Too Much Rain, Chapter 55
Nov. 29th, 2014 03:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yes_2dayIn this chapter: John and Paul have a little role play. Mike contacts Paul and plants a few seeds of discord. The visit to Rome ends with a bang. Meanwhile, in New York, a reporter continues to dig...
Hope you enjoy.
Warning: Hot queer sex scene. Not for the faint of heart. :)
This is all fiction. Total fiction.
Chapter 55
Back in the hotel suite after their mildly disappointing and slightly middle-class foray into Warsaw’s seedy nightlife, John and Paul made themselves at home. John poured out a pair of whiskeys, while Paul disappeared into the bathroom. He was in there for a fairly long time.
“Paul? Are you okay in there?” John finally shouted from his comfy spot stretched out on the bed. He was waiting impatiently - stark naked - for his lover’s appearance. Suddenly the bathroom door flew open, and Paul was revealed in the aperture, clothed only in a white towel. He had washed his hair, and he had tweaked the wet ends into little spikes all over his head. He crossed his arms, leaned against the doorjamb, and a loopy sleezy-sexy look came over his face.
John barked with laughter.
“Hello, Herbert. I am Ludvic.” Paul mimed a Polish accent. “So happy we lost that Lance person.”
“Ludvic, get your ass over here. I want to rip that towel off you.” John’s voice vibrated with sexual menace. He was so sexually excited that he didn’t even remember that Brad had once offered him the same opportunity to rip off a white towel. From John’s subconscious position, there was no comparison between the two images. The one he was looking at now was pure gold.
Paul literally sashayed over to the bed, letting his hips gyrate in a feminizing way like Ludvic would have done. When he got to the side of the bed, he started to say something, but before he could frame a word, John had grabbed ahold of the towel and ripped it away. Paul literally felt his knees knocking together in surprise at the unexpected cool air. Next thing he knew, John had grabbed his arm and yanked him on to the bed. Soon, John was climbing on top of him.
“I’m gonna fuck you for hours,” he growled in Paul’s ear.
This of course was exciting for Paul to hear, although he knew that “hours” usually translated into “minutes” at their age. Still, it was the thought that counted... “Ooomph!” The sound escaped from Paul’s throat when John suddenly grabbed his legs and pushed them up. Apparently John wasn’t in to foreplay tonight. That was okay with Paul. He enjoyed sex no matter how it played out, so he was wide open to John’s intrusions, both emotionally and physically.
John was amazed at the power of his sexual attraction. Strange, after all these years that no one and no other thing could arouse him like Paul. At that moment he felt his arousal was an engine revving too high. He could barely contain his urges and desires. If he could have fucked Paul in the mouth and in the ass simultaneously, he would have. Unfortunately, he only had one dick. He decided to choose Paul’s ass, because he was feeling very caveman right now. His hands were grabby on Paul’s ass, and soon his fingers were probing inside his anus. He could feel Paul squirming underneath him, and hear Paul’s guttural grunts and groans. These things excited John, and urged him on. He placed the tip of his cock against Paul and pushed his way in. The lube helped, but Paul was very tight tonight. It had been a while since John had done the fucking, and this was no doubt the reason why Paul was so taut. But this, too, was exciting for John. The extreme tightness made him groan loudly.
“You’re tighter than a virgin, babe,” John whispered huskily. “It’s making me crazy.”
Paul took this to be an instruction to relax a bit, so he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until he heard John’s victorious grunt and felt his victorious dick enter further into him. He continued to breath heavily as he waited for the tightness to feel right for him. John was breathing heavily and had started thrusting hungrily, and was well on his way to the rutting stage. ‘Hours’ looked out of the question at this point, Paul chuckled to himself. John was too far gone. Paul, himself, was starting to feel the tightening deep inside his pelvis that presaged an orgasm, as every few seconds John brushed against his prostate gland. One of the great things about having a long-time lover was that John knew the erogenous zones and the topography of Paul’s body so well, there was never wasted effort or irritating near misses.
Moments later, both men were in the same rhythm and the strokes came evenly and were hitting Paul exactly where he wanted it again and again and again. The huffing, and grunts, and periodic cries were a symphony of arousing sounds to counterpoint their physical efforts. When the moment came for John’s orgasm, it pushed Paul over the edge. Although having an orgasm while being fucked up the ass was a tricky proposition, Paul’s imagination combined with John’s ardor had merged to create the perfect storm of erotic sensations, and the orgasm ran through him, leaving scorched earth wherever it went.
“Whoa!” John howled, and then flopped over on his back. He was thoroughly exhausted.
Paul allowed his legs to come down (he had been holding his knees near the end), and felt complete release in his pelvic area. He sighed deeply. That was fantastic, he told himself.
John’s forearm had flopped over his eyes as he schooled his breath to go back to normal, or as close to normal as possible given such an extreme physical effort. As his heart stopped racing he was able to take his other hand and reach over and find Paul’s. “You’re the best fuck ever,” he said as he squeezed Paul’s hand. The sound coming from Paul’s throat sounded a lot like a purr. John heard this, and smiled victoriously in the dark. He had come, he had seen, and he had conquered his lover. He felt extremely territorial, and somehow this had given him back some of his confidence he had lost during the incident with Brad. In that moment he also felt that he could not bear to be separated from Paul ever again. No more living the wild life in New York - that had certainly been a bust. But even as he thought this, he knew that it was easy for him to feel this way when he had Paul to himself, when they were on tour. It would be a whole other issue when they were back in London. The triangle-thing had lost all of its charm (to the extent it had ever had charm), and having to live a lie had also lost its dubious charm.
