by Neil Plakcy
“Well, if it isn’t my wayward son,” his dad said after Gavin had said hi.
His dad was full of those kind of catch phrases, many of them taken from popular songs. Gavin had been the “wayward son” from the song by Kansas for as long as he could remember. His sister had been Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” and then “Sweet Child O’ Mine” from the Guns n’ Roses song.
“How are you carrying on down there?” his dad asked.
“Good, Dad.” He hesitated, then jumped in. “Listen, Dad, this guy has been helping me rehearse for the Sweethearts’ gig at Labor Day.” He stumbled through explaining about Miles and his studio and all his music production gigs and how he had his own equipment and was willing to bring it up to Starlit Lake.
“Hold on, Gavin,” his father said. “Slow down here. Nobody’s talking about setting up a recording studio at Starlit Lake. It’s just going to be you guys singing together to get ready for the concert.”
“But we could do more.” Gavin kept going about all the exercises Miles had given him, how he was singing better already, and how Miles could do so much to help them, even though he didn’t know what that would involve.
“Is this guy your boyfriend?” his dad asked.
“No, not at all,” Gavin said. “Nothing like that. He’s just this cool dude who loves old-time music.”
“Give me his name. I’ll check him out.”
Gavin was prepared for that. He pulled out Miles’s card, with his website and the list of things he did, and read it off to his father. “I’ll check with our attorney,” his father said, “and then I’ll let you know.”
His father’s attorney was his best college friend, a sole practitioner in Eau Claire, and they had breakfast together a couple of times a week. Gavin had grown up with him as an honorary uncle. “Does Uncle Tim know anything about music?”
“Not Tim,” his father said. “We have an entertainment rights attorney in LA.”
That was news to Gavin. Maybe the Sweethearts were a bigger deal than he’d thought.
He thanked his father, sent his love to his mother, and hung up. The news that the Sweethearts employed some attorney in LA to look after their interests was bittersweet. There were assets to manage, but surely the LA lawyer would prefer to put his own contacts to work on any new production.
Face Value
For the next week, Gavin thought about Miles as he practiced his breathing, his scales, and those phonation exercises. He daydreamed about kissing Miles as he walked to work and popped a boner whenever he poured some random customer a Jumbo Joe, the drink he associated with Miles. Late at night, all alone in his bed, when he closed his eyes and touched himself, the face he saw behind his eyelids was Miles Goodwin.
But the next time he saw Miles, the Music Dude was all business. “You’re going to need to learn to read music,” Miles said when Gavin walked into his studio. He handed Gavin what looked like a kid’s book. “Look through this, and the next time you come back here, I want you to understand the terminology.”
Gavin nodded. He’d never been that great at school, but he’d managed to get through high school and college, and he could figure out a kid’s book. “I can do that.”
Then Miles stood up and offered Gavin his chair. “Come sit here at the keyboard.”
Gavin backed away. “I don’t want to break anything.”
“If you do what I tell you, you won’t. Come on, sit down.”
Gavin sat, and Miles stood behind him. He picked up Gavin’s right hand and placed his index finger on a key. Miles’s hand was cool, and Gavin’s heart skipped a beat.
When Gavin pressed down on the key, the machine made a sweet sound.
“That’s middle C,” Miles said. He sang a note. “So was that. Now play the note again and try to match it with your voice.”
Miles hovered behind him, and the sensation of his body so close was intoxicating. Gavin forced himself to concentrate, mimicking the notes that Miles had him play, then singing a scale.
Then Miles propped the book up in front of Gavin and opened to the first page. “This is the staff,” he said, pointing to the pattern of lines on the page. “The fancy symbol there on the left is the treble clef, and each of these lines represents a note.”
He leaned over Gavin and played five notes in a row, identifying them as E, G, B, D, and F. “Every Good Boy Does Fine,” he said. “Or, if you prefer, Empty Garbage Before Daddy Flips.” He smiled. “We use that one to teach boys.”
