Mr Mouthful

by Ian O Lewis

  “Date? Oh yeah, him. Bradley. He was… a gentleman. We’re seeing each other again Friday.” I couldn’t believe I’d already forgotten about our dinner Saturday night. I’d spent most of the evening thinking about Serge staring through the glass at Percolate. When Bradley leaned in and kissed me goodnight after dinner it surprised me, thinking he’d probably wondered where my mind was the whole night. I was frankly shocked that he wanted to see me again.

  “I’m sorry about that. Did he even try to be fun? Because sometimes a gentleman really is just that, a gentleman. Though I prefer a little naughty fun myself.”

  I was about to reply when the chatter of musicians silenced. Looking up, I saw Serge walking down the aisle accompanied by the assistant conductor who was a step or two behind him and had a look of terror stamped on his face. Their steps echoed throughout the auditorium. Without a single word spoken, the man commanded our complete attention.

  Serge wore tight black slacks, expensive shoes and a crisp red shirt rolled up at the sleeves. A gold colored tie hung around his neck, undone, which matched the obviously expensive gold watch on his wrist. His aura of self-control was intoxicating, and every eye in the room followed him as he hurried toward the stage. Serge looked oblivious to everyone and everything around him, and it was only when he faced us did he appear more human, and less god-like.

  “Thank you all for being patient with me. Your prior musical director was an excellent conductor, and I hope to live up to his legacy. Unfortunately, his passing came when he was about to set the schedule for the next season, so I’ve been busy putting one together.” Despite his warm words, his expression seemed remote and distant. A cool detachment enveloped every gesture and movement as he readied himself for work.

  “Let us begin with the Bach.”

  The rehearsal was both a revelation and a nightmare. He put us through our paces, and he had no hesitation in telling us what his expectations were, and forcing the musicians to give their absolute best. His style of conducting was different than I’d ever seen before, and though he stuck to tradition, he peppered it with his own flavor.

  And speaking of flavor, the man was downright spicy. I could literally see the women and quite a few of the men surrounding me swoon as he worked us. They weren’t alone; I was under his spell too.

  Serge’s body was magnificent, and every movement of his arms stretched the fabric of his shirt to its limits. By the end of the rehearsal the front of his shirt had damp spots from his exertions, and his pale skin glowed. From the intensity on his face and his performance, conducting was almost an athletic event for him.

  The real revelation though was his demeanor. Once the music commenced he underwent a transformation, his full lips relaxed from their usual hard line, and his deep brown eyes grew wide. Passion, that’s what made his face light up, and his passion for music was stronger than I’d ever seen in another human being. He was like a man possessed, and for the first time I wondered if that’s where his anger came from, the desire for absolute perfection.

  It only took a few minutes before I was painfully aware of my body’s response to him. I was grateful the cello covered me because whenever his eyes beamed in my direction my cock grew thicker with desire. If he was using his innate sex appeal to provoke an excellent performance, it was working.

  “As you know we travel around Virginia quite a bit, not just in our capacity as the symphony, but also with the Virginia Opera and we have the Richmond Sinfonia, too. The Sinfonia performs often in public schools, colleges and festivals. The assistant conductor handles that while Serge will devote his time to the opera.” Angela slid a schedule of the upcoming season’s performances across her desk. “Of course, you will be compensated for any extra work, plus travel time. Now…”

  “I need you to work the opera with me.”

  I swiveled in my chair at the sound of that sexy deep voice. Serge stood in the doorway, his eyes locked on mine.

  “All performances.” He commanded. “Please meet with me after rehearsals tomorrow in Rehearsal Room D.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he’d already spun on his heels and left. I turned back to Angela, whose mouth was hanging open. She shook her head back and forth a few times and let out a deep breath.

  “Well, I guess you’ll be working with the opera this season.”

  My pulse beat loudly in my ears, and my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Was this good news, or was I setting myself up to fail?