Paul, meanwhile, was just exhausted and wanted to fall asleep. There was that troubling thought in his mind periodically popping up and demanding attention, but tonight he was just going to (coining a phrase) “let it be.”
A week later, John and Paul were in Rome, preparing for two concerts on subsequent nights. On their last tour visit to Rome, bedlam had ensued, so this time they both hoped they would be able to enjoy the city together. To start off, John arranged for the hotel staff to set up and serve a late brunch on the stone balcony off of their suite. Paul had been working out in the hotel gym. Such a busy little beaver, John thought fondly to himself. Always up to something constructive. When Paul got back, and after he showered, he was delighted to see the incredible meal set out on the buffet tables. Just as they sat down to eat, though, the telephone rang. Reflexively, Paul got up to answer.
“Babe, let it ring. Whoever it is can wait until we finish eating.” John said this softly, looking up from his newspaper. Paul sat down again, but looked anxious. John laughed when he saw this and said, “Oh, go ahead, Paul.”
Paul went to answer the phone and was immediately glad he did.
“Paul! Is that you? This is Mike.”
“Mike!” Paul shouted in to the phone in response. His voice sounded surprised but joyful. “How on earth did you find me?” He asked.
“Linda gave me your manager’s assistant’s number,” Mike said.
“I’m so glad you called! It’s been at least a year since we talked, right?” Paul’s voice did not sound angry or judgmental, Mike was glad to hear.
“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Mike said.
“Me, too,” Paul quickly added, wanting badly to patch up his relationship with his brother.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing. You’ve been through a lot recently,” Mike said.
Paul was wondering how Mike could possibly know that. Had Linda said something to him? He said, “What do you mean?”
“This whole episode with John. What on earth is he up to?” Mike managed to withhold most of his anger from his voice.
Paul felt himself stiffen. It didn’t sound like Mike’s attitude about John had softened in the past year. “What episode is this?” Paul asked, coaching himself not to overreact.
“This business about going to a gay brothel in New York, and using his credit card while doing so,” Mike responded, a little annoyed that Paul was pretending that this hadn’t happened, or that it wasn’t important.
Paul sighed. He was at another one of those tricky crossroads he only found himself near because of John. He had already led Linda to believe there was no truth to the rumors, and now he had to do the same with Mike. A little voice in Paul’s mind felt angry about this dilemma; John shouldn’t behave in ways that left him in a position where he had to lie to his other loved ones. It was bad enough that they both had to lie to the world. But it was what it was. “Mike, didn’t you read our responses to that rumor?”
“I read your jokes - very funny. But you never denied the rumors. You forget I grew up with the two of you, and I know how you handle this kind of stuff.” Mike’s voice was firm. “It’s true, isn’t it?” His tone was more demand than query.
“Mike...” Paul’s voice deepened in warning, but Mike cut him off.
“This is me; your brother. You can’t fool me. That man went off with some queer prostitute, and dragged his name - and therefore yours - through the mud. And what about disease? Had you thought about that?” Mike was just warming up.
“Mike, you’re jumping to conclusions. Not even the tabloids said anything about a brothel, and there is no disease.”
“How do you know? Did you require him to get tested? If you don’t care about your own health - what about Linda’s? And you lied to her about the whole thing, because she claims it is untrue gossip.”
“Mike, you’re out of line now...”
“Someone has to tell you how it is! You’re obviously not telling yourself these truths. I wouldn’t be your brother if I didn’t put your interests first before John’s!”
“Why do our interests have to be different?” Paul demanded angrily.
John’s voice, shouted from the balcony, was overheard. “Paul! What’s going on? The food is getting cold!”
Paul put his hand over the receiver and shouted back, “One moment! I’ll be there in a moment!” He then turned back to his conversation with Mike. “You act as if John is an active enemy of mine, but he’s not. You’re walking on thin ice, here, Mike. I want our relationship back, I really do. But not at John’s expense.” Paul’s voice had regained some confidence and authority, even if Paul was faking it somewhat.
Mike took a deep breath. He realized he had gone too far, too fast. He couldn’t help it though; he had been holding these pressing thoughts in abeyance for too long. He fiercely loved his brother, and didn’t like to see him getting squeezed like this for things that John had done. But if he came on too strong, Paul wouldn’t listen to him at all. “Paul, I’m sorry if I’m so upset, but I can’t help it. I hate to see you being hurt or taken advantage of.”
Paul was about to deny that he was hurt, or that he had been taken advantage of, but he couldn’t do it. In fact, he had been hurt, and he had been taken advantage of, by anyone’s measure. Sure, John had apologized for the mess and thanked him for cleaning it up, but there was no real assurance that he wouldn’t do something equally stupid or worse again. This was a pattern of John’s now, not just a couple of errant events: Do something disloyal and stupid, get in trouble, let Paul fix it, apologize and express eternal love, but the eternal love lasts only until the next fit of boredom sets in. Paul had just allowed himself to be dragged into this pattern, and had done nothing to put an end to it, most probably because he feared that if he put his foot down John would leave him. And, if John left him, he might turn against him again, and trash him to their mutual friends and the press, just as he had done before. In the end, was he acting for John, or for himself?
“Mike, okay, we got off on the wrong foot. But I’m cranky. I’ve got to eat. Let me think about what you said, and I’ll call you back in a few weeks when the tour is over and we can discuss it again.”
