This is Part II of a "Beatitudes" Alternate Stream story.
The other sections in "Beatitudes".
Features Brian Kinney, Paulie, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian makes his move on Paulie. Hamburg, November 1960.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit.
Hamburg, November 1960:
"What... what are you doing?" asked Paul, in confusion.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Brian answered as he pressed the boy between his own tall body and the brick wall of the alley.
Paul swallowed. "Are you a poof? You don't look like a poof!"
Brian smiled wolfishly. "What does a poof look like? Many people tell me that. 'You don't LOOK like a queer,' they say. What does a queer look like? Should I be carrying a purse? Or wearing a lavender scarf? Don't be naive, Paulie. You know very well what a queer looks like. Look in the mirror. And look at your friend, John."
Paul held his breath. "What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about!"
Brian was rubbing the boy's erection through his tight leather pants. Brian unsnapped the top fastening and slowly eased the zipper down. "You and your boyfriend, John. You've done it. You can fool the other boys, but you can't fool me."
"We haven't!" Paul insisted. "Not... not really."
Brian laughed. "Only jerked each other off? But you wanted to do more, didn't you? You both wanted to do more. But your friend Johnny is too afraid to take the next step. He's got issues with being a 'real' man, doesn't he? But you'd do it in a heartbeat -- if HE wanted to. Wouldn't you? Tell the truth, Paulie."
It was cold in the alley, but Paul was sweating profusely. He felt the man unzipping his fly, but he was powerless to stop him. He didn't really want to stop him. And that made Paul very confused. "I... I don't know. I don't fucking know!"
Brian leaned against him, grinding his hips against the boy's. "You like that, don't you? Your boyfriend is afraid to do this. He's afraid to give you what you want. But I'm not. Yes, I'm a big poof, Paulie. I'm a big queer. And I know what I want. And I go after what I want."
"But... but those poems," Paul breathed. "That you write. About sex. All those beautiful women you write about! How can you... I mean... how...?"
"You were the one who mentioned the women," Brian returned. "I never said that I write about women. I write about MEN. About having sex with beautiful men. And those are the poems I'm famous for. Those are the poems they pay me money to read."
"You read poems about... about fucking men... in front of an audience?" Paul was shivering, but it wasn't with the cold. "And you don't get arrested?"
"Oh, I've been arrested for it," said Brian, matter of factly. "But it's never stopped me. I've also been busted for having sex in public, but that's never stopped me, either. Nothing stops me when I want something. That's the secret of my success."
Brian had the boy's cock in his hand now. It wasn't huge, but it was smooth and beautifully shaped. And cut, too. That surprised Brian. Most Englishmen were uncircumcised. It was a nice discovery. Brian began to stroke it, up and down. Slowly, but relentlessly.
"Mother Mary!" Paulie whispered, shuddering.
"You Irish boys," said Brian. "I love the way desire and guilt are always fighting a battle for your sweet little souls."
"Please stop," begged the boy. "I... I think I'm going to come."
"All right," said Brian. And he stopped rubbing. But he still had a firm hold on Paul's cock. "I don't want you to come yet. Although it wouldn't matter. You would still have plenty left. I'm sure you could come all night if you had to. What are you, 19?"
"I'm 18," the boy replied.
"Ah, 18. A perfect age." Brian's breath was hot in Paul's ear. "Do you know what I was doing when I was 18 years old? Carrying a gun in Korea. Sitting on a mountain in the snow. Terrified every single minute that I'd get my ass shot off. I only wish I'd been in an alley with my dick being held by a hot guy who was about to fuck me to within an inch of my life."
Paul started. "Fuck me? Right here? Right NOW?"
"If I wanted to," Brian purred. "It might be sexy to sit inside that club and watch you standing on the stage, playing your guitar, knowing that my spunk was dripping out of your ass."
Paul tried to push Brian away. "You're daft! I'm going to call the coppers!"
