tagGay MaleCome Me Mr. Sax Man Ch. 01

Come Me Mr. Sax Man Ch. 01

bysr71plt©

[This is a completed six-chapter work that will finish posting before the end of February 2017.]

*

The shipboard casino had opened an hour earlier, the sun was at its full height above the ninth-deck swimming pool complex, the lunch-service lines had opened at the Windjammer Café, and bingo was in full cry in the Spotlight Lounge. The Glory of the Seas cruise liner was in full entertainment mode, and those who had gathered in the Schooner Bar for their prelunch alcoholic fix while listening to the combo of Dean on the piano and Buzz on the saxophone had mostly drifted away to other pursuits.

A few diehards held on, though. A few were jazz aficionados, hanging onto every sweet note Dean and Buzz were playing. A few others, however, were more attracted to the sensually attractive Buzz Abrams, who seemed almost to be making love to his saxophone and who was coaxing the most sensual of sounds out of the instruments. Dean played well, too, but he was pushing the upper limits of middle age. Buzz might have been in his early forties, but he was a solidly built handsome brute—with an emphasis on "brute," which gave him an aura of mystery and danger.

Two who were hanging on and listening to the music—and closely following every move Buzz made--were holding up either end of the bar facing the baby grand nestled up against the picture windows at the side of the bar overlooking the passing waves. The Glory of the Seas, cutting through these waves on the two-day run from Baltimore down to the Bahamas, might as well have been the only ship on the wide seas in the middle of the brooding Bermuda Triangle.

The two diehards couldn't be any more different, linked only by their obvious interest in Buzz Abrams—and quite evidently for more reasons than the smooth jazz he was blowing out of his saxophone. At one end of the bar perched Glenda, a chiffon-scarf swathed, twice-divorced, and once widowed bottle-blonde, a pencil-thin, martini chain-drinking international model several decades removed. Glenda was eating Buzz up with her eyes. She was on the cruise alone, mourning the death of her Harold, who had thoughtfully left her a string of manufacturing plants and the ability to cruise wherever she wanted for as long as she wanted. But what she really wanted was not to be unattached for very long, and now, for the first time in her life, she was in a position to shop for a younger man with a little bit of danger in him, a nice cock, and a strong stroke rather than an older man who would take care of her financially. Indeed, she was reaching a stage where there weren't many older men who weren't limited by pacemakers or oxygen tanks.

She had spotted Buzz early in the cruise and had followed him from performance venue to performance venue.

At the other end of the bar, not as oblivious to Glenda and her intentions as the self-absorbed and perpetually pickled Glenda was to him, sat Trent. Trent was a ship performer just as Buzz was. He was a dancer in one of a few Gems of the Sea fourteen-member song and dance troupes that floated around the cruise line's fleet, performing an average of two Broadway routines each week for a schedule light enough and with good enough pay and shipboard accommodations to offset the danger of making leaps across a stage that could be tossing and turning in turbulent waters.

Trent wasn't a headliner, but he was good enough to be a lead dancer. He also was young, handsome, and lithe enough and enjoying the best mix of the genes from a Jamaican father and French mother to give him a standout sensual aspect in the set of three male dancers that typically backed up the lead singers. Trent had been cruising—in more ways than one—with the ship line troupe for more than a year. And he made more money on the side from lonely and aggressive male passengers than he did from the dancing.

Classically trained as a dancer, Trent had found that opportunities in ballet were extremely limited beyond the "glowing promises" stage, which was before some ballet company producer had managed to pin him to his office couch with his dick and fucked all of his hopes out of him and then told him how tough it was to fill the rare opening in a dance line without better credits than he had. He had made the adjustment to jazz and modern dance, with better prospects on Broadway. He had loved the music but became weary of the preparation demands, the continual auditioning process, the low pay, and the monotonous repetition of the same performance night after night if he did land a long-running gig. In the three years he spent on Broadway, he learned two important lessons. He was easily bored and more than a bit lazy, and he could make more money as a male prostitute, attracting men with his dancing, than he could from actually doing the dancing.