A moment later he was strolling out on to the balcony. John looked up from the newspaper and said, “That took a long time. What was it about?”
“It was my brother,” Paul said.
“Mike? How great!” John declared. But then he took a second look at Paul’s body language and said in a lower, more cautious voice, “Or was it?”
“At least he’s talking to me again,” Paul said bravely, offering up a smile. “That’s a start.”
“I’m glad for you,” John said, although he felt worried too. Obviously, Mike hadn’t accepted his relationship with Paul yet, and apparently was still willing to be outspoken about it. John’s insecurity niggled at him. Could Mike drive a wedge between him and Paul? He had given Mike some new ammunition to use against him with Paul - that was true - although Paul had seemed to take the news of his cruising with no anger or jealousy. And what was up with that, anyway? Why hadn’t he been upset? Any normal person would have been at least irritated, if not towering with rage. Paul was far more subdued as he ate his food, John noted, although he did not want to ask why. The last thing he wanted to know was what poison Mike had spewed. Maybe it would start a problem where presently one did not exist.
The concerts in Rome had been fantastic, and John and Paul and the band were invited to a crazy after-show party by the promoters in a 5-star restaurant in the oldest part of Rome after the second concert was over. The entire restaurant had been dedicated to this party, and each table had a Jeroboam of Amarone, the Italian red wine. Everything was over the top, including the seafood pastas coming out from the kitchen one after the other in steaming heaps for each table, not to mention the osso bucco hunks nesting in huge platters of risotto. John was in heaven, but Paul felt slightly sick. He didn’t want to be rude to his hosts, but how could they not have gotten the memo about his vegetarian beliefs?
Paul poked through the food and found some grilled vegetables, and then spooned some risotto on to his plate. He was starving and he was trying to ignore the fact that the veal juice probably had soaked into the rice. He looked over to the head table and saw John under the overhead red lamp. He was being feted on either side by Italian businessmen, and in front of him was a plate piled with seafood pasta and veal. Paul blinked several times, hoping to chase away the image that had flashed in his brain of a voracious King Henry VIII about to dig into a pig’s head, while sycophants laughed around him. After he blinked, the vision disappeared and it was just John being John again, surrounded by adoring fans. In spite of himself, Paul had to smile. What an infuriating, challenging, utterly enchanting human being John was. And how hard it was for Paul to tell the man what he wanted - no, needed - from him.
Sighing, Paul turned away and went to get some more vegetables and to pour himself some more wine from the nearest of several cut crystal carafes. After he’d finished eating, he took his wine glass and wandered out to the covered terrace, and saw that everyone was well on the way to being completely blotto. There was a staggeringly beautiful view of nighttime Rome laid out before him. He stood right in front of the railing and looked out over the city. The thoughts came unbidden to his mind.
I deserve better. I deserve to be treated with respect, and I shouldn’t have to lie to people I love in order to protect John. I shouldn’t have to take it on the chin and smile and pretend like it didn’t cut my heart out that John felt it was okay to pull some young buck the moment my back was turned. If I’m the one he turns to when he’s hurt and lost, why aren’t I the one he wants to be with when things are going fine? Mike is right. John endangered his own health, my health, and Linda’s health with his latest antics. It’s like I’m some kind of substance addict, and John is my substance.
“’ello?” The voice was soft and velvety and very Italian. Paul turned to see a very voluptuous woman, black flowing hair reaching down to her waist, black eyes crackling and popping with mischief and mystery, and breasts practically bursting out of her emerald green silk blouse.
“Hello,” Paul said, smiling politely in response. He held out his hand. “I’m Paul.”
As she took his hand, the woman threw her head back and the laugh was throaty and sensual. “I know who you are,” she said, with a heavy Italian accent. “But you do not know me. I am Margherita.”
Paul knew trouble when he saw it. He leaned back against the railing, and crossed his arms across his chest as if warding off evil spirits. His wine glass was balancing on the railing. “Margherita. That’s a lovely name.”
“It means, ‘pearl’,” she said in her deep voice.
“What do you do for a living, Margherita?” Paul asked smoothly. He was willing to play the game for the first little while, but he knew his boundaries, and he always respected them.
“I am editor,” she said. “I work for Vogue Italia. I just wanted to say how meraviglioso was your show.” Margherita’s hands were kind of fat and chunky, although well manicured, and were cluttered with huge vulgar rings. Paul was not impressed, since he was an aficionado of beautiful hands like Linda’s and his mother’s and John’s...
“That sounds like a very interesting job,” Paul said politely while picking up his wine glass and taking a seductive sip. Of course, he didn’t think that it was seductive; it was just his normal way of accidentally seducing people wherever he went, and he rarely meant anything by it. Not that everyone understood this - many of them took it to heart.
“Not so interesting as yours,” Margherita responded, moving closer to Paul. Some might say, ‘uncomfortably’ close to Paul. Paul was one of those who found it uncomfortable. He felt that now it had gone a little too far. Subtly, he allowed his hand holding his wine glass to make a little room between him and the woman, and he backed up a few inches.
