Interstate Triad Concerto

The Johnathan Mones men's choir and saxophone version of "Steal Away" was working just fine. The Savannah Gay Men's Choir had some excellent voices in it and the black hunk, Jamie, who was accompanying on the soprano sax was as accomplished as he was handsome. I was one of the youngest one who showed up that night to sing in the choir for the first time, drawn because the director, Erik Switzer, had told me about this saxophone and choir composition, and the saxophonist was giving me chills by turning his eyes to me frequently and smiling and nodding. He made me feel like we were the only two men in the rehearsal hall.

The invitation had come two days earlier when Erik had picked me up at the airport and driven me to the very nice one-bedroom apartment on East Jones Street, within the pocket park section of the old city that I was being provided as a part of the six-month sabbatical stipend with the music department of the Savannah State University. Despite only being twenty-three, I'd already put in a year teaching music composition and both choral and instrumental performance at the Shenandoah Conservatory in Winchester, Virginia. I had been somewhat of a child prodigy, graduating from high school at fifteen and finishing both a BA and a masters at Shenandoah by the time I was twenty-one and being invited to stay there to teach after taking my degrees. Like most of partial Asian descent--despite my Western name, Neal Gordon, I was half, the mother half, Korean--my parents had pushed me hard academically. This had worked out in launching me into a desired career, but it had stunted my socialization, so that when I discovered I was gay, it helped making me a pushover for older men. There were plenty of men interested in the experience of doing an Asian.

It had made me easy prey for the mixed German and American black music conductor and professor at Savannah State University, Erik Switzer, when he'd come for a semester sabbatical at Shenandoah. After he had pursued, seduced, and bedded me, he arranged this semester sabbatical of my own to his university, a traditionally black southern university, to have a chance to compose something significant myself. I had come down here with no idea yet what that would be, but I was counting on inspiration to hit early in my sabbatical down here. This evening, hearing how well the choir and saxophone fit together, my mind was spinning on the possibility to pursue that combination. It was quite unusual. If I managed it, it would undoubtedly take notice--I just would have to gamble on it being good rather than bad notice.

The one thing I wanted to do in this six months of sabbatical was to do something different--and risky--both in music and in my personal life. The first thing Erik Switzer did in bring me from the airport into old Savannah to a fine one-bedroom apartment in a renovated vintage townhouse where all of the other units were stores or offices and that was provided at heavy discount by a college alumnus was to make the bedroom the last stop in the inspection of the apartment and to fuck me in a close-embrace missionary on the bed. That wasn't new and different. He'd done the same in Winchester, professing to be fascinated that I was half Korean, as he was half black, and so young--and, he said, had so much musical talent. But I thought that, with luck, there would be other presentable men in Savannah who would be more of a risk. Erik was a handsome man, but he was beefy and quite a bit older than I was.

When he invited me to join his gay men's choir, I saw this as a start for a six-month breather with some spice and excitement in it. I was given hope when I made eye contact with the black saxophonist. I'd never done fully black before, as Jamie obviously was, dreadlocks and all. I'd heard the legend that black men were specially endowed. Jamie was endowed with very good looks and youth as a start. It might be fun to know what other endowments he had the right to be proud of.

* * * *

"So, how did I do?" I turned at the sound of the voice. The black saxophonist, Jamie. The gay men's chorus had practiced in the sanctuary of an old church in the historic area of the city, refreshments had been laid on for us in the fellowship hall afterward. Erik had brought me, but he was being swamped with questions and comments from the choir members after the practice, so it would be a while before we could take off. I was confident that he planned to spend the night at my apartment.

You do great in everything I can see, I wanted to answer to the young black saxophonist who had come to me by the refreshment table. I wasn't that forward--or hopeful, though. "You play a sweet sax as far as I can determine," I answer.

"Switzer tells me you are a music master on sabbatical at the university, so I was very interested in what you thought of my playing."

"You are the best I've heard," I said. He obviously was happy with that.

"I could hear your tenor voice coming through," he said. "You have a great voice," he added, returning the compliment. "So, what is your emphasis--voice or instruments?"

