corridor from the door, and continued to look, trying to figure out what was going on.

Both Lenny and the blond were naked, facing each other, and straddling a bench. The blond was leaning back against a wall, his shoulder blades on the wall. His hips were rolled up so that the small of his back was supporting his weight on the bench. His left leg, the one toward the door was bent and his foot was on the floor. The ankle of his right foot was hooked on Lenny's shoulder. He was lithe, but looked like an athlete, well muscled. Definitely pampered.

The tattooing I'd seen on Lenny's right arm extended all the way down his right side. And he was as lean as I thought, and hard bodied.

I'd seen plenty of guys fucking before—and preparing to fuck—but this scene caught my attention because of what Lenny was doing with his hands—and with their cocks. Their cocks were docked and Lenny was holding them with his left hand. When I looked closer I saw that they were connected. There was a metal rod running from inside Lenny's piss slit to inside the blond's, and Lenny was slowly moving his cock back and forth, piss slit fucking them both with the metal rod. I'd heard of this before—it was called sounding—but I'd never seen it. And I never would have imagined it could be done like this with two guys. I saw a cloth laid out on a small table at the other side of the bench and that other rods, which I knew were called wands, were laid out on that. And not just wands. A hypodermic syringe was laying on the cloth too.

The tattooed middle finger of Lenny's right hand was slowly finger fucking the blond's ass channel. The blond had a bottle of poppers in his hand and was taking a hit like every minute or so.

I was feeling myself go hard just from the wildness and unexpectedness of the scene and couldn't focus on what to concentrate on, the sounding of the cocks, Lenny's tattoos, the expression on the blond's face, or that tattooed finger appearing and disappearing in the blond's hole.

I managed to break away, though, when I heard Lenny say it was time to go out and do another set but that the blond should stay there and wait for him. I ran and got the tray of glasses and rushed back to the bar with them before Lenny could get his clothes back on. Art gave me a long look when I got back, I'm sure wondering why I was gone so long. But he didn't say anything. Art always wasn't saying anything, not rocking the boat.

You can bet that I found a reason to go into the back when Lenny's next break came up.

The blond was stretched out on his back on the bench, pretty much gone to the world, his head propped up against the wall behind him and his arms dangling off the side of the bench. Lenny, naked again, was straddling the bench, facing the blond. The college guy's thighs were spread and resting on top of Lenny's thighs. Lenny's cock was inside the blond's passage and he was moving his hips back and forth in the rhythm of the fuck. One of his hands was encasing the blond's hard cock, which had a sounding rod running down into the urethra channel.

The syringe I'd seen earlier was on the floor next to the bench.

As I watched, Lenny pulled the wand out, chose one of a bigger size from the cloth on the table, and slowly ran that down into the blond's piss slit. The blond moaned and I saw his cum burble up around the sides of the wand and dribble down the sides of his cock.

I turned and fled back to the club room, where the crowd was beginning to thicken. I stayed busy the rest of the evening and did what I could not to think of what Lenny had been doing to the blond college guy in the back room.

If anything Lenny's saxophone sounded sweeter and sexier as the night progressed. I strong sense of sweet and sour rolled over me as I listened to Lenny making love to his saxophone, and I shivered in the arousal of that sensation. I had never . . . never would want to . . . That sounding business. But . . . The young, blond guy seemed so lost to it . . . to be slow dancing on the clouds to it.

I was busy helping Art clean up after closing, so I didn't see either Lenny or the blond leave. But along about 1:15 in the morning, I was taking trash out to the dumpster in the alley when I saw a flash car stop at the head of the alley. Out of habit, I went out to the street to see if it was a john looking for me. It was a new red Camaro. I bent over and stuck my head in the open passenger window.

Lenny was sitting in the driver's seat. "Well, don't just stand there; get in," he said.

Just like that. Who did he think I was?