  “Um, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I own a coffee shop, and I’m not sure if I will be able to make every single performance. I was under the impression this was voluntary.” I turned my head to the door, realizing Serge could have heard me. Shit, no way did I want to be on his bad side. Then I realized that maybe spending a little more time with the man might not be such a bad thing. At least I could ogle him while being yelled at on a daily basis. When I turned back to Angela her mouth was once again hanging open, a look of disbelief in her eyes.

  “I don’t know how to say this delicately, but if the musical director has taken an interest in you, specifically requesting you to work, you’d best not turn the opportunity down. You are brand new, and somehow, you’ve already attracted the notice of a man who can make or break your career.” Her voice was low, laced with fear. “I highly recommend you change your mind.”

  I said nothing for a moment, then nodded my head.

  “I’d be a fool to turn down such an opportunity. I’ll make it work, I promise.”

  During rehearsals the next day I could barely manage a few polite syllables when Onnie Belle tried to make conversation. All I could think about was my session with Serge. I did ask her if she knew of anyone else meeting with our conductor. Her eyes darkened for a moment, then a saccharine smile spread across her face.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like you’re doing something right, because as far as I know nobody else is rehearsing with him this evening. Of course, I could be wrong.”

  Shit, I’d forgotten the jealousy factor. Artists are the neediest people on the planet, and if one was shown favoritism over another, it wasn’t necessarily a cause for celebration. I’d have to keep whatever happened this evening to myself.

  Once Serge took his place on the rostrum, he was all business. My hands were sweating and my bowing was off. With each note we played, Serge’s face subtly transformed from demanding taskmaster to that of a dreamy lover. And like yesterday, I was thankful my lap was concealed from view. I had no idea how I would make it through our meeting tonight without embarrassing myself. Hopefully, terror would keep my boner at bay.

  When I got to Rehearsal Room D it was empty. It was small, with a grand piano and a few chairs and music stands surrounding it. The wooden walls were devoid of any decoration, and my footsteps were unnoticeable because of the excellent acoustics.

  I sat down, pulled my cello out of the case and waited.

  And waited some more.

  Fifteen minutes passed, and my brain was swirling with all sorts of random ideas, none of them good. Was this his way of humiliating me? Was this a setup of some sort? I almost searched the room for hidden cameras, I mean, maybe Serge and Angela were in a room somewhere laughing at my being such a gullible idiot. Or maybe he could tell I thought he was hot, and this was his way of putting me in my place? My nerves were totally shot, and by the time he showed up I was as close to a full blown panic attack as I’d ever been in my life.

  The door swung open, and he stood there for a moment, just staring at me. He’d changed out of his dress clothes and was wearing black jeans and a red t-shirt that hugged his torso in a way that left little to the imagination.

  “Hi.” I gave a little wave and smiled. His eyebrows drew together for a split second, then he crossed the room, opened a folder and placed sheet music on the stand in front of me. It was one of my favorites, Beethoven’s Cello Sonata No.3 in A Major. If I recalled correctly, it was what I’d played for Suzi at the coffee shop.


  “You are familiar?” Serge pointed to the music. I nodded, afraid to speak.

  “Then let us begin.”

  He pulled the piano bench out, then I noticed he hadn’t placed any sheet music in front of him. Shit, he knew it from memory, and if I so much as fucked up a note he’d tear my head off. I lifted my bow, praying I didn’t drop it, then began playing. The first few notes were mine alone, deep legato sounds that misled the listener to believe it would be a sad piece. But then the piano kicked in, beautiful and complex. The emotion of the piece was almost bipolar, lurching from morose to manic within the space of a few measures.

  Several times while we were playing I had to keep from gasping aloud, because his interpretation of the piece was by far the best I’d ever heard in my life. His performance was truly inspired, his technique emotionally driven yet flawless in execution.