Prostitution came easily and guiltlessly to Trent, not to mention that his natural beauty and sensuality easily attracted men who were interested in men to him. Trent had always been amoral in his attitude toward sex. He had learned early in life that the height of pleasure for him was to have a handsome, well-built, preferably older man holding him in a controlling embrace and possessing him fully with his cock. And this could be a perpetual state as far as Trent was concerned. He had no reservations at having his body used in sex or in exhibiting his almost-perfect body, the latter attitude melding perfectly well with his dancing. No costume, or lack of costume, that he was asked to wear on stage made him blush. In his younger years he gave himself freely, naturally, and guiltlessly. As he grew older he felt no shame in being paid for it, or in going with more than one man—or two or three—in the same day.

People interpreted the concept of their bodies being temples in different ways. To Trent it was a gift to be celebrated, worshipped, and constantly given—and used for his own pleasure.

He had been working a pole in a men's club between Broadway gigs and opening his legs for men in one of the club's back rooms when one of the other dancers suggested that he try for the cruise line performer's gig.

"It's only two performances for a seven-day cruise. The acts change frequently, but the dance routines stay more or less the same. And you get to eat for free, visit exotic destinations, and lay out at the pool. The only downside is the danger of turned ankles when the ship founders during a performance."

"I don't know," Trent said. "The dancing here and on Broadway really is only to—"

"I've never made so much money from men taking cruises to get their rocks off," the other guy said, anticipating what Trent was going to say. "For days you are trapped on the ocean. Guys who are cruising to find sex go crazy at the isolation. And going on a cruise means they have money. They'll pay top dollar to be fucking between ports. And more than enough of them are gay."

"And so why aren't you—?"

"I'm just doing this between gigs. I go back for practice for the coming cruise season next Tuesday. They almost always have openings. Why don't you come with me? You're built for better than this club. You'll have to let the director fuck you in the audition first, though."

"When doesn't that happen?" Trent asked, rolling his eyes as the other dancer chuckled and shook his head in agreement. "Does he cock well, this director?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not."

And thus Trent's career in a cruise line song and dance troupe had been launched.

He wasn't cruising for extra money now, however, in the Schooner Bar, listening to Buzz play that sexy jazz on his saxophone. Buzz was on the paid entertainer staff just as he was. Although the entertainers did mix it up with each other, there was a standing understanding that they didn't do it for money. Trent had come to the Schooner Bar today, an off day, as his troupe had performed on the Orpheum Stage the previous evening and would not do so again until the ship left Nassau for the line's private Bahamian islet of Coco Cay, with the understanding that Buzz was signaling interest in a hookup.

Trent didn't let men fuck him just for the money. He was highly sexed and got the jitters, which wasn't the least bit helpful to his dancing, if he didn't have a man's churning dick inside him regularly. He was narcissistic, which also went with the territory, and he got a high from being wanted and pursued. He liked variety too. Though he gravitated to older, experienced, and slightly dangerous men in good shape, just as he found days and weeks on end of the same old dance routine monotonous day after day, he sometimes sought out variety in cocking techniques and hard bodies.

And sometimes he pursued men himself who he found desirable, with no thought of money. Such it was with Buzz. It was as much the smooth jazz he played as his somewhat older, hard, fluid-in-motion body and a face showing some wear and tear and a mysterious history that had caught Trent's attention and aroused him. Trent was hard just sitting near him and listening to the saxophonist play. He wanted Buzz to play him too—with those strong, facile fingers and those sensitive, expert lips. And, hopefully, with a cock that knew how to make music too. Occasionally Trent felt like doing it without a rubber—wanting to feel the cum flowing, spouting in rhythmic spurts inside him. That's how he felt about Buzz.

Buzz had attended both of the dance troupe's performances the previous evening, sitting in the front row each time. Trent felt the man's eyes follow him on stage, and when he'd ventured a smile at the hunky saxophonist, who Trent had recognized from a poster in a frame outside the Schooner bar, he had gotten a smile in return, clearly discernible as the light from the stage extended several rows into the theater.