Across the room, John had suddenly become aware that Paul was not near him and he hadn’t seen Paul in some time. He looked around the room, and couldn’t find him. He stood up, excusing himself from his hosts, and moved into the middle of the room. He studiously surveyed every segment of the room. Finally, he thought he spied Paul out on the terrace. He began to move in that direction, trying to look nonchalant in case anyone was watching. He moved to the French doors that opened onto the terrace, and pretended to be just chillin’ there, sipping a glass of wine. When he finally allowed himself to look closer, he saw Paul with a gorgeous, womanly creature standing very close to Paul. He watched as one of her fingers ran itself down Paul’s chest.
Well, that’s enough of that, John thought angrily. He pushed through the opening and on to the terrace, making a beeline straight for Paul. He marched right up to Paul, and pushed himself rather obviously between Paul and the woman. “So who’s this then, Paul?” John asked in a fake friendly voice.
Paul was at first surprised by John’s timely intervention, and then amused. “This is Margherita,” Paul said, mimicking the woman’s extravagant Italian pronunciation.
Margherita was a little pissed off by John’s rude interruption at the exact moment when she was going in for the kill. Now she suddenly found herself faced with a very possessive John Lennon. So the rumors are true, she thought to herself. Paul really is bisexual. Instead of turning her off, this only turned her on more. “’ello, John,” Margherita breathed heavily. Maybe a threesome? She wondered hopefully. Truthfully, John was attractive, too.
John snaked his hand behind Paul’s back, and squeezed Paul’s waist possessively. He turned a lowering brow to Margherita and his body language clearly was warning her off. “Hello,” he responded. He then turned to Paul. “I’ve been looking all over for you; why’d you disappear?”
“I had to get away from the overwhelming smell of meat and shellfish,” Paul said honestly. “So I came out here.”
John wanted to hit himself in the forehead and yelp “d’oh!” like Homer Simpson. He should have realized that the platters of food would have seemed like the results of torture experiments to Paul, with his sensibilities about living creatures. “Oh, Paul, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that...”
Paul smiled, but inside he was thinking, no, he didn’t think. He never thinks. Out loud he said, “I’m tired. Shall we go back to the hotel?”
John was relieved to hear this. Margherita, however, was not relieved. She felt thwarted, and only just managed to smile politely at the two men as they said their goodbyes and turned to go. She did think that if John hadn’t interrupted her, she might have got through to Paul. Anyway, that is what she told herself, and - later - anyone else who would listen.
Paul insisted upon saying goodnight to their hosts, and then the two of them disentangled themselves from the crowds, and climbed into the car that took them back to their hotel. There were tourists in the lobby who were excited to see Lennon and McCartney, and the two men signed several autographs, and posed for a few photographs, before going up in the elevator to their suite.
As they undressed, John said, his voice filled with amusement, “I thought that woman was going to eat you alive.”
“I think I can hold my own,” Paul responded as he sat down to remove his shoes and socks.
“She looked like a black widow,” John continued. “She was going to drink your blood.”
“Actually, she was going to do nothing of the sort, because I wouldn’t have let her.” Paul was irritated, and he couldn’t help but allow this to show in his voice.
John stopped in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt. “And why wouldn’t you have let her?”
“Because some people live up to the promises they make to their lovers,” Paul said darkly.
“I was just teasing,” John said, a little miffed by Paul’s attitude. “Why are you so pissed?”
“I’m not pissed.”
“You are.” John was standing with hands on hips facing Paul now. “What’s bugging you?”
“What’s ‘bugging’ me?” Paul asked. His voice had gone up into the higher registers. “Nothing’s ‘bugging’ me!” Paul’s face looked almost comical when he was angry. There was always a darkly stormy look directly contradicted by his angelic features.
“Okay, okay, so let it out. What have I done now?” John was angry now, and feeling pretty impatient. He had no desire to play word games at that time of the early morning, especially after a very enervating concert performance.
“You mean, other than paying some twat to fuck you? You mean, other than expecting me to swallow that without batting a fucking eyelash? You mean - other than that?” Paul’s voice had risen to shouting, which was extremely unusual for him. “Maybe you could have brought back some fucking disease, and infected me! Did you ever think about that? And what if that guy had killed you? He was a complete stranger! And it’s only a matter of time before he sells his fucking story to the tabloid! Did you even think of that?”
John was stunned. It had been over a month since he’d returned from America, and Paul had hadn’t expressed real anger towards him over what he had done: impatience, perhaps, and a little irritation over taking such a risk, but not anger. John stood there, blinking, as Paul seethed.
“You’re so fucking selfish, John! How do you think it feels to be me - always picking up the fucking messy pieces! With people snickering at me or pitying me behind my back? And what about all your crazy schemes? A penthouse in New York, and never mind I can never stay there with you, you go ahead anyway! What message am I to take from that? And I’m the villain because I refuse to voluntarily subject my family to the worst consequences of my choices? Do you spare even a moment to give a shit about my family - the thing that means so much to me? And what if I didn’t want to put up with this shit anymore? What would you do then? Do you think there is anyone else in this whole fucking world who would handle it better than I do?” Once Paul had started, the verbal vomitus was never-ending. “You love me yes, you love me no, you love me yes, you love me no ... I never know what the fuck you’re going to do next! Maybe you find that kind of chaos fun to live with, but it’s ripping me up inside!”
John had gone beyond ‘stunned’ to ‘astounded’. Paul had used the word ‘fuck’ at least six times in the last few seconds, not to mention the word ‘shit’. Paul rarely used swear words, even in anger, and especially not those ones. He was clearly spitting mad. And for Paul to be so wordy when he was mad was unheard of! Not for Paul verbal harangues. No, storming out of the room slamming successive doors behind him or banging loud unmelodious chords on a piano were Paul’s usual methods of expressing extreme anger.