  Once the last note was played, I looked up from the music to see him with his forehead on the piano and his eyes shut. I didn’t know if I should say anything or silently wait for… I had no idea what. A moment later he lifted his head and for the first time since I’d met him his face was light, tension gone. Then he laughed, softly at first, then a full on throaty laugh that had me biting my lower lip to keep from joining him. I still had too much fear, afraid that any action or word would provoke the volatile man.

  Still chuckling, Serge pulled another piece of sheet music from the folder, walked over and dropped it on the stand in front of me, then walked back to the piano. This one was different. There was no title, no composer listed, and a quick scan of the notes gave me no clue to what it might be. I was about to ask him, but his face had transformed back to its original state of low-key menace. Then he glanced up and held my gaze.

  “Ready?”

  “Well, yes, but I’ve never seen this music before. I might…”

  “No one has seen it. You are the first.” Serge’s voice was low, and I noticed a slight flush to his cheeks.

  He placed his hands on the keys, nodded his head and began to play. I had a few measures before my part began. My fingers were vibrating with fear.

  Serge had composed this.

  Moments later I placed the bow on the strings and hit the first note, which continued for a solid ten measures. The piano played simple chords that dropped like delicate leaves to the ground, then suddenly I held two atonal notes that without the sweetness of the piano’s chords would have sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. The light, feathery sounds of the piano smoothed out the pain of the cello, and for a split second I wondered if that was a reflection of the composer. Was I performing the musical psyche of Serge? Unearthly beauty coupled with unspeakable anguish?

  The next movement began, similar to the first, but then Serge abruptly stopped playing and crossed over to me.

  “You are hesitating, I can tell. I know you can play. I heard you working with that girl at the coffee shop.” He paced in front of me for a moment, then spoke. “Pretend I’m not here, that a stranger is playing the piano.” His index finger glided over the top of my music stand, then he turned and sat at the piano. “We’ll start again, the second movement.”

  Without giving me time to think his fingers went to work on the keys. I lifted my bow and just like the last time he stopped.

  Serge’s eyes narrowed, and I felt naked in front of him, like one of those dreams where you ended up nude in front of your class, or at your job. Humiliation that I was incapable of performing up to his standards filled me, and I felt a deep flush race up my neck.

  “I’m sorry, I guess I can’t…”

  “You are an artist.” He rose and crossed over to me. “I know what you are capable of.”

  I wondered if he knew the embarrassment I was feeling, which was transforming into anger. He’d placed a piece of unknown music in front of me, and expected me to perform it to his exacting standards, and he still hadn’t told me what I was doing wrong.

  I moved to lean my cello against the chair next to me, but his hands grasped the neck and held it still. Serge dropped to his knees in front of me. With one hand he pushed my left thigh to open it, and with the other he slid the cello back into place.

  “Music is the one thing I have that makes me human, fills me with love and desire. I sense that in you as well.” His dark eyes met mine, and his lips spread into a soft smile. “You were playing the notes as written, but it felt forced. Technically correct, but the romance was missing. Please,” he centered the instrument between my legs “you can do this.”

  Never in my life had I experienced both terror and pure lust married so perfectly together. My cock was begging to be freed from the confines of my pants, and again I was grateful to have the wooden instrument act as a barrier between my body and the fierce man crouched before me.

  Serge placed his hand on my thigh and rubbed it.

  “Passion. I feel it coming off of you in heated waves. Now lift your bow and play these notes using that damned passion to bring out what this piece needs.”

  If he wanted passion, I would give it to him. I felt so worked up by the mere touch of his hand I wondered if the cello would combust due to the heat coming off of my body. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, then heard his heavy tread retreat to the piano.

  My thigh felt cold without his hand on it.

  “Once more, with passion Joshua.”

  6

  Josh

  “Do you miss working here?”

  Spencer and I were eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria. I was on my lunch break, and since it was only four blocks away from the Dominion Performance Center I’d decided to pay my buddy a visit.