Trent hadn't had sex for nearly two weeks, as the troupe had been practicing two new programs in the ship line's Baltimore facility that they would now perform over the next eight weeks. The practice sessions had gone on long and he'd returned to his hotel room exhausted each night. He didn't like to go long without sex, though, and the jitters of the denial of sex were starting to affect his dancing. He needed to get laid—and laid well—today. Buzz had a body to die for and a look of roughness about him that promised that Trent would be taken care of just as he liked to be.

During this set, Buzz had looked to him several times, still projecting a heat and interest that had kept Trent plastered to the bar long after most others had drifted away. At the same time, Trent was not unaware that Buzz had also been exchanging looks with the older, rather floozy, but also obviously very rich, blonde at the other end of the bar.

It was a mystery to Trent who Buzz was favoring, but he knew there was some sort of competition under way. Thus, it was frustrating and a great disappoint when, having reached the end of his set, Buzz drifted over to the blonde. It wasn't a complete surprise though. Buzz and Trent hadn't actually ever talked, so Trent couldn't make any claims that Buzz swung in his direction. It might have been, he acknowledged to himself, that Buzz had been smiling at one of the women dancers on stage, not at Trent.

Not wanting to give up possibilities, though, Trent stayed glued to the bar, nursing his second beer, while Buzz and the old blonde bantered for a short time, all smiles and tinkling laughter on her part and half-amused sultry looks on Buzz's part, as Buzz moved closer and closer into her body. Eventually, with a hand on the small of her back as she perched on the stool, Buzz leaned over and whispered in her ear. Almost imperceptibly, although Trent was watching so closely that he caught it, Buzz cupped one of the woman's breasts with his other hand. Trent could almost hear the woman purring from the other end of the bar.

Trent was still sitting there when the blonde had climbed off her perch, downed the last of her last martini, picked her clutch purse off the surface of the bar, and the two had glided from the room. Buzz was guiding her along with a hand cupping one of her buttocks cheeks.

"Another one?"

Trent snapped back into consciousness of where he was. The barman was standing by him, gesturing at his now-empty beer glass. His eyebrow was raised and he was pretending not to know the struggle that had just transpired—and that Trent had lost.

"No thanks. I've had enough."

"And maybe seen enough," the barman said. "You're with the dance troupe, aren't you?"

"Yes," Trent answered dully, his eyes still turned to the door that Buzz and the blonde had disappeared through.

"Buzz has business on the side to worry about too," the barman said. "Don't take it personal."

"I was just here for the music," Trent said, with a defensive edge showing in his voice. He didn't need anyone to come up with an excuse. Buzz just preferred women, and Trent had misread the signals. Too bad; he was a real hunk.

The barman pressed the subject, though. "I get off at four. Maybe you'd like—"

Trent turned and looked at the guy, seeing him for the first time. He was cute, but he wasn't a bruiser. At least he didn't come across that way despite the tattooing showing at the wrist of his white shirt. He was tall and thin and wiry. Trent was in the mood to be manhandled, not cuddled. "I've got a rehearsal then, sorry. Maybe some other time."

"Yeah, maybe some other time," the barman said and suddenly seemed to realize that the four empty martini glasses that were sitting on the bar where the blonde had been needed to be taken back to the kitchenette just then.

Trent didn't have a practice at four. He didn't have anything at all on his schedule. He had hoped to be filling the time with Buzz.

Well, if nothing else, he could work on his tan. He was naturally dusky—the genes from his Jamaican father—but a deeper tan offset his close-shaven black beard and mustache and the swirl of black curly hair on his chest and traveling down in a line to his groin really well under the lights on the stage, so he liked to get sun whenever he could.

After a quick lunch in the Windjammer Café, he went back to the small inside cabin on deck one that he shared with one of the other dancers who, atypically for men in his art, was frustratingly straight and on the wimpy side. There Trent changed into a skimpy Speedo and took himself up to the ninth-deck pool area. He found a lounge near the stern of the ship, beside the side of the rock wall climb and where few others congregated and, undoing his pony tail and letting his black, curly hair cascade down to his shoulders, stretched out in the sun.

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