"Are you?" whispered Brian. He seized the boy's shoulders and pushed him to his knees. Paul saw that the tip of Brian's cock was hanging out of his jeans. Then Brian pulled out the entire thing and shoved it in the boy's face. "Suck it. Now."
Paul stared at the man's prick. It was big. Long and tapered. Even partially erect, it looked like a dangerous weapon. "I can't!"
"Yes, you can," said Brian. And a moment later, the boy was. Not with any expertise, but he was trying. Taking in as much of Brian's cock as he could. "See? No need to call the cops. You wouldn't want to explain to them what you're doing -- or how much you're enjoying it."
Brian let the boy work on his prick for a few more minutes. Then he pulled away, gently. Paul looked up at him in surprise. Brian took his elbow and helped him to his feet. Both men zipped themselves up and straightened their clothes.
"Come on." Brian led the boy back up the alley to the street. He stepped to the curb and hailed a taxicab.
"Where are you going?" Paul asked.
"WE are going to my hotel, of course," Brian replied.
"But... the band," Paul sputtered. "I have to play! The break must be over by now. They must be wondering were I went to! John must be wondering...."
"Fuck the band," said Brian. "And fuck John. He had his chance and he never took it. Well, I'm not missing this opportunity. Like I said, THAT is the secret of my success. I never miss my chance to take what I want." A cab stopped in front of the pair and Brian opened the door. He pushed the boy inside and got in next to him, telling the driver the name of his hotel.
"But... but...." the boy tried to protest, but he couldn't even convince himself. Instead, he sat back in the seat and sighed.
"Maybe you'll be the subject of my newest poem. Maybe you'll be the 'star' of my next poetry reading, Paulie," said Brian. "I've seen you play with your Beat group, so now let's see how well you perform OFF the stage."
John's head ached.
He knew he always drank too fucking much, but it wasn't so bad when he stuck to beer. That's usually all he could afford. But that Scotch! John had downed it like the fake stuff that they sold to the sailors. But it wasn't the fake stuff. Fucking hell, no! And it went directly to his brain.
Rory and the boys finished their set and cleared off the stage.
"Up, up, up, lads! It's time to rock and roll!" John stood up unsteadily. He tottered and George caught him.
"You okay, Johnny Boy?" asked George, with concern.
"Right as rain, wack!" said John, brushing George off. "Paul, will you tune my guitar for me? I'm a bit the worse for wear." John looked around. "Paulie?"
But Paul wasn't there.
John frowned. He was so used to turning around and having Paul standing beside him that he took it for granted. The two of them had lived on top of one another since they were 15 years old, playing guitars, writing songs, ducking out of school and hiding out at Paul's house during the day while his dad was at work, doing everything that two boys could do.
Stu was close to John, too, but that was different. Stu was an artist and he would never be a musician, no matter how much John tried to make him one. And Astrid was drawing Stu even further away from John. Further away from the music. But Paul would never abandon the music. John knew that. They shared a vision. They were partners. They were going to the top! They were going to make a hit record one day, have money, birds, fame, cars -- everything they had ever dreamed of!
Then Paul brought George into their vision. George was just a kid, but he was a believer, too. And George idolized John. John liked being idolized. Paul believed in John, but he never idolized him. Paul was the only who saw John clearly and John knew it. He was the only one who knew how vulnerable John really was. The only one who John could trust always to tell him the truth. The only one he could trust to... But that was something else again. Something they didn't talk about.
"Where the fuck is Paul?" John looked around. The chair he'd been sitting in was empty. And the Yank that Stu and Astrid and Klaus had brought to the club -- he was gone, too.
"I think they went for a smoke," said George. "I heard the tall fella ask Paul to go outside with him."
Pete snorted and mumbled something.
"What did you say? Speak up, Best, if there's something on your mind!" John snapped.
