The Improvisation

The Improvisation

For someone who went to a musical conservatory, Julian was pretty accessible. Unlike too many overly bookish types who go to such places, he was always more approachable, more playful. That was his attitude in his music, and in his life as well.

He and I met at a coffeehouse that was situated near his music school and my university. We couldn't have been more different. He was a piano guy. I was a software engineer. But both of us connected over public TV, British humor, and wit. He was utterly, utterly clever, funny, and playful. Could tell a joke with devastating timing. Loved satire.

To look at him, though, you might not get that impression. He had hair the color of a rich caramel. A soft, oval face that was gentle and inviting, but with a sufficiently male jaw line. A smile that was equally angelic and mischievous. Thin eyebrows, a strong nose, thin but full lips, and playful, pert steel blue eyes. When he sang, his chin line was more pronounced, and his nearly perfect teeth and mouth were beautiful to behold when he wrapped them around emotional lyrics.

And, like me, he was a big-city kind of guy, hailing from Chicago with its world of stages and orchestra pits. I've always enjoyed live music, but it's never something I wanted to do for a living. Julian wanted to make a career of it, and has been making dough on gigs around town - a wedding reception here, a cocktail lounge there.

Julian attended his music school on a scholarship and from having heard him play little bits for me on his piano, I was thoroughly convinced he deserved it. His main love in life was his music. He enjoyed singing but his passion was creating original piano compositions. As is the case with many musicians, he studied many of the great European composers.

He had to have had at least a 130 IQ ... had to. I was no slouch myself, coming in in the mid 120's. But I never felt ashamed or outclassed by him. We were colleagues in the best way.

Julian was out. Julian was, really, never in. But he wasn't a walking stereotype of gay. No rainbows, no shrieking while out at night clubs, or flamboyant "club kid" apparel. No getting loaded in bars or sleeping around carelessly. But there was no shame in any of that, to him - it's just that none of that was Julian's style. He loved being gay. He loved men, maleness, male beauty much as I did. We'd spent plenty of time watching swimming and diving meets on a local sports cable channel, and ogling hot male models on agency web sites.

We'd always been gay buddies of sorts, with my personal style akin to his - busting stereotypes and, as a result, going home alone from night clubs weekend after weekend. The typical gay scene was never for either of us.

Yet, I think I always carried a bit of a torch for Julian. Part of it was the way he carried himself. He was "serious" but not somber. He had goals for himself. He carried a quiet confidence about him. But he wasn't so stiff that he couldn't kid around or do retail therapy with me at our city's biggest mall.

And yeah, I'll admit it, I thought Julian was hot. The times I've been at his apartment, he's often been walking around with a shirt unbuttoned completely to his bellybutton, flaps carelessly waving in the breeze as he walked. When it was stupid hot during the summer, both of us would hang out at his apartment, no shirts on, kidding and ribbing each other about how hopeless we both were, or how our lives were eventually going to crash and burn in some hilariously spectacular way.

Julian had a simple build. He was what some folks would call sinewy - pleasantly curvy shoulders very nicely accentuated by tank tops, and arms that had a "flow" to them, and were just the slightest bit doughy - some tone, but not much: remember, this is a bookish type we're talking about. In the chest, simply soft pecs but no definition. Potently suckable, large nipples and areolas. Nothing but the finest of body hair to speak of, and no blemishes on his skin, anywhere.

His belly and abdomen were what I liked calling "creamy" - very smooth, and pale but not in an unhealthy way, more like a golden ivory color. No paunch to his middle, either - it was nicely flat, and carried no scars.

And adorning the middle of his stomach, a large (at least the size of a quarter) oval innie bellybutton, deep enough to insert the first full joint of my finger in. I'd never actually done this, but oh, did I want to. On plenty of occasions, after seeing his bellybutton exposed, and getting back home, I'd masturbate to the memory of his navel, shooting an ample volume of cum as I contemplated the erotic beauty of it in the theater of my mind.

One Friday afternoon, he texted me. "Hey, I want to try some musical improvisation with you. Can you come by this evening?"

I thought to myself, Improvisation? I don't play music. Why would he want me for improvisation?

"Sure thing," I texted back, "but I'm not musical."

"No worries," he replied. "Just want to have some fun. 9. Be there." Smiley face emoji.

I was always happy to hang out with Julian, but I've had never been around him while he was working, composing, doing anything creative. He wasn't in a band, so he didn't have collaborators. I guess he just wanted someone to bounce his ideas off of.

I could do that.

I knocked on his apartment door. He called me inside, where he was at his piano, sitting on the bench, waiting eagerly for me. He was wearing a crop-top, my favorite garment in the whole wide world for cute guys, a sandy brown one in color. He loves the feel of the air hitting his stomach and bellybutton, he told me once. Not an athletic thing for him at all.

The crop-top was probably from his college's bookstore or gift shop, judging by the color. Julian was hot in the simple guy-next-door way I just cannot get enough of. And his bared, lovely oval innie bellybutton was winking at me. Covering his legs, a clearly worn pair of lightly faded black denim jeans. Completing the outfit were white athletic socks, and black tennis shoes.

He gestured to a chair right behind the piano bench, indicating he wanted me to sit immediately behind him. He turned himself around to face the piano keyboard, preparing to play. My front was a mere few inches from his bared lower back.

"I'd like for you to hold me as I improvise," he said, beginning to play some brief practice arpeggios.

"Sure," I replied, and leaned forward, my upper chest fulling pressing against his shoulder blades, my hands gently wrapped around his warm stomach, and the butt of my hand grazing the depression that was his oval innie bellybutton.

He played a few chords to ensure the piano was sufficiently in tune. Then he started an audio recorder app on his smartphone to capture whatever might have come off his hands, whether dreck or total genius.

I blissfully held him, snugly embracing him from behind, intrigued by the mystery of all this, and feeling horny from the sensation of his bared, warm midriff against my hands. He improvised something which sounded like an overture from a musical - bright, and not overly quick in tempo. It sounded very nice. I leaned forward more closely and hugged him more firmly. He hummed with pleasure and smiled dreamily. His midsection was warm and felt full and nice in my embrace.

I gently began fingering his oval innie bellybutton, which I discovered was sensitive, but not in a ticklish way to Julian - more in a sexual way, like he could come if i fingered it a little too deftly. He let out a soft moan and pounded out a playful musical phrase suggestive of how delicate and delightful the bellybutton itself is as a body part, with fluttery and with high notes - what a tickle might sound like if it was played on a keyboard. I continued to finger it firmly and loved hearing him musically interpret my fondling, musically, in real time.

I changed so that I could feel the full flat palm of my hand stroking his abdomen. The music changed appropriately to a warmer and fuller melody with sweeter phrases.

"You're doing great," he assured me.

"You feel wonderful," I told him back.

"Keep working my bellybutton," he asked. I did, loving hearing him say the word "bellybutton" with his rich, tenor's voice.

While still in my arms I reached down to his crotch area with my right hand and felt around. He was hard. The music he was playing then turned both flirty and mischievous. I rubbed his penis through his pants. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back in inspiration, some of the strands brushing my lips and mouth. "Good hands," he said, not missing a beat.

I found the zipper of his pants with my nimble and eager fingers. I carefully fished his thick, cut, girthy and erect penis from his pants and let it dangle out in the open air, seeing precum starting to collect on the tip of it. His musical phrases were getting slightly faster and more insistent. Then I returned to holding him close to my chest and lovingly fondling his bellybutton. The musical flutter strokes returned. He was definitely liking what I was doing, telegraphing his interpretation of my hand motions on his midriff.

With my left hand I continued to finger his bellybutton, loving how deep and warm it felt to the touch, feeling myself starting to precum also. With my right hand I begin to masturbate him, my fleshy hand wrapped snugly around his cut shaft that had to be seven or eight inches in length, with a large, full, mushroom head of a crown. The music changed again. In addition to the light fluttery notes from before, he added a countermelody that was deeper, and seemingly more purposeful. It started slowly and accelerated as my strokes on his penis did.

We kept this up for several minutes. His music was absolutely gorgeous. He felt so good, his warm upper body filling my breast area. His bellybutton was warm, soft, sensual to my fingertips. His penis was thick and full, perfectly smooth, with soft skin, getting increasingly slippery from my smearing his precum around on the head and shaft.

Time for a big finish, I thought to myself. I steadily increased the cadence of my stroking. His music became ever faster, and slightly louder. He was signaling to me musically that he was about to come, and forcefully. I was looking over his shoulder, down at his penis and my hand wrapped around it sliding swiftly up and down his shaft as his hands slid up and down the piano keys.

And then he came. He played a series of defiant, powerful chords, in a tone that sounded perhaps triumphant, but with a series of chaotic notes on top of them, suggestive of cum flying indiscreetly all over the place. A big glob of thick, syrupy, cloudy white semen shot out from the crown of his penis, the moment he did that, spewing the cum a good eight inches into the air, landing squarely on the white keys, his fingers continuing to press down on them despite the slippery moisture. I maintained my stroking cadence, watching this scene unfold, feeling myself approaching orgasm and ejaculation.

A second eruption emerged almost immediately after the first, the second not just hitting the white keys, but also the wooden edge of the keyboard, partially coating the fine oak keyboard edge with glop. He continued playing, ever more into my stroking and finishing him off. Semen started to drip down onto the floor off the piano.

I deepened my strokes in his bellybutton and squeezed his cock harder. Several more smaller but ample squirts landed on the keyboard, moistening the white and black keys both this time, and making a noticeable mess. He was audibly moaning at this point, but it almost had a singing quality to it. Semen had now puddled on the floor, several drops of it having landed under the bench at his feet.

With one more eruption of cum after what had to be at least a half dozen, he suddenly stopped playing mid-phrase, panting heavily. I was panting heavily also. I was still holding him in a full embrace from behind, my right hand now gooey with his cum all over it, the piano's center octave keys looking like it had rained semen on them.

It was all too much for me. Without reaching for or touching my own dick, and holding his trunk tightly, I spewed in my pants. Glob after hot glob spurted out, and I felt the front of my pants get warm with my own cum.

"Don't let me go," he said in a vaguely husky whisper. I pulled him closer, switching my now slippery right hand to his bared midriff and began more of a cuddling posture. He received my hug and placed his right hand over my forearms as I held him, massaging him lovingly.

The room had fallen silent, except for our breathing. My lower chin was resting on the back of his soft upper shoulder. It felt snug, safe, right. We were both looking down reflectively at the semen-coated keys on his piano, a bit surprised at what we'd done together. We stared at the mess for several minutes watching a few smaller drops of semen fall off the keyboard to the floor before I broke the silence.

"That was absolutely beautiful," I whisper.

He paused.

"Guess I'm gonna hafta clean this up," he said quietly with a slight chuckle.

He paused again.

"It's the best thing I've ever composed," he continued, thoughtfully. He switched off the recording app on his smartphone.

He turned his neck around to meet my face, and to kiss me. On the lips. It was full on, it was emotional for him, I could feel it. I felt it in my crotch. We held the lip lock for about a minute. My arms were still around his midriff, my left hand's index finger resting on his bellybutton.

"Ever," he added, smiling and looking deeply into my eyes.