  “Um, yes and no. I miss most of the people, but I don’t miss nursing, or this food.” I dropped my soggy sandwich back on the plate. “Though I must admit, in certain ways, things were easier here.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not as colorful without you around. So, I ran into Sneaky at the gym yesterday and she told me you were seeing a friend of hers.” Spencer said, then snatched a potato chip off my plate.

  “Hmm?” My mind blanked for a moment. “Oh, yes. His name is Bradley. It’s not serious or anything, I mean, we’ve only been out a couple of times. He’s nice.”

  “Nice? That doesn’t sound promising.” Spencer’s brow lifted as he leaned back in the hard plastic chair.

  “Well, it’s not like I’ve had a chance to get to know him yet. But, I’m determined to try and see what can come of it. We’re getting together tomorrow night for drinks.” I saw my former crush, Dr. Pratt, walk through the entrance and get in the food line. Only a few months ago just seeing him would have had me salivating. Now, I felt nothing but a sad sense of loss for him. Like every other man I’d known, he didn’t know I existed. Which begged the question; why the hell had I always been attracted to men who had no interest in me?

  “Oh, I ran into your conductor again. It was really strange.” Spencer said, and I noticed a curious look in his eye.

  “How so?”

  “I was coming down in the elevator when he got on at his floor. In my hand I had the new issue of Style Weekly, with his picture on the cover.”

  “What? He’s on the cover of Style? I haven’t seen it.”

  Spencer stood. “Gimme one sec.” He walked over to the cash registers where they kept different magazines and newspapers, grabbed one of them and hustled back to the table and slid the paper in front of me.

  “Oh. Wow.” Serge’s intense stare took up nearly the entire front page, with the headline underneath stating, Classical Connoisseur.

  “So back to my story. I hadn’t looked at the cover yet, and I noticed him looking kinda strange, like he was blushing. I was wondering if I smelled bad, or if he was just, I don’t know, thinking up satanic curses or something? Then, you know he’s on the sixth floor in my old apartment, right?”

  I nodded, trying to imagine Serge blushing.

  “Anyway, on every floor on our way to the lobby somebody got on, so it was packed. Then,
right before the door opened on the lobby, Mrs. Trimble, the older woman who lives on the third floor, points at the Style and then at him and says at the top of her lungs, ‘hey, gorgeous!’”

  “Oh my gawd!” My hand flew to my mouth. Jesus, I hope he didn’t bite her head off. “What did he say?”

  “He impressed me. Your conductor held out his hand, then she placed her hand in his and he kissed the top of it. Then the doors to the elevator opened, and he took her arm in his and escorted her to the front door. Despite the fact that he didn’t say a single word to her, it was very charming.”

  Serge and I had been meeting after orchestra rehearsals daily now, and it was always the same. We’d start off playing a piece by a well-known composer, and then we’d practice one of his compositions. So far, I’d kept my mouth shut and had done as he asked. I was learning so much from him in terms of technique and even a little composition. He’d even had us switch places once. Serge took the cello and played it in order to show me exactly what he was looking for while I’d used my meager piano skills to (barely) accompany him. To be honest, almost any musician given the opportunity to work one on one with this cocky and demanding genius would have gladly done so.

  But, I was beginning to wonder what the hell he wanted from me.

  We’d never once rehearsed a piece from the upcoming opera or symphony season. He’d never elaborated on his agenda, or his reasons for us practicing together. When we were alone, he never wanted to talk about anything but music, and even then, his few words were succinct and to the point.

  The one thing he did that drove me out of my mind and sent me to my lonely bed to indulge in repeated self-abuse, was his tendency to be touchy feely. On numerous occasions he’d get up from the piano to show me a technique, all while his hands would rest on my knees or my shoulders. Oh God, his hands were scorching hot on my skin. Once he grasped me by the back of my neck, his mouth only inches away as he begged me to feel the emotion he’d written into the notes. His fingers kneaded my skin, all while I could feel frustrated desire churning deep within. Never in my life had I known such torture, wanting to tell him how he was turning me on, yet unable to do so, because being rejected by him would have destroyed me.