"I said I hope Paulie gets a few quid out of the Yank," Pete spewed. "Or dollars. Or whatever the bastard has in his pocket. To make it worth his while!"
John felt himself sobering up quickly. "What the fuck do you mean by THAT?"
"That Yank -- don't you know a fookin' poofter when you see one, Lennon? Ask Stuart! He told me that some of them poems he was reading over at the university were so dirty that Stu was blushing to hear them! And they weren't about females! Wake up, Johnno!"
John turned around in a panic. Stu was already on stage, fiddling with his bass. "Stu! Where the fuck is Paul?"
Stuart looked at John like a scared rabbit. When John got in a mood he could hurt you. He'd hurt Stu a couple of time. John hadn't meant to hurt him -- he'd been drunk when he did it -- but he had. Stu swallowed. "I think he stepped out. He'll be right back. Paul's never missed a gig, John. Never."
Suddenly John was in Stu's face. "That berk you brought here tonight! Pete says he's some kind of queer! Is that true? And you brought him HERE?"
Stu blinked. "He's a famous poet. He's... he... What difference does that make?"
John riveted Stuart with his eyes. "What difference does it fucking make? What difference?" John smelled like Scotch and he was breathing fire. "He's gone. And Paul's gone! So YOU tell ME!"
"What am I supposed to do, Johnny?" Stu whined. "I don't know where they went! Paul's a big boy. He can take care of himself."
Stuart backed away from John. Paul wasn't his favorite person. Paul had always been resentful of the friendship between him and John. He was always picking fights with Stu, like a jealous little bitch. Taking shots at him. Trying to warn Stu away from John. And John seemed to enjoy watching the two of them jockey for his favor. Well, he had Astrid now. He didn't need to play that game anymore. Let John see just what Paul was all about. The minute this rich American put out his hand, Paulie went running after him. And Stu didn't give a damn!
"Shit!" John cried. He sat down on the edge of the stage and held his head, all the emotion drained out of him. "Now what the fuck am I going to do?"
The lobby of the Hotel Schiller was vast and luxurious, as befitted the finest hotel in Hamburg. There were so many crystal chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors that Paul was light-struck for a moment as he and Brian walked through the large front entry. Paul needed to blink in order to get his bearings. And when he saw where he was, he wanted to turn and run the other way. But Brian had a firm grip on his arm, propelling the boy forward towards the bank of elevators.
Paul had never in his 18 years been so aware of how scruffy he looked. He saw the clerk at the front desk and two of the bellboys gaping at him, and he felt his face go red with mortification.
Paul had always been a tidy boy. His mother had been a nurse who kept her house and her two sons spotless. And even after she died, Paul's father tried his best to keep up a certain standard of cleanliness. Paul and his brother Michael learned quickly to wash and iron their own clothes for school and to keep the house in order while their father worked long hours at the Cotton Exchange. Paul just didn't feel right unless he had a bath and washed his hair every single day, which meant that living in the back of the dusty Bambi Kino, wearing the same sweaty leathers constantly, and washing up in the men's room sink was sheer torture. But he didn't dare complain because the others, especially John, already mocked his fastidious habits incessantly. "You and your bleedin' middle-class pretensions!" John sneered. "You can't go to sleep until you wash your fookin' hands!"
Paul glanced over and saw the two bellboys whisper to each other as the tall America pushed him into the elevator. Brian told the operator that he wanted the fifth floor. Even the elevator operator, a stern, gray-haired woman, glowered at Paul, noting the mud on his cowboy boots and on the knees of his leather trousers. And also taking note, Paul was certain, of Brian's expensive coat, gold watch, and sleek, fashionable air. Paul stared down at the tips of his boots and wished that he could simply disappear.
Brian's hotel room was as well-appointed as the lobby, if a bit less intimidating. It was a suite, with a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom that was larger than the parlor at home in Liverpool.