“You do that?” Gavin asked, aware of how close Miles was. “Teach?”
“When I need the money.” Miles reached forward and closed the book, then opened a piece of sheet music in front of Gavin.
“‘Apple Cider Time’!” Gavin said. “I never knew the music was written down.”
“How would anybody else know how to play it or sing it?” Miles motioned Gavin to switch places with him and then slid into the chair.
“I learned how to sing from listening,” Gavin said. “I just assumed that’s how everybody did.”
“Not everybody grows up with a recording act in the house.” Miles played the first few notes of the song, and then when he came to the part where the voices began, he motioned to Gavin to accompany him.
“When you take my hand,” Gavin began, and then Miles stopped.
Miles shook his head. “That’s not the right note. See?” He pointed to the sheet music, then sang, and went back and forth until Gavin understood.
Miles looked at the clock. “I’ve got some more work to do this afternoon. Go home and practice, and come back, say, Monday afternoon? I should be finished with my client work over the weekend.”
“Sure.”
Gavin wanted to hug Miles, but he was worried that the Music Dude would back away, so instead he just stuck out his hand. Once again, he felt that tingling sensation of physical contact.
He turned to walk out, and Miles said, “Don’t forget the book.”
Gavin took the book from him and stumbled out the door. He realized that he had a hard-on, that he’d probably had it the whole time Miles was leaning over him. There was a cold wet spot on the inside of his shorts, and he was adjusting his dick when the elevator door opened.
A forty-something guy in a phone company uniform, tools slung over his shoulder and on his belt, stood facing Gavin, who quickly pulled his hand out of his pants and stepped into the elevator.
The elevator started downward, and Gavin felt a hand on his shoulder. He half-turned and saw the phone guy smiling and licking his lips. A patch on his shirt said that his name was Rod, and when Gavin looked down to the man’s crotch, he saw his boner pushing forward. He took a step back and pressed his ass against the man, who moaned lightly.
The elevator door opened on the first floor, and Rod said, “Follow me.” He stepped around Gavin and started toward the back of the building. He looked around behind him. “You coming?”
“I will if you will,” Gavin said, smiling.
The dude had a good build, Gavin thought as he followed him down the narrow hallway. Kind of chunky, but with a sweet ass. His blond hair was close-cropped, except for a rat-tail that had to be at least six inches long. He stopped in front of a utility closet and used a key from his belt to open the door.
Gavin’s dick popped. He’d never had sex in a utility closet before. Another notch on his life list. He stepped into the room behind the guy. It was crowded with electrical panels and other equipment, but there was some room at the center. A single bulb hung from a wire attached to the ceiling, and Rod flipped it on as he closed the door behind them.
Gavin moved up close to him. Rod was a couple of inches shorter than he was, but he didn’t bother to lean down for a kiss. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Rod and pulled him close.
There was something erotic about all that gear attached to Rod, and when he tried to stop and shuck it off, Gavin held him back. He unbuttoned the poly-cotton shirt, then slipped his hands beneath Rod’s white T-shirt to caress his
furry stomach.
Rod groaned. Gavin unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, then dropped to the floor and began to lick the pouch of Rod’s gray cotton briefs. It was such a hot scene, Gavin thought, this electrician with his shirt and pants open, Gavin on the floor worshipping him.
Fuck Miles Goodwin, he thought. He still could have any man he wanted. And right then, what he wanted was Rod’s rod up his ass. He stood up, shucked his T-shirt, and dropped his shorts and briefs. He grabbed a condom from his pocket and handed it to Rod. “You know what to do with that, don’t you?”
“You bet,” Rod said.
Gavin bent over and grasped what looked like a small transformer. He heard Rod spit and then felt a cold, wet finger prying its way into his ass. He spread his cheeks, and Rod slid into him. There was a momentary starburst of pain as Rod pushed past his anal ring, but then it was all sweet.
