Friday Nights with Lenny

I woke up on the bed in the morning, naked and sore all over. He'd fucked me twice more in the night. I was alone, but it didn't take long to realize that what woke me was the sweet sound of the saxophone.

I showered and dressed. He was still playing the sax when I came out into the living and dining area. His apartment was so much more than Art's was. But I wasn't really comfortable in it. Everything was just too expensive looking, too slick. I didn't think of it at the time, but it was as too slick as Lenny himself was.

It didn't hit me until the last day that I walked out of that apartment, forever, that, as expensive as his stuff was, Lenny's apartment was sterile. He didn't even have a Christmas tree up. Not even one as good as Art's. I gained a whole new appreciation for that bedraggled Christmas tree of Art's.

He was sitting, naked, on a dining room chair next to a glass-topped table. His body was beautiful—not in a bodybuilder's way but sensual, hard, reflecting a hard-living life that went with the blues sounds he was pulling out of the sax. His tattooing mesmerized me. I suddenly came to some sort of realization that it wasn't just random swirls. It was trying to tell a story. Maybe his life story? I just couldn't read it. I couldn't read Lenny. Even in the intimacy—and having a guy sound you and fuck you at the same time couldn't become more intimate—Lenny remained a cypher to me. Remote. I wanted more from him . . . with him, though. I wanted to merge with him. I ached for him to fuck and sound me again, to play me like he was playing that sax.

On the table beside him was a hypodermic syringe and a small glass bottle. The bottle appeared to be empty.

Lenny didn't even know I was there. I didn't bother to go into the kitchen. I walked to the entrance to the apartment and closed the door quietly beyond me. Lenny wouldn't have known if I had slammed it.

For a while I didn't know where I was going, but my feet carried me back to Art's apartment.

* * * *

I was so deep into remembering what I allowed Lenny to do with me—what I wanted him to do to me—as I sat at Art's table that I only slowly was aware the hulking club bouncer was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, dressed, his hair wet from the shower. The look he was giving me was unguarded, and I instantly felt the heel again from the love and desire I saw in his eyes.

"Guess it's about time for me to go to work again."

"If you'll give me a few minutes, I'll shower and dress and go with you," I said.

He beamed at me. "We got time to stop and buy you some more clothes, if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like that. And maybe we can stop at the bodega and get some beer and one of those boxes of chocolates they have in the window for Christmas . . . and get a couple more boxes of those Magnums too."

He beamed again.

We were happy and domesticated through the rest of the week, right through Christmas and moving toward New Year, settling down into a pattern. And I'd been right. My cooking was a lot better than his was.

* * * *

Lenny was crouched over me, his weight borne on a hand propped next to my head, as I lay flat on my back on the padded bench in his living room, my hands clutched and digging into his biceps, my heels digging into the carpet on either side of the bench, toes tense, pointed up, crunching in rhythm with his rocking. His other hand was between our bellies, cupping both of our docked cocks, the cocks linked by a metal rod penetrating both of our piss slits.

I moaned deeply, completely transported, not knowing why I found this so arousing, so satisfying. But not caring, as long as he continued doing this to me.

He was slowly rocking his cock back and forth, narrowing the distance between our bulbs of the exposed metal, forcing more of the wand into each of our cocks, fucking both of the urethra channels.

I was panting hard, perpetually close to coming, and watching his eyes closely, only now and then casting a gaze down my torso to the two docked cocks. He'd told me what the goal was. There was still two and a half inches of rod to be seen between our bulbs.

"It usually takes forever for a guy to learn to take this," Lenny murmured. "You learn fast. You love this. My own little fuckin' whore."

He rose up momentarily, reaching for a bottle of poppers. "Here, take another drag on this," he said, waving it under my nose. When I had, my eyes followed the bottle back to the surface of the adjacent table, where the wands were laid out on a table. Next to them was the hypodermic syringe and the other bottle. I shuddered in fear of that.