"Is this better than your room in that movie theater?" asked Brian. He slipped off his coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa. Then he went to the bar and fixed himself a drink, another Scotch, this time with plenty of ice. "You want one, too?"
Paul stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to sit down anywhere in his dirty leathers. He had no idea what had made him come here with this overpowering man. He must be out of his fucking mind! "I think I better leave now."
Brian looked up. "Leave? You just got here. Make yourself comfortable. If you don't want a Scotch, how about a Coca Cola?"
Paul licked his lips. His throat was very dry. "Yes, ta. A Coke."
"With ice?" asked Brian. He'd made certain the hotel stocked the bar with lots of ice. That was the bane of living in Europe for an American -- there was never enough ice.
"Just a bit," Paul gulped.
Brian opened the bottle of Coke and poured some for the boy. Paul was as nervous as a cat. If Brian didn't get him settled down soon he'd never get the kid into bed. "You know, now that you're here you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to bite you -- unless you want me to."
Paul laughed, but the laugh had an edge of hysteria in it. His hand was shaking as he held the glass of Coke. "You don't think they'll come up here and... and arrest me, do you?"
"Arrest you?" said Brian. "For what?"
"For being in this room," said Paul.
Brian sniffed. "You're my guest. If they question it, then I'll make a fucking unholy stink. But they won't bother us." Brian pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. "What are you really scared of, Paulie? That the desk clerk will think you're a hustler that I picked up on the Reeperbahn?" Brian took a drag and then blew a perfect smoke ring into the air.
"What else would they think?" muttered Paul. "Look at me! And I'm filthy on top of it all."
"Take off your jacket." Brian held out his hand. Paul slipped off his leather jacket and gave it to Brian, who draped it over the back of the sofa next to his cashmere coat. "Turn around."
Paul shrugged and turned around slowly. He was wearing his leather trousers and a thread-bare red cowboy shirt over a black tee shirt. Paul only had 3 shirts and this one was the best of the lot. Paul had hoped to buy some more clothes with the money they made playing. But somehow after they ate and bought ciggies and beer there wasn't much money left. Not enough to find a better place to live than the kino. Not enough to wash their clothes properly, let alone buy new ones. Paul suddenly felt completely defeated. He set down the glass of Coke and wiped his eyes.
Brian put his arm around the boy. "There's nothing wrong with the way you look or what you're wearing. If some assholes think you're a hustler, then fuck 'em. Who are THEY to judge you? And that comes from someone who really was a hustler. I learned early on not to give a damn what anyone else thought -- and I've kept that philosophy. It's served me well over the years."
Paul looked at Brian with wide eyes. "You were a hustler? Like... like a male... prostitute?"
Brian laughed. "It was better than starving. Or working 9 to 5. Unlike you, I didn't have a talent, like music, that anyone would pay me for. I mean, any talent besides fucking."
Paul frowned. "But what about your poetry?"
"Oh, it took years before I ever made a dime off my poems. I had to support myself some way. I was on my own and no one gave a shit about me." Brian paused, remembering. "You do what you have to do, kid. And I did."
Paul grimaced. "Aren't you afraid of someone finding out?"
Brian grinned. "Since I've written poems about every facet of my life, including THAT, and most of them are in print for everyone to read -- not really. Listen, kid -- are you listening? -- my entire life is the subject of my work. I have no secrets. And that gives a man tremendous freedom."
"I can't imagine everyone knowing everything about my life," said Paul. "I'd feel... naked. How can you look at people?"
"With total honesty," Brian replied. "If you're going to be a famous pop star someday, you'll have to learn to live with people wanting to know everything about you. That's the fucking price of Fame."
"I never thought about that," Paul admitted.
Brian piloted Paul through the bedroom to the expansive bathroom. "Why don't you take a long, hot shower? I can see that you're exhausted. And you'll sleep better when you're clean. Tomorrow I'll lend you one of my shirts, okay?"
Paul nodded. "All right."