The room had become silent as John digested Paul’s tirade. John was still standing there, his hands suspended in the frozen act of unbuttoning his shirt. Paul had delivered himself of the worst of the fury that had been quietly building up force with him over the past year, and had sunk down on to the side of the bed, where he stared at his shaking hands.
“Wow,” John finally was able to say. “How long have you felt this way, Paul?” John’s voice was not angry or defensive. But it did contain a note of self-pity that grated on Paul.
“I could ask you why you haven’t put yourself in my place and wondered what it must feel like,” Paul responded back with a lower, less angry voice. But it was a voice that was clearly not going to give in to John’s tendency to turn every negative emotional episode into an examination of his own hurt feelings.
John finally noticed that his hands were still holding the button, and he dropped them while he turned and sat on the other side of the bed, his back to Paul’s. He honestly did not know what to say. His mind was roiling with mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was a relief to hear Paul unload like that. Hadn’t he been trying to get Paul to do so? On the other hand, it was awful to hear such ugly truths about one’s self. On still another hand, had he permanently damaged his relationship with Paul? Or, on the other hand, did this venting of anger mean they could work to build a more authentic relationship? At this point, John realized he had collected too many hands, and stopped thinking.
Normally, it would be Paul who would act to end a bad situation by apologizing, or making a joke, or moving physically to shrink the gap between them. But this time, Paul remained slumped on his edge of the bed and did not move. It finally dawned on John that he would have to make the first move to try to heal the breach. John forced himself to stand up and walk over to the other side of the bed. He got down on his knees in front of Paul, placed a hand on each of Paul’s thighs, and leaned his forehead against Paul’s bent one. And he waited. It was a fairly long wait, lasting several minutes. But he waited patiently.
“It’s always been like this with us,” Paul finally found the will to say out loud. “I tell myself I can’t trust you, and then you beg me to trust you, and so I trust you, and then you prove to me you can’t be trusted. Over and over, ever since we met, John.”
John waited some more.
“If I had any pride, I would have refused to take you back all those times...”
John’s curiosity was piqued now, and he couldn’t help himself. “I never left you, Paul - to me it felt as though I was always chasing you, maybe not physically, but emotionally. Even when I went to New York - I felt like maybe if I go away, you will follow me. But you didn’t.”
Paul made a noise that sounded like a self-aware snicker. “What comes first - the chicken or the egg?” He asked cryptically. It was obviously a rhetorical question.
Again, John waited, hoping for an explanation. After a few more moments, Paul obliged:
“Are you insecure about me because I guard my feelings? Or do I guard my feelings because you have betrayed my trust too many times?” Paul’s voice sounded weary. “I guess until we know the answer to that question we’re doomed to repeat this ridiculous, unhealthy pattern we’re stuck in.”
John saw now what Paul was saying. He had always assumed that Paul was just made that way: distant, hard to know, endlessly layered, and impossibly self-contained. It had never occurred to him that maybe Paul hadn’t started out that way; that maybe Paul had been forced to build up ever-stronger defenses to John’s ever-swinging moods and loyalties in order to protect himself. He sat back on his ankles and stared at Paul. “Babe, I’m sorry I never saw it that way before,” John said honestly. “Once you finally point it out, I can see that it is obvious.” Paul nodded slightly in response to John’s apology, and John squeezed Paul’s thighs and added, “Where do we go from here, Pud?”
Paul felt it happening again. The inevitable melting inside of him when John acted loving to him like this. He wanted to maintain distance, and to remain unmoved, but he was emotionally incapable of doing so. He was always so eager to assure John that he was loved, and that there was at least one person in the world who would never leave him, no matter what. Entering John’s life just when they’d lost their mothers had bonded them in such a deep, primal way that somehow Paul had come away from that experience believing that he was meant to give John the unconditional love he never got as a child. Like it was his sole purpose in life. Almost as if by rote, Paul’s hand came up and ran it’s way through John’s hair. He then brushed the hair off of John’s face, and smiled reassuringly into John’s fearful, insecure eyes. “Right now, I think we should just go to sleep. All this shit will still be here waiting for us when we wake up, but maybe we will be able to make more sense of it then.”
He said ‘shit’ again, John thought randomly. Somehow the fact that Paul was using earthy language calmed John down. It was as if this was Paul, allowing John to see his weaknesses and frustration. It was an odd thing to be happy about, John supposed, but then all he’d ever really wanted was to be as close to Paul as possible, to the exclusion of virtually everyone else. If he could have climbed inside Paul’s mind and merged with him and become one with him, he would have done so long ago. That isn’t too much to ask, is it? John was serious as he asked himself that question; the irony of it did not penetrate.
Paul helped John get up off the floor, and then they each completed their bedtime ablutions, and climbed into bed. There was no awkwardness because Paul, performing his usual role in their oft-repeated dance routine, pulled John into his arms, and whispered comfortingly in John’s ear, “I love you.”