Lenny went back to moving his cock, swallowing more of the wand at his end, penetrating my urethra canal more with the wand at the other end. I felt the tip of my bulb kiss the tip of his. With a little jerk I came. And so did he, our cum colliding and mixing. He wrapped an arm around my waist, raising my pelvis to his, his continuing to sway back and forth, sending the wand connecting our cocks shimmering. My torso was arched back toward the surface of the bench, my head thrown back, my arms dangling at my side. His lips went to the hollow of my neck and then descended to my nipples.

Swaying back and forth, back and forth. I had had cum in reserve and gave it to him now. The same with him.

"Nice" he said, stopping and holding. Then, "I'm taking you to the bed now and fucking your lights out."

"I can't stay the night," I murmured. But he wasn't listening to me.

That was the first thing I'd said to him too that second Friday night when I was putting the garbage in the alley dumpster along about 1:15 a.m., as Art and I were closing up the House of Blues.

The red Camaro had shown up at the head of the alley and I'd dipped my head to the passenger window and told Lenny, "I can't stay the night."

Art and I had had a good, solid week of settling in when Friday night rolled around again and it was Lenny's regular gig to play at the House of Blues.

He'd brought the blond college kid with him and, once again, the kid had followed Lenny beyond the beaded curtain into the back of the club after Lenny's first set. And once again Lenny took his sweet time on his break and the blond didn't come back into the main room with him.

And once again Lenny's playing was mesmerizing. He played just like he was playing for me and was playing my body as smoothly and sweetly as he was playing that sax. Art just let me moon. He knew I'd make up the work time during Lenny's breaks and that this was only once a week.

I have no idea if Art knew that it had been Lenny I was with the previous Friday night or not. All I know is that Art said nothing, showed nothing other than a bit of concern in the way he saw me mooning over Lenny and his music. I don't know, maybe if Art had shown more jealousy . . . but then maybe not. I knew I was like a skittish colt, ready to break and run back to a life on the streets the first sign of possessiveness from Art.

Which was kind of funny, really. That's what attracted me to Lenny. His complete possession of me.

I got busy toward 10:00 p.m. and didn't see whether the blond guy came back out to the main room the rest of the night.

On Lenny's bed that night, he was on top of me, fucking me from behind, and I was belly to the bed, when he went up on his knees between my thighs and pulled me up on my knees in front of him. I could vaguely see our reflection bouncing off the window overlooking the city. He was holding me against his chest with one arm embracing mine.

I watched—and whimpered—as he reached over beside us with the other hand and picked out a wand—thicker than I'd taken before—and, cupping my hard cock, began to work the wand into my piss slit, twirling it as it descended into me. Then he pushed my torso down again, so that I was on all fours, and began pumping me seriously with his cock. His hand was still cupping my cock and holding it so that, as my body lowered more from the onslaught of his ass fucking, the bulb of my cock pushed into the surface of the bed—or, rather, the end of the wand did.

As his strokes pushed my hips down lower, the wand was slowly penetrating deeper into my urethra canal. Lenny took his hand away and I was then forcing the deeper penetration myself, pushing down a bit more each time before drawing back. When it occurred to me that I was now fucking my own cock with the wand, I was overcome with arousal and ejaculated. Sensing that I had, Lenny laughed and came inside me too.

He pushed me all of the way down on the surface of the bed, with his body covering mine.

The last thing I remember saying before I drifted off to an exhausted sleep was, "I can't stay the night."

I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of soft sax music from the living room. I turned over on my back and realized from the swollen soreness feeling in my cock that the wand was still in it. Just the thought of that made me start going hard again. I rolled onto my back and grasped the bulb at the end of the wand and, slowly, started to pull it out. I moaned at the feel of it moving inside. I'd pulled it three-quarters of the way out when, without thinking, I slowly twirled it back down to half way. I arched my back from the pleasurable feel of it. Out . . . and then back in. Out and in, out and in. I was groaning and moaning at the forbidden pleasure of it. When I pulled it all of the way out, it was to leave my ejaculation unimpeded.