Rod sure knew what to do with his rod. He began piston-fucking Gavin’s ass, slamming forward, then pulling back, and every time his rubber-clad dick hit Gavin’s prostate, waves of pleasure spread through Gavin’s body. Who needed Miles when Gavin could have sex like this without even looking for it?
But he couldn’t get Miles out of his head. Even as Rod yelped and fucked, Gavin thought only of Miles, and without even touching his dick, his orgasm rose, and as Rod slammed into him, he shot his load, which splattered across the transformer.
Rod slumped back against the wall, and Gavin, who was accustomed to quick exits, pulled his clothes on, blew the guy a kiss, and walked back out into the hallway.
Usually hot sex put Gavin in a great mood, but he felt miserable as he walked back home. His gaydar told him that Miles was gay, and he couldn’t help feeling that Miles was attracted to him, under that all-business facade. So why wasn’t the Music Dude jumping his bones? Did Miles have a boyfriend? Was he sick—HIV, herpes, something else?
One of the things Gavin was learning at Java Joe’s was not to take people at face value. The two young black guys huddled around a computer in the corner? They looked like gang bangers, with tats up and down their arms, but they were day traders, watching the stock market like hawks.
The three moms who met every Thursday morning with their babies? To the casual eye, they looked like stay-at-homes, but when Gavin was cleaning up a mess near them, he overheard that one was a PhD chemist who had developed a diaper spray that neutralized the smell of baby poop. Mom number two handled marketing, number three finance, for their newborn business.
But what did that mean about Miles? Was the Music Dude only interested in Gavin for his talent? That would be something new and different. Some men in his past had pretended to be curious about the Gavin behind the handsome face, asking him questions about growing up in Wisconsin, his studies, what it was like to be a model. But in the end, they’d only been chatting him up as a way to get into his pants.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Miles, wondering what his story was. That night, he opened his laptop, curious to see what else he could learn. Were there any photos of Miles online, hobnobbing with music stars? With or without a boyfriend?
He found a few pictures of Miles at music-industry events, a website for his business, and a couple of mentions in trade journals. He friended Miles on Facebook but was careful not to like any of his posts or pictures from too long before—God forbid Miles would think he was deep-faving him. Miles’s profile said that his relationship status was single, that he had studied Music Technology Engineering at Berklee College, and that his title was “Producer” at Miles To Go Productions.
He had a lot of friends, mostly people connected with the music industry. But Gavin couldn’t find any conclusive proof that Miles was gay—no membership in GLBT groups, no pictures of him kissing or holding hands with another guy.
He gave up and did some yoga to work on his posture, then went back to breathing exercises and scales. By the time Larry came in late that night after playing online games with his fellow programmers, Gavin was exhausted.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you work so hard at something,” Larry said. He peered at Gavin. “You’re not just doing this for some guy, are you? Because there are a lot easier ways to get laid. You of all people should know that.”
“I’m not doing it for him,” Gavin said. “For me.”
“Aha! So there is a ‘him’ involved. Who is he?”
“He’s not involved. I mean, I’m not involved with him. He’s just helping me get better at singing.”
“Tell me another fairy tale,” Larry said, settling into the chair beside Gavin. “Have you slept with him yet?”
Gavin crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m telling you, it’s not like that.”
“Why not? Is he straight?”
“I can’t tell.”
“You can’t tell? Gavin, you have the best gaydar of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Well, it’s not working with Miles.” He ran through the interactions he’d had with the Music Dude.
“Hold on,” Larry said when Gavin repeated the comment about Miles not biting Gavin unless he wanted it. “The dude was flirting with you.”
Gavin shook his head. “It was just something he said. When I tried to suck his fingers that time, he pushed me away like I had some disease.”
Larry put his arm around Gavin’s shoulders. “Poor baby,” he said in a mocking tone. “Now you know what it’s like for the rest of us.” He flexed his fingers. “Let’s see what we can find online. What’s his name?”
Gavin turned and looked at his roommate. Larry was a goofy beanstalk of a guy, always mooning after unavailable men. “Larry,” Gavin said, and he hated the whiny tone in his voice.