The freelance tabloid reporter had approached his assignment as if he were tracking Deep Throat. And, the reporter chuckled, in a way, maybe he was. The clerk at the hotel had sold him the photo of the credit card receipt for $750: cheap at one-tenth the price. But now the reporter wanted to track down who was with Lennon that night in the cruising hotel. All he knew so far was that the assignation happened in Room 614. The reporter had been frequenting a few of the trendier gay clubs in the hotel’s general area to see if anyone remembered seeing Lennon partying there, but what he ran into was a goodly number of 25 year-olds asking him, “Who’s John Lennon?” And even most of the ones who did recognize the man’s name didn’t know what he looked like! This was exceedingly frustrating to the reporter. Still, he kept digging. It would be a huge story - a gigantic payday - if he succeeded in tracking down Lennon’s cruise partner. And what if the young man was more than just a one-night stand? What if Lennon had a young, male lover on the side? When the reporter closed his eyes he could see dollar signs swimming in front of him.
Hope you enjoy.
Warning: Hot queer sex scene. Not for the faint of heart. :)
This is all fiction. Total fiction.
Chapter 55
Back in the hotel suite after their mildly disappointing and slightly middle-class foray into Warsaw’s seedy nightlife, John and Paul made themselves at home. John poured out a pair of whiskeys, while Paul disappeared into the bathroom. He was in there for a fairly long time.
“Paul? Are you okay in there?” John finally shouted from his comfy spot stretched out on the bed. He was waiting impatiently - stark naked - for his lover’s appearance. Suddenly the bathroom door flew open, and Paul was revealed in the aperture, clothed only in a white towel. He had washed his hair, and he had tweaked the wet ends into little spikes all over his head. He crossed his arms, leaned against the doorjamb, and a loopy sleezy-sexy look came over his face.
John barked with laughter.
“Hello, Herbert. I am Ludvic.” Paul mimed a Polish accent. “So happy we lost that Lance person.”
“Ludvic, get your ass over here. I want to rip that towel off you.” John’s voice vibrated with sexual menace. He was so sexually excited that he didn’t even remember that Brad had once offered him the same opportunity to rip off a white towel. From John’s subconscious position, there was no comparison between the two images. The one he was looking at now was pure gold.
Paul literally sashayed over to the bed, letting his hips gyrate in a feminizing way like Ludvic would have done. When he got to the side of the bed, he started to say something, but before he could frame a word, John had grabbed ahold of the towel and ripped it away. Paul literally felt his knees knocking together in surprise at the unexpected cool air. Next thing he knew, John had grabbed his arm and yanked him on to the bed. Soon, John was climbing on top of him.
“I’m gonna fuck you for hours,” he growled in Paul’s ear.
This of course was exciting for Paul to hear, although he knew that “hours” usually translated into “minutes” at their age. Still, it was the thought that counted... “Ooomph!” The sound escaped from Paul’s throat when John suddenly grabbed his legs and pushed them up. Apparently John wasn’t in to foreplay tonight. That was okay with Paul. He enjoyed sex no matter how it played out, so he was wide open to John’s intrusions, both emotionally and physically.
John was amazed at the power of his sexual attraction. Strange, after all these years that no one and no other thing could arouse him like Paul. At that moment he felt his arousal was an engine revving too high. He could barely contain his urges and desires. If he could have fucked Paul in the mouth and in the ass simultaneously, he would have. Unfortunately, he only had one dick. He decided to choose Paul’s ass, because he was feeling very caveman right now. His hands were grabby on Paul’s ass, and soon his fingers were probing inside his anus. He could feel Paul squirming underneath him, and hear Paul’s guttural grunts and groans. These things excited John, and urged him on. He placed the tip of his cock against Paul and pushed his way in. The lube helped, but Paul was very tight tonight. It had been a while since John had done the fucking, and this was no doubt the reason why Paul was so taut. But this, too, was exciting for John. The extreme tightness made him groan loudly.
“You’re tighter than a virgin, babe,” John whispered huskily. “It’s making me crazy.”
Paul took this to be an instruction to relax a bit, so he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until he heard John’s victorious grunt and felt his victorious dick enter further into him. He continued to breath heavily as he waited for the tightness to feel right for him. John was breathing heavily and had started thrusting hungrily, and was well on his way to the rutting stage. ‘Hours’ looked out of the question at this point, Paul chuckled to himself. John was too far gone. Paul, himself, was starting to feel the tightening deep inside his pelvis that presaged an orgasm, as every few seconds John brushed against his prostate gland. One of the great things about having a long-time lover was that John knew the erogenous zones and the topography of Paul’s body so well, there was never wasted effort or irritating near misses.
Moments later, both men were in the same rhythm and the strokes came evenly and were hitting Paul exactly where he wanted it again and again and again. The huffing, and grunts, and periodic cries were a symphony of arousing sounds to counterpoint their physical efforts. When the moment came for John’s orgasm, it pushed Paul over the edge. Although having an orgasm while being fucked up the ass was a tricky proposition, Paul’s imagination combined with John’s ardor had merged to create the perfect storm of erotic sensations, and the orgasm ran through him, leaving scorched earth wherever it went.
“Whoa!” John howled, and then flopped over on his back. He was thoroughly exhausted.
Paul allowed his legs to come down (he had been holding his knees near the end), and felt complete release in his pelvic area. He sighed deeply. That was fantastic, he told himself.
John’s forearm had flopped over his eyes as he schooled his breath to go back to normal, or as close to normal as possible given such an extreme physical effort. As his heart stopped racing he was able to take his other hand and reach over and find Paul’s. “You’re the best fuck ever,” he said as he squeezed Paul’s hand. The sound coming from Paul’s throat sounded a lot like a purr. John heard this, and smiled victoriously in the dark. He had come, he had seen, and he had conquered his lover. He felt extremely territorial, and somehow this had given him back some of his confidence he had lost during the incident with Brad. In that moment he also felt that he could not bear to be separated from Paul ever again. No more living the wild life in New York - that had certainly been a bust. But even as he thought this, he knew that it was easy for him to feel this way when he had Paul to himself, when they were on tour. It would be a whole other issue when they were back in London. The triangle-thing had lost all of its charm (to the extent it had ever had charm), and having to live a lie had also lost its dubious charm.