I lay there, thinking what a slut I was and knowing that I repeatedly had said I couldn't stay the night, knowing that Art would be sitting at the table in his little apartment, smoking cigarette after cigarette, pretending to read the newspaper, probably doing my laundry, and worrying about where I was. The lights of his Christmas tree turned off . . . because I wasn't there.

With a sigh, I rolled out of the bed, took a shower, dressed, and walked out into the living room. As before, Lenny was lost to my presence, making love to his saxophone, the syringe and empty drug bottle next to him on the glass-topped table.

* * * *

When I walked into the apartment early Saturday afternoon, Art was sitting at the table again, but he was eating his breakfast. He was wearing a robe over pajama bottoms. No overflowing ashtray, no mauled newspaper. No lights beaming on the Christmas tree, though. I'll admit there was more than a glint of concern in his eyes, which gave me a twinge of guilt. But he was none the worse for wear. I had been gone overnight on a Friday and had come back to him. He was trustful—and simple enough—to believe I'd come back to him the next Saturday morning too. I had, of course, but this level of trust in him gave me a little concern.

Which was ironic, as I was the one causing the concern.

"You missed the excitement of last night."

I gave him a hard look. I hadn't missed any excitement last night. Lenny had given me just about more excitement than I could handle. But I could see that Art wasn't being sarcastic.

"What excitement?"

"One of the customers—that young college kid who followed Lenny around like a puppy dog. Right at closing I found him in the break room at the back of the club."

"Did you have to roust him out?"

"No. He was dead. He'd OD'd. On heroin, the medical examiner thought likely. Back there in the break room sometime during the evening. He was naked and everything, his body just lying on that bench back there, stiff as a board."

"God, the cops and everything came?" My mind was racing. Lenny. Did he know? Had he known all that time he was sounding and fucking me last night. And offering me poppers? And with the hypo needle next to us. And the one next to him this morning?

"Yeah, they did. And they want to talk to as many of the people in the audience we can identify and Lenny too. They didn't show much interest in talking with Thaddeus, though. I told him that I'd never seen Thaddeus away from the piano. The guy must have a cast-iron bladder or bag or something."

"Me?" I asked, still in shock and not listening to much else Art was saying.

"They don't know about you. And there's no reason they need to unless someone else mentions you. I thought with what you'd been doing before and all and then you and Lenny—"

"Thanks, but I've never been picked up," I said. "I hadn't been out on the street all that long." I had gasped inwardly at his reference to Lenny and me. So, he knew it was Lenny who was shagging me the nights I didn't come home . . . to Art's home. And he hadn't mentioned it. Well, if he wasn't going to mention it, neither was I.

Art smiled a little smile like my statement that I had worked the street for long made him happy. Although, considering what else I was doing, that seemed an empty satisfaction. Of course Art was grabbing at whatever illusions made life easier for him—just as I was. I watched him rise from the table and go over and switch the Christmas tree lights on.

"But it's fine with me if they never hear about me," I added.

I didn't know the blond from Adam, so I didn't have too much grief to spare on him. But Lenny. Now I was scared of—and for—Lenny. I wouldn't go with him again.

"You hungry?" Art asked.

"Yes, but I'll fix something."

"Need to take a shower?"

I hesitated, knowing I'd just had one at Lenny's place. "Yeah, that would be nice. But you look like you haven't had yours yet yourself. Maybe we could do it together."

I fucked myself on his cock, with him standing against a wall of the shower and me draped on his front, fists locked behind his neck and hanging off him, my feet leveraging off the wall out wide from his waist, and pumping my channel on his cock.

We had to stop at the bodega for a couple more boxes of the Magnums on our way to work that afternoon—and more beer. And the rest of the week went just fine. I could feel myself in the groove and the panic of being in a groove like this dissipating with each day.

I'd had a scare and a brush with something I couldn't control. But now I was in control. If the cops didn't get at me and wear me down, I'd just bypass Lenny from now on. Let him spiral down by himself if that's where he was headed.