"Composition," I said, "for either or the two combined, as we're doing here. I have time down here to try to compose something unusual. Hearing the men's choir put together with the saxophone has given me inspiration."

"I'm glad to be inspirational for you."

"Inspirational in more ways than the saxophone," I said, pushing the envelope. The man was a real hunk. I gave him the look that all active gay men recognized. I had no idea if he was active or not--or a top or bottom, if he was active. I saw no reason not to take a chance, though. I had come to Savannah to take some chances.

He caught the ball. "This is a gay men's chorus," he said, "and you are singing in it. Can I hope that you are--"

"Yes, I am. A submissive," I added to pin it down.

"This is the South. I'm black. Does that... have you ever?"

"I never have but have been looking forward to it. And I am half Korean. That sometimes is as much an impediment in the South as being black might be."

"I can't see that it would be anything but intriguing. Can I give you ride home from the rehearsal, or do you have your own transport?" Was that a direct proposition, I wondered.

"I don't have a car--at least yet. I came with Erik, but he looks like he's going to be busy for some time. If you are planning to leave soon--"

"I can leave right now. My car is a couple of blocks away. You could tell Switzer you're leaving while I get the car and I could pick you up in the front of the church."

"It sounds like a plan." It actually sounded like a very good plan, maybe one he had cleverly devised. Erik was less likely to ask that I not accept the man's offer if he had already left to fetch his car and would be idling at the curb.

Erik wasn't pleased that I wasn't leaving with him, but he, indeed, was being swamped with choir questions and business, so there wasn't much for him to say. He knew too that he was my mentor here in Savannah, and he had six months of coverage with me.

I went out to the steps in front of the church to wait for Jamie to bring his car around. There was some sort of warehouse across the street, with big trucks arriving, even this late in the evening, and unloading goods. A couple of truck drivers had come out of their cabs and were standing around and talking as the trucks were being unloaded. The men looked like rough-and-tumble, meaty hunks from where I stood, and I felt myself stirring. These were men from an entirely different world than the safe, refined music world I had been steeped in, and they fascinated me. With the intent of a freer, riskier life I had come to Savannah with, I'd been ruminating on the possibility of discovering men like this. If I found it was something I didn't like or couldn't handle, I'd be returning to my own world in northern Virginia in a few months anyway.

Jamie didn't drive me directly back to my apartment. With my enthusiastic acquiescence, we went to a jazz bar, the Good Times Jazz Bar, not far from my apartment, where we had a couple of drinks, listened to some live jazz, and engaged in a bit of conversation after he'd been called up on the stage and had played some smooth, haunting music with his saxophone. Jamie obviously was a well-known and welcome musician in downtown Savannah. It was making me very comfortable--and mellow.

"The jazz seems to be smoother, more romantic and introspective here in Savannah than where I've heard it before," I said when he'd returned to our table.

"Each region and city serves up jazz a bit differently from others," Jamie said. "The personality, history, and experience of the city or region is folded into their music. You'll hear it in their jazz. Savannah is deeply embedded in my music. Yes, introspective and classic in Savannah. And, I hope to think that the music I produce is romantic. That's just me, a romantic." He was looking deep into my eyes and gliding my fingers over the forearm I had leaning on the top of the table between us. "Are you ready for me to drive you home now?"

"Yes," I said, feeling myself panting at what was to come. I had no question that he'd propositioned me--or that he understood that I'd said yes.

"You know, I never thought about it before but I'm finding I'm thinking about it now," he said before we got up to leave.

"Thought about what?" I asked.

"Making love to a Korean."

"Making love to a Korean or fucking one?" I asked. I obviously had gone over my limit on drinks.

"There's a difference?"

"Yes, there is."

He laughed. "I can be romantic," he said.

* * * *

He lied. He wasn't romantic. He was forceful and controlling and fucked me at great length--on my sofa, me bent over the arm of the couch, my arms and head dangling toward the floor; and on the floor in front of the sofa, me on all fours and him mounted behind and above me and pounding away; and on my bed with him on his back and me riding a cock that, yes, bore out the legend I'd heard about black men and their endowments. He was built huge.