Paul, meanwhile, was just exhausted and wanted to fall asleep. There was that troubling thought in his mind periodically popping up and demanding attention, but tonight he was just going to (coining a phrase) “let it be.”
*****
A week later, John and Paul were in Rome, preparing for two concerts on subsequent nights. On their last tour visit to Rome, bedlam had ensued, so this time they both hoped they would be able to enjoy the city together. To start off, John arranged for the hotel staff to set up and serve a late brunch on the stone balcony off of their suite. Paul had been working out in the hotel gym. Such a busy little beaver, John thought fondly to himself. Always up to something constructive. When Paul got back, and after he showered, he was delighted to see the incredible meal set out on the buffet tables. Just as they sat down to eat, though, the telephone rang. Reflexively, Paul got up to answer.
“Babe, let it ring. Whoever it is can wait until we finish eating.” John said this softly, looking up from his newspaper. Paul sat down again, but looked anxious. John laughed when he saw this and said, “Oh, go ahead, Paul.”
Paul went to answer the phone and was immediately glad he did.
“Paul! Is that you? This is Mike.”
“Mike!” Paul shouted in to the phone in response. His voice sounded surprised but joyful. “How on earth did you find me?” He asked.
“Linda gave me your manager’s assistant’s number,” Mike said.
“I’m so glad you called! It’s been at least a year since we talked, right?” Paul’s voice did not sound angry or judgmental, Mike was glad to hear.
“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry about that,” Mike said.
“Me, too,” Paul quickly added, wanting badly to patch up his relationship with his brother.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing. You’ve been through a lot recently,” Mike said.
Paul was wondering how Mike could possibly know that. Had Linda said something to him? He said, “What do you mean?”
“This whole episode with John. What on earth is he up to?” Mike managed to withhold most of his anger from his voice.
Paul felt himself stiffen. It didn’t sound like Mike’s attitude about John had softened in the past year. “What episode is this?” Paul asked, coaching himself not to overreact.
“This business about going to a gay brothel in New York, and using his credit card while doing so,” Mike responded, a little annoyed that Paul was pretending that this hadn’t happened, or that it wasn’t important.
Paul sighed. He was at another one of those tricky crossroads he only found himself near because of John. He had already led Linda to believe there was no truth to the rumors, and now he had to do the same with Mike. A little voice in Paul’s mind felt angry about this dilemma; John shouldn’t behave in ways that left him in a position where he had to lie to his other loved ones. It was bad enough that they both had to lie to the world. But it was what it was. “Mike, didn’t you read our responses to that rumor?”
“I read your jokes - very funny. But you never denied the rumors. You forget I grew up with the two of you, and I know how you handle this kind of stuff.” Mike’s voice was firm. “It’s true, isn’t it?” His tone was more demand than query.
“Mike...” Paul’s voice deepened in warning, but Mike cut him off.
“This is me; your brother. You can’t fool me. That man went off with some queer prostitute, and dragged his name - and therefore yours - through the mud. And what about disease? Had you thought about that?” Mike was just warming up.
“Mike, you’re jumping to conclusions. Not even the tabloids said anything about a brothel, and there is no disease.”
“How do you know? Did you require him to get tested? If you don’t care about your own health - what about Linda’s? And you lied to her about the whole thing, because she claims it is untrue gossip.”
“Mike, you’re out of line now...”
“Someone has to tell you how it is! You’re obviously not telling yourself these truths. I wouldn’t be your brother if I didn’t put your interests first before John’s!”
“Why do our interests have to be different?” Paul demanded angrily.
John’s voice, shouted from the balcony, was overheard. “Paul! What’s going on? The food is getting cold!”
Paul put his hand over the receiver and shouted back, “One moment! I’ll be there in a moment!” He then turned back to his conversation with Mike. “You act as if John is an active enemy of mine, but he’s not. You’re walking on thin ice, here, Mike. I want our relationship back, I really do. But not at John’s expense.” Paul’s voice had regained some confidence and authority, even if Paul was faking it somewhat.
Mike took a deep breath. He realized he had gone too far, too fast. He couldn’t help it though; he had been holding these pressing thoughts in abeyance for too long. He fiercely loved his brother, and didn’t like to see him getting squeezed like this for things that John had done. But if he came on too strong, Paul wouldn’t listen to him at all. “Paul, I’m sorry if I’m so upset, but I can’t help it. I hate to see you being hurt or taken advantage of.”
Paul was about to deny that he was hurt, or that he had been taken advantage of, but he couldn’t do it. In fact, he had been hurt, and he had been taken advantage of, by anyone’s measure. Sure, John had apologized for the mess and thanked him for cleaning it up, but there was no real assurance that he wouldn’t do something equally stupid or worse again. This was a pattern of John’s now, not just a couple of errant events: Do something disloyal and stupid, get in trouble, let Paul fix it, apologize and express eternal love, but the eternal love lasts only until the next fit of boredom sets in. Paul had just allowed himself to be dragged into this pattern, and had done nothing to put an end to it, most probably because he feared that if he put his foot down John would leave him. And, if John left him, he might turn against him again, and trash him to their mutual friends and the press, just as he had done before. In the end, was he acting for John, or for himself?