Larry just looked at him.
“Miles Goodwin.”
Larry typed. “Too many hits. He’s here on the Beach?”
Gavin nodded, and Larry typed again. “Here he is,” Larry said after a moment. “Miles To Go Productions.” He hit a couple of keys. “Impressive résumé. Berklee College is one of those primo music schools.” He typed some more. “This is cool. The music technology program he took is in Valencia, Spain. Is he Spanish?”
“I don’t know. He looks kind of Hispanic, but he has that really WASPy name.”
“Names don’t mean anything in Florida,” Larry said. “Half the Jamaicans I know have Jewish or Chinese last names. And remember that girl from FU, Heidi Zuckerman? She was from Argentina.”
Gavin leaned in and looked at the screen. Despite his thinning hair, Miles was only six years older than they were. But he had an impressive raft of credentials. Too impressive, maybe. Why was he wasting his time with Gavin, who could barely sing, when he had worked with artists like Pitbull and Gloria Estefan?
Larry kept searching, and a window from the property appraiser’s office popped up. “He owns a condo in Collins Park,” Larry said. It was a recently-rehabbed neighborhood near the Bass Museum. “Got to be doing well if he lives there.”
“He could have a mortgage,” Gavin said.
Larry shook his head. “Look at him. Even I can tell those clothes are hella pricey.” He pushed the laptop back toward Gavin. “I’m going to my room. I found this awesome gay anime porn site I want to check out. You can stay here and obsess if you want.”
Gavin stayed at the table, staring at a photo of Miles at a party for some rapper’s latest album. The Music Dude wore a black T-shirt that showed off his chest, and Gavin noticed a tattooed trail of clef notes running up Miles’s right arm. His head was thrown back, and he was laughing at something some big-breasted girl must have just said.
Gavin wrapped his arms around his chest, pressing against Miles’s ratty T-shirt. He spent the evening in Miles’s clothes, despite the weird fit. If he couldn’t have Miles Goodwin, at least he could have the feel of the Music Dude’s clothes against his skin.
Worth Waiting For
His dad called him that Friday evening. “Your friend checks out,” he said. “Alan has spoken with him, and they�
�re hammering out a deal now.”
“Oh, wow, that’s so cool,” Gavin said.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“He’s been working on a project at a studio. I haven’t seen him for a few days.”
“So you really aren’t dating him?”
“Da-ad. I told you I wasn’t.”
“Well, I know the kind of mischief you get up to down there, Gavin. I’m not judging you, but I have to protect the family.”
“I’m telling you, Dad, there’s nothing going on between me and Miles.”
“Well, see that you keep it that way, at least until after the performance. Dealing with this family is already a big enough chore without bringing in more drama.”
Gavin’s father had been calling him dramatic long before his coming out. “No drama, Dad. I promise.”
He hung up the phone, so excited he felt like jumping around the room. But why hadn’t Miles called him to let him know? He should have. Was he so busy at that studio in South Miami that he didn’t even know?
He fished out Miles’s card and dialed his office. He probably wasn’t working that late, but at least Gavin could leave a message.
When Miles answered, Gavin said, “Hey, it’s Gavin. I just spoke to my dad. You’re going to come to Wisconsin?”
“Hold on. It’s not certain yet. My lawyer is talking to your lawyer.”
“Come on, dude. Lighten up. It’s going to happen; you know it.”
“I hope it will.”
“We should celebrate!” Gavin said. “Oh, but you’re probably working, right?”
“I’m going to finish up here in an hour. You want to meet for a drink?”
“That would be awesome,” Gavin said and then realized he ought to be dialing back his emotions. “I mean, yeah, sure.”
Gavin thought Miles would want to meet at one of the gay bars, like Score or Twist. But instead, he suggested a quiet little place a few blocks from his office on a side street. Gavin had never been there, but he’d heard it was romantic. That sent a shiver of expectation up his spine.