Brian handed Paul a fluffy white robe. "The hotel provides these bathrobes. It's one of the perks of living like a king on someone else's money. If they want me to come and read, I demand First Class all the way. Always remember to do the same, kid."
Paul smiled as he clutched the fluffy robe. "Thanks! I will. I haven't had a proper wash-up in weeks!"
Brian raised his eyebrows. "Then have yourself a ball." Brian turned to leave the bathroom, but then he stopped and glanced back at the boy. "Give me a call if you need anything. Oh -- and don't drop the soap."
In the shower Paul let the hot water cascade down his body, exalting in the feeling of being entirely clean and warm for the first time in ages.
There was a cake of pink soap that smelled like ladies' hand lotion and a bottle of shampoo that smelled like lemons. Paul used both of them liberally. He rubbed the shampoo into his long hair and squeezed it until it squeaked. Then he closed his eyes and stood there, under the powerful spray.
Finally, Paul heard a noise and the shower curtain moved.
Brian wrapped his arms around the boy. He was even more delicious naked than he was wearing the tight leather trousers.
"What took you so long?" asked Paul, leaning back against Brian. The man felt strong and solid. And Paul needed something strong and solid in his life right now.
"I had to make a quick telephone call," said Brian. He took the cake of pink soap and began circling Paul's chest with it, making lots of foamy suds. "But I was hard as a rock the whole time I was talking to the nice lady running the poetry workshop at the university tomorrow. Of course, I didn't tell the frau that. I'm sure she would have been terribly shocked."
"Not if she's read your poetry," Paul replied. "Then I'm sure she wouldn't be the least bit surprised. That is -- if your poems are really as... explicit as you say they are."
"Oh, they are," Brian assured the boy. "Perhaps you would like a demonstration?"
Paul took a deep breath. "That's what I'm here for. But I want more than just a demonstration."
Paul turned around and pressed himself against Brian. Their wet pricks touched for the first time. Paul put his arms around the poet's neck and pulled his head down close to his own, his lips searching. But he didn't have to ask. He didn't even have to frame the question. Brian knew what Paul wanted. Exactly what he wanted. What he needed.
Paul felt Brian's soapy fingers trail down his smooth back and along the crack of his plump arse. Felt them brush lightly up and down. Delve gently around the cleft. Paul shuddered as Brian's finger probed his hole and slipped inside. It felt odd, but not unpleasant. The slick pink soap allowed Brian's finger to glide in deeper. Paul clutched Brian, hanging on.
This kid is begging for it, thought Brian. He's a natural. And with an ass made to order for my dick.
Brian eased the first finger out and soaped up two. Then he worked the two fingers inside the boy, very slowly. It wouldn't do to hurt this kid. The slower the better. The longer the better. There was no hurry at all. They had this luxurious bathroom and a huge bed waiting for them in the next room. And all the rest of the night. And the rest of the week, too. Because Brian had no intention of letting this boy go until it was time for him to leave Hamburg. By that time the boy will have been fucked and sucked to within an inch of his young life. When Brian was finished with him, he'd have a week he would certainly remember. They both would.
Brian pressed a little deeper. Then even deeper. Paul gasped and jerked slightly.
"Don't move away. Push into it. Push against my fingers, not away," Brian told him. He must have touched the kid's prostate. He'd never had someone do THAT to him before!
"I.. I felt something."
"That's what you want to feel. Don't fight it."
The water of the shower started to run cooler, so Brian pulled his fingers out of the kid's ass and turned off the flow. Then he wrapped the boy in one of the large, soft hotel towels and tucked one around himself. "Are you cold?"
"No," Paul sighed. "That felt great! It's smashing to be clean and warm! And... the other as well."
"Come on, then," said Brian. "That was just the appetizer."
And he led the boy into the bedroom to begin enjoying the main course.
Continue on to "Hamburg -- Part III".
©Gaedhal, August 2004.
Posted August 17, 2003.