“Mike, okay, we got off on the wrong foot. But I’m cranky. I’ve got to eat. Let me think about what you said, and I’ll call you back in a few weeks when the tour is over and we can discuss it again.”
A moment later he was strolling out on to the balcony. John looked up from the newspaper and said, “That took a long time. What was it about?”
“It was my brother,” Paul said.
“Mike? How great!” John declared. But then he took a second look at Paul’s body language and said in a lower, more cautious voice, “Or was it?”
“At least he’s talking to me again,” Paul said bravely, offering up a smile. “That’s a start.”
“I’m glad for you,” John said, although he felt worried too. Obviously, Mike hadn’t accepted his relationship with Paul yet, and apparently was still willing to be outspoken about it. John’s insecurity niggled at him. Could Mike drive a wedge between him and Paul? He had given Mike some new ammunition to use against him with Paul - that was true - although Paul had seemed to take the news of his cruising with no anger or jealousy. And what was up with that, anyway? Why hadn’t he been upset? Any normal person would have been at least irritated, if not towering with rage. Paul was far more subdued as he ate his food, John noted, although he did not want to ask why. The last thing he wanted to know was what poison Mike had spewed. Maybe it would start a problem where presently one did not exist.
*****
The concerts in Rome had been fantastic, and John and Paul and the band were invited to a crazy after-show party by the promoters in a 5-star restaurant in the oldest part of Rome after the second concert was over. The entire restaurant had been dedicated to this party, and each table had a Jeroboam of Amarone, the Italian red wine. Everything was over the top, including the seafood pastas coming out from the kitchen one after the other in steaming heaps for each table, not to mention the osso bucco hunks nesting in huge platters of risotto. John was in heaven, but Paul felt slightly sick. He didn’t want to be rude to his hosts, but how could they not have gotten the memo about his vegetarian beliefs?
Paul poked through the food and found some grilled vegetables, and then spooned some risotto on to his plate. He was starving and he was trying to ignore the fact that the veal juice probably had soaked into the rice. He looked over to the head table and saw John under the overhead red lamp. He was being feted on either side by Italian businessmen, and in front of him was a plate piled with seafood pasta and veal. Paul blinked several times, hoping to chase away the image that had flashed in his brain of a voracious King Henry VIII about to dig into a pig’s head, while sycophants laughed around him. After he blinked, the vision disappeared and it was just John being John again, surrounded by adoring fans. In spite of himself, Paul had to smile. What an infuriating, challenging, utterly enchanting human being John was. And how hard it was for Paul to tell the man what he wanted - no, needed - from him.
Sighing, Paul turned away and went to get some more vegetables and to pour himself some more wine from the nearest of several cut crystal carafes. After he’d finished eating, he took his wine glass and wandered out to the covered terrace, and saw that everyone was well on the way to being completely blotto. There was a staggeringly beautiful view of nighttime Rome laid out before him. He stood right in front of the railing and looked out over the city. The thoughts came unbidden to his mind.
I deserve better. I deserve to be treated with respect, and I shouldn’t have to lie to people I love in order to protect John. I shouldn’t have to take it on the chin and smile and pretend like it didn’t cut my heart out that John felt it was okay to pull some young buck the moment my back was turned. If I’m the one he turns to when he’s hurt and lost, why aren’t I the one he wants to be with when things are going fine? Mike is right. John endangered his own health, my health, and Linda’s health with his latest antics. It’s like I’m some kind of substance addict, and John is my substance.
“’ello?” The voice was soft and velvety and very Italian. Paul turned to see a very voluptuous woman, black flowing hair reaching down to her waist, black eyes crackling and popping with mischief and mystery, and breasts practically bursting out of her emerald green silk blouse.
“Hello,” Paul said, smiling politely in response. He held out his hand. “I’m Paul.”
As she took his hand, the woman threw her head back and the laugh was throaty and sensual. “I know who you are,” she said, with a heavy Italian accent. “But you do not know me. I am Margherita.”
Paul knew trouble when he saw it. He leaned back against the railing, and crossed his arms across his chest as if warding off evil spirits. His wine glass was balancing on the railing. “Margherita. That’s a lovely name.”
“It means, ‘pearl’,” she said in her deep voice.
“What do you do for a living, Margherita?” Paul asked smoothly. He was willing to play the game for the first little while, but he knew his boundaries, and he always respected them.
“I am editor,” she said. “I work for Vogue Italia. I just wanted to say how meraviglioso was your show.” Margherita’s hands were kind of fat and chunky, although well manicured, and were cluttered with huge vulgar rings. Paul was not impressed, since he was an aficionado of beautiful hands like Linda’s and his mother’s and John’s...
“That sounds like a very interesting job,” Paul said politely while picking up his wine glass and taking a seductive sip. Of course, he didn’t think that it was seductive; it was just his normal way of accidentally seducing people wherever he went, and he rarely meant anything by it. Not that everyone understood this - many of them took it to heart.
“Not so interesting as yours,” Margherita responded, moving closer to Paul. Some might say, ‘uncomfortably’ close to Paul. Paul was one of those who found it uncomfortable. He felt that now it had gone a little too far. Subtly, he allowed his hand holding his wine glass to make a little room between him and the woman, and he backed up a few inches.
Across the room, John had suddenly become aware that Paul