Music People by Rue Wayles (read after TXT) 📕

It was a gloriously gray day, with skies awash in pewter and stone. Raindrops pelted against the steel drain pipes, producing a melodious pitter-patter like sprites prancing against a crystalline landscape. The wet earth saluted the heavens as moist dirt impregnated the air with the musky scent of sex and dark chocolate. Chris inhaled deeply: he hadn’t felt this alive in some time.

Raising his wine glass to whatever mythological deities could be responsible for such magic, he allowed a copious quantity of premium blaufrankisch to penetrate his delicate mouth in an act of Pagan communion. Given the enchanting circumstances, that elusive transition from dawn to morning was never too early to drink red wine, he thought while taking another sip. A peal of lightening followed by a deep crackle answered in affirmation, and Chris couldn’t help but smile in response.

Suddenly aware of how the dank chill gnawed at his bones, he raised the collar of his wool pea coat so as to shelter his frail neck, and turned to go to the kitchen for some tea. The hallway screamed in silence, informing Chris that everyone else was still in a blissful state of sleep. He treasured these moments of solitude, when he could wander around the premises while musing until creative images enticed him with a myriad of possibilities.

His reflections were interrupted by a barely audible wail, a beautifully melancholy sound that was hauntingly familiar. He couldn’t quite locate its source: it appeared to come from within the base of his skull as well as from an adjacent corridor. “What strange telepathy is this?” he wondered, slinking toward the music with the grace and agility of a panther on the prowl.

He didn’t need to search for long to find his curiosity’s prey: it was Alberto, practicing on his Les Paul and looking more gorgeously disheveled than ever. He was wearing a charcoal henley shirt that was a bit too worn and thin from over-washing, yet it skimmed his body snugly so that his lean biceps protruded as his fingers changed chords. Cheekbones jutted above his stubble line, making him look a bit more gaunt than usual, and his pale olive skin was a hint jaundiced from lack of sleep and sunlight. Wisps of his thick black hair rebelliously paraded across Alberto’s forehead, and his eyes remained closed, enraptured by the tones emanating from his instrument. Alberto was clearly not aware of his presence.

At that moment, Chris felt a pang of mixed emotions—pride, admiration, inspiration—tear through his heart until he felt their splinters coursing through each of his capillaries. But more than anything else, he was overcome by a rather unexpected sense of unbridled desire.

Oh how he yearned to be tuned and detuned in such a manner by Alberto’s capable hands! To be wound and then unwound, until the tension was just right. To be plucked, string by string, his quivers reverberating at Alberto’s touch. And then to be strummed, louder and louder, faster and faster, until he squealed in bright harmonics. They could make beautiful music together...it only seemed proper.

But first, Alberto must be punished for such acts of provocation, Chris decreed while locking the door behind him.

The sound of the door awakened Alberto from his trance, suddenly bringing him back to the present. He blushed at the sight of Chris gazing upon him in resplendent androgyny, causing his fingers to fumble awkwardly against his guitar. “I didn’t realize you were watching,” he whimpered, overwhelmed by an acute case of self-consciousness.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you with my voyeuristic impulses,” Chris cooed warmly, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic. “It’s just that you’ve inspired me to practice. Yes, at this un-imaginary-Godly hour,” he completed with a barely perceptible eye roll and a smile that could burn the panties off the most cold-hearted of nuns. Picking up a set of drumsticks, he daintily glided over to a floor tom and hit the drum with surprising force. CLACK!

The vibrant sound startled Alberto; he felt as though he had been spanked with unrestrained vigor, but in a pleasant sort of way. He obediently picked up a pair of drumsticks and cautiously approached Chris, whose smoldering eyes beckoned him forward. BOOM! Alberto replied, as if daring Chris to continue.

Oh sublime vibrations! Chris could feel the muscles along his groin tighten in response to Alberto’s deep percussive assault. Nodding to an invisible metronome, Chris wordlessly dictated the pace he wanted Alberto to keep. BOOM! BOOM! CLACK! BOOM! CLACK! CLACK!

Alberto obliged and immediately matched his rhythm, displaying his mastery over any instrument capable of probing Chris in all the right ways. Chris quickened the pace until his forearms burned in sweet agony, but Alberto never failed to reciprocate. They managed to stop time, the same beat lingering for several minutes, expanding, extracting, and exhausting each second, bleeding it to death only so that it could be re-born. It was too much—Alberto wanted to explode from the confines of his chest cavity, the monotonous beat of his heart too slow and too predictable to keep up with the nirvanic music. And yet he never faltered.

They re-interpreted the sound of the ocean, waves crashing against a rocky shore, followed by the sound of rain, slowly at first, but then ending in a downpour that absolved them both of all unrequited urges. When it was over, they were both left basking in the euphorically melancholy afterglow of that ephemeral moment.

Text: Rue Wayles
Images: Rue Wayles
Publication Date: 09-29-2013

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To my Three Twitterteers!