* * * *

Late, late Friday night, New Year's Eve, the two of us facing each other, both straddling the padded bench in his living room, our foreheads touching, sweating, each of us watching our own cock and that of the other, the two almost touching, as we each sounded ourselves. Lenny was way ahead of me in wand thickness. His looked like a baseball bat.

"Here, let me," he whispered. He took hold of my cock and pulled the wand out. Then he pulled the much thicker wand out of his cock and pressed the end of it at my piss slit.

"No, Lenny, I don't think . . . it's much too thick."

"This will help you."

"Oh, god, no Lenny. I don't."

But the needle was already piercing a vein in my arm. "Just a little. Just enough to relax you, to loosen you up. To help you take this. I want to see this in my little whore."

"No, Lenny, no . . ." The drug was already working on me. The room was swirling around me. I leaned back on my elbows on the bench and watched that seven inches of baseball bat beginning to be inserted into my urethra. I felt the thickness of it and yet again I didn't. I was floating and laughing. No cares at all as, inch by inch, the wand disappeared into my cock slit.

"Nice. Fucking time." There was an edge of excitement in his voice.

Lenny was standing, still straddling the bench and lifting my pelvis up to him with hands gripping my waist. My torso was arched back toward the surface of the bench, my weight on my shoulder blades, and my arms dangling uselessly down the sides of the bench. I was looking at a smiling, almost leering, Lenny up the line of my arched torso, beyond my erect and throbbing cock with three inches of wand showing—but now not even that. I could feel myself drawing the wand inside me. Maybe only two inches showing now. How long had it been? Six, seven inches? Oh, shit, oh, jesuzzz. Not more than one inch now. My cock hungrily swallowing it. Lenny in double, triple now. Smiling, his cock penetrating deep, deeper. Pumping me, pumping, pumping, pumping. I'm laughing, crying out to him how wonderful I feel, how I want him to fuck me forever.

Lenny's fingers gripping the last half inch of the wand as he fucks me. Drawing it almost all the way out. Pushing it back in. Twirling it. Out, in, twirl. Out, in, twirl.

"My little whore," I hear him say.

Out, and I watch my cum splash all over his belly . . . his bellies . . . there are multiple of them.

I feel him come too, in a flood, the flood of all time. I'm laughing.

"To the bedroom," the three Lenny's say, in unison and harmony.

Fucking, fucking, fucking. All Friday night long fucking me. Fucking me from one year into the next. Lights flashing on and off, all colors, all night long. The bedroom window wall melting and the bed floating out over the city. Fireworks going off across the city. Fireworks going off in Lenny's bedroom—on Lenny's bed. And then . . . nothing.

The mother of all headaches when I woke up Saturday morning—the next year. In Lenny's bed. No saxophone music to wake me this morning. I rolled over, placed my feet on the floor, waited for a few minutes to gather my strength and intent, and then shakily stood and gingerly padded to the bathroom to take a shower.

No shower today, though, not here. Lenny was curled up on the floor of the bathroom, a syringe beside him, dead as a doornail.

I couldn't pull on my clothes and get out of there fast enough. I literally ran the ten blocks to Art's apartment and busted through the door. Art was sitting at the table.

"God, Art, I need you. Take me to the bedroom and fuck my brains out. God, I need you."

Not asking any questions, not then, not later, Art did just as I asked.

No connection was ever made. I couldn't be happier to be settling down with Art and working with him at the club. There was a little twinge of regret when he pulled the Christmas tree down, but I no longer needed the lights on the tree. Now, content, I felt the light of Art inside me.

The sleeping bag and a dwindling pile of my "stuff" from my earlier life are still sitting there next to the radiator, symbols of a choice I still can make.

I'm happy with the choice I've made, though. I didn't get a winter coat until the next winter. You don't need a winter coat in bed. We did, though, have to find a cheaper and higher volume supplier of Magnums than the bodega near the House of Blues.