The coupling wasn't anything like I had experienced before with the arousal slowly building through wine and discussion of music that smoothly transitioned into the realization of intimacy, a few kisses, fondling, a brief adjustment of clothing and positioning, an intaking of breath on penetration, stretch, and possession, followed by moments of rhythmic give and take, release, and smooth transition back into wine and discussion of music. There was no give and take in this. It was all Jamie taking almost from the moment we entered my apartment. Hot, sweaty, deep panting and moaning, primeval struggle, with Jamie overwhelming and mastering me, thrusting inside me, forcing me open, laying me out, vulnerable and powerless to his conquering and control. And that thick, long, black shaft, invading, relentlessly pounding, using, owning. Such exhilaration--I had never been dragged long the tops of the clouds like this before. Often in sex I conjured up the image of dancing on the clouds. Jamie beat me down and dragged me across the clouds by my hair.

Rolling off him after riding him on my bed and after I had cooled down and felt my heart beat return to a steady rhythm, I turned toward him and took his now-flaccid cock in both of my hands, reveling in how thick it was, even in repose, and how black it was, and how I could take it in both hands without the fingers overlapping. I felt it stirring, and I knew we'd fuck again--that he'd fuck me again.

"You're so black there," I murmured. "Blacker there than over the rest of your body. I've never been fucked by a black cock before."

"Or one this big," he said, and gave a little laugh.

"Or one this big," I acknowledged.

"Bigger than my thumb," he said, reaching over and running one of his thumbs around on my lips until I opened my mouth to it and pulled it in, sucking on it, as I two-handed stroked his shaft, engorging it again.

"And I've never fucked a cute Asian--a half Korean--before," he said, his voice husky. "Do Koreans give good blow jobs?"

Not waiting for his thumb to come out of my mouth so I could answer, he extracted the thumb, ran his fingers into my head, jerked my head down his muscular torso, and forced me to take his black shaft in my mouth. I unhinged my jaw and took the cock as best I could, gagging on it as he forced it deep.

No, I'd never taken black cock here before, either.

After some sputtering mouth work that returned him to full staff, he rolled over on top of me. The fuck was rough and hard--and glorious. So far I was loving Savannah.

* * * *

Jamie had given me a couple of avenues of thought to pursue in the week before there'd be another gay men's chorus practice, where I hoped he would be again to practice his saxophone accompaniment to our song because I hadn't gotten contact information for him. He knew where I was living now, but I doubt I had impressed him enough in bed for him to show up on my doorstep salivating before the next choir practice.

On the level I was in Savannah on this sabbatical to pursue, he'd given me a lead on the composition I might try to develop. Finding that there were so many differences in what jazz on the saxophone could be and how that might relate to regions had me going to the Internet to track down and compare the different treatments. I hadn't thought of the saxophone accompanying choir music before encountering the Johnathan Mones "Steal Away" piece at the men's choir. I wasn't really interested in composing a piece for choir, but the thought of the saxophone and how many different styles of that that could be put into a composition had me weighing possibilities in my mind.

That line of pursuit wasn't all innocent work related, though, as I had to admit to myself. If I centered a music composition on the saxophone, I could maybe convince Jamie to spend a lot of time with me in trying this and that sound out against other instruments. I had rented an electronic piano on which, using my computer, I could pull up the sounds of different instruments and even layer them on each other, and, with that, I could get a very good idea how the composition would sound while I was composing it.

Being able to see Jamie often segued into the other level my thoughts went to. Jamie was black and Jamie was a forceful lover. Both of those were new areas of sensation for me--and both were arousing. And it went further than that. Jamie was a rough lover, which sent me into new and deeper levels of arousal that I hadn't thought existed before I came here. I had gone with some men before, but they'd all been highly civilized and refined. Jamie was rough, and thinking of him and the night we'd met and fucked also brought up the rough-looking truck drivers I'd seen on the street in front of the church the choir rehearsed in and how I'd briefly fantasized how sex with one of those burly, rough-edge, blue-collar men would be like. Would it be even rougher and more demanding than I'd found with Jamie? Would I like that?

If I was going to explore and experiment with the hope of abandoning it and going back to refined academics, this sabbatical in Savannah would be a good time to do that. I'd developed this curiosity about construction worker types--and black men.

While trying to concentrate on the music composition that had brought me here, the question of truckdrivers and rough sex, the truckdriver issue kept intruding in my mind. I was on the computer putting some instrumentation combinations together in search of a couple of bars of key theme music when, on a whim, I checked whether there might be a gay dating site specifically for truckdrivers. There was.

I opened the Web site up. I wondered if it was only for truckdrivers, or men claiming to be truckdrivers, or whether it could be used by submissives looking for truckdriver tops, and, if so, whether there were a number of hookup possibilities here in the Savannah area. The only way to find out, of course, was to sign up for the site and enter it.

I'd never had done that in Winchester where I taught at the Shenandoah Conservatory. I'd never have done it where I lived full time. But I was in Savannah, a long way from Winchester. I'd come down here with the thought of trying out some activities I wouldn't feel free to do in Winchester. I don't know if I'd go with a black man for casual rough sex in Winchester. I never had. There was probably no impediment to that other than something psychological. I'd done it without a second thought here. I knew there was nothing really different about hooking up by computer in Winchester as opposed to here in Savannah--but it seemed so.

I took the plunge. With a delicious, tingly feeling of the illicit, I roamed around in the site, seeing, basically, three different types of personal ads. The largest group, by far, were truckdrivers, identifying as tops, and seeking submissive to go on long rides with them. The next largest group was truckdrivers who identified as submissives and were interested in being taken on long rides by burly truckers. The smallest group, and the most dinged on, were men who weren't truck drivers but who were seeking to be ridden by burly truckers. I saw that there were plenty of men stepping up as players who claimed the Charleston-Atlanta-Savannah triangle as home and stomping grounds, although, as truckers, there seemed to be a great willingness to hook up across much broader regions.

Licking my lips and feeling myself go hard, I started filling out a personal ad form, providing a photo I'd had taken of me posed on a chaise lounge, with my hands covering the goods and a half mask on my face. I told myself I'd just see if there was any interest that would be titillation fodder, although, of course, I wouldn't actually hook up with anyone this way.

Within ten minutes I received a dozen messages of interest and offers to take me somewhere in their trucks and fuck the stuffing out of me--all of them from the Georgia-South Carolina area, five of them from right here in Savannah. Shockingly, one of them addressed me by name--Neal--even though I hadn't given that name in the personal ad. Of course I wouldn't give a real name. For this Web site, I had registered as Nate.

"Neal, or do you really want to be called Nate?" the ad had said. "I'm so glad you registered to the site. I had wondered if you were doable. I meet all the criteria you checked. Let's meet and I'll let you know where I know you from."

Intriguing... and scary. And I no longer could think of this as just a game I could play with remotely. This man, registered as based right here in Savannah, claimed to know me already and proved it by calling me by my real name. I hadn't been in Savannah long enough, I thought, for someone to know me and already have decided he wanted to hook up with me. Could I just walk away from this? I could try, but this had gone beyond the realm of a Web site where I could be incognito. The man claimed to know me and to have thought about me in a sexual way--and I had expressed interests in the Web site on my own. If I didn't pin this down on the Internet, I'd have to wonder if he'd walk right up to me today, tomorrow, or the next day.

"I think you have mistaken me for someone else," I wrote back. I didn't add that I found his profile and his looks arousing, but I did. He claimed to be a trucking company owner, forty years old, a former Marine, and to be a rough top. If his photo was genuine, he was muscular and fit, if on the sturdy, a bit of a beer belly physique, tattooed, rugged and chiseled looking, not a real beauty, but believably a former Marine. I didn't recognize him as anyone I knew or had ever met, though.

"I don't think so," he answered back. "Virginia, now living on East Jones in the city. I think by showing interest in truckers, you want to be dominated and taken rough. 8 pm, Tuesday night, The Bar Bar on West Saint Julian. Wear frilly panties, and a bra if you're into that sort of thing. You look like you might be. Or would you rather I just surprise you and take you when the opportunity is there? Do you have fantasies of being kidnapped and forced?"