ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

We slept in, had a late brunch at the little place Ziggy liked, did some shopping, met Bart and Chris for dinner, scrapped plans to go to another live musc show, and ended up at Limelight. Well no, actually, Limelight was just another stop on the way to Jordan’s loft once again, with about a dozen people I didn’t know.

I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to know them, either, after one guy said something about the guitar being passé, calling the electric guitar a quaint relic of the Elvis age. One of the others answered that the reason the electric guitar was so dated was because guitarists had been elevated to godlike status during the prog rock era but the golden calf had been tumbled down by punks who proved any idiot with three chords could play the damn thing and now no one cared about it.

We’d reached the loft by then and I hadn’t had much to drink yet, which was fortunate, because it meant I had the good sense to walk away and look for another conversation instead of getting into it with opinionated, ignorant jerks. Besides, they were shooting their mouths off to try to look good in front of the women and god knows some of the stupidest shit ever can fly at times like that.

“Trav, you’ve been spreading the word?” I asked at one point, when we were standing in the area of the loft that counted as the kitchen. “Drums, horns, auxiliary percussion–?”

“Listen to you,” Jordan said, knocking me on the shoulder with the hand that had a bottle of beer in it. “You sound like a party host worried no one will show up.”

“But what if no one shows up?”

“First of all, it’s not like a terrible gig. Second, I’m sure Carynne would’ve told you if she didn’t have any interest at all.”

“True.” In the interest of being sharp the next day I was drinking water.

“Did you start liking the album yet?”

“It’s grown on me,” I said, which was true. “I think I’ll like my arrangements of the songs even better, though. I mean, I know I will.”

He nodded sympathetically. “How long do you think it’ll take to put this band together?”

“I have no idea.” I waved my hands like that might knock the answers out of the air. “I figure we’ll audition everybody, have to talk about it, have some callbacks maybe, depending on what we’ve heard? I’m trying to keep an open mind. If it’s all over with in a day or two, fine, so we’ll get to rehearsing sooner, and if it takes longer, it takes longer.”

“What’d you do with the arrangements exactly?”

“Oh, none of it’s set in stone yet of course, but they’re going to want dance breaks, instrumental bridges covering changes.” My hands wavered even more. “I mean, you know, like costume changes.”

“God bless you, Daron Marks,” he said then, trying not to laugh, and patting me gently on the shoulder. “There’s no reason to be abashed about costume changes.”

“I know.” I did. Somehow I found it still vaguely discomfiting, though. “It’s just new territory. Takes some getting used to. But yeah. I’ve constructed some possible medleys. That sort of thing.”

He nodded. “You mind if I drop by the rehearsal space some time?”

“Not at all. You know where it is?”

“Yeah.” He set his empty beer bottle in the sink.

“You won’t be too busy?”

“Next week I’m not.” He shrugged. He had put on weight since we had first met three years earlier, when he had been stick thin, now he was chunkier and looked like he might have hit the gym a few times.

I suddenly realized that I was staring at him and he was staring at me in that chemical mutual attraction way.

“Unless you don’t want me to,” he said, and for a second I couldn’t remember he was talking about dropping by rehearsal.

“Maybe wait til the end of next week,” I said, “when maybe we’ll have gotten somewhere.”

“Sure.” He squeezed my arm and then moved off to play party host to someone else and I stood there sucking air in and out of my lungs trying to tamp down the hyperactive sex itch humming in my gut. It didn’t really work, so plan B was find Ziggy, which wasn’t hard to do. He was standing by the door to the bathroom, talking with someone I didn’t know, who he introduced me to smoothly and then just as smoothly told the person to excuse us and pulled me into the bathroom with him.

He shut the wooden door and latched it with the metal latch attached to the frame in the brick, and then he kissed me, or, well, more like…he invited me through a sinuous press of his body against mine and his arms around my neck to put our mouths together, our hips together.

“You want to go home?” he breathed into my ear, “Or you want to get off right here?”

“Both,” I said. “Aren’t you the one who always tells me not to fall into fake either-or situations?”

“True.” His grin was wicked. “What got you so hot?”

“Ask me again later,” I said, while his hand snaked inside my jeans and worked me to steel hardness.

He knew me well enough to know how much pressure to use, how fast to move, once I’d shoved my jeans down, so that I was already somewhat close by the time he took me in his mouth. When I was in his hand I felt like he was in control, and when I was in his mouth I felt like he ceded that control. He put his hands on my hips but let me dictate the depth and speed of my thrusts. I fucked his mouth slowly at first, enjoying the sight of red cock between black lips, but my interest quickly moved from sight to sensation as the aching need to empty my balls began to peak.

He swallowed and then licked his lips proudly, his lipstick nothing more now than a debauched streak on his cheek and chin. I kissed the taste of my flesh and wax when I put my mouth against his.

“You?” was about as eloquent as I could be.

“When we get home,” he said into my ear, then bit my ear.

So we went home. Saying our goodbyes took a little time, plus the ride back to the apartment, and I don’t know how long it took exactly but it was long enough that I was quickly recharged once our clothes were on the floor and we were on the bed.

Ziggy sometimes gets chatty during sex. He wanted me to do him first and I was happy to oblige, but while in the midst of the deed he said, “I feel like I really…deserve this.”

“Hm?” I was concentrating on keeping one of his legs bent at the proper angle to make him purr and couldn’t figure out what he meant. “Deserve it? Do you mean…as a punishment or as a reward?”

“Both of us do. Our just due. We’ve worked hard for this.”

“Ah. Uh huh.” Ziggy gets chatty, while I get non-verbal. I tried to make sure I used some words. “I agree.”

Fortunately that was all I really needed to say. We’d worked hard to get to that point.

But the truly hard work was about to begin.

—
(Guess what, folks… I think that was the end of Book Nine! Next chapter, starting with the auditions, opens Book Ten! If you’ve made it this far, you’ve now read 964,024 words of DGC, not counting bonus scenes or extras! At this rate, we will hit 1 million words in the next 3-4 months, and when Book 10 is done, DGC will equal the length of the Harry Potter books. Thanks for coming on the ride with me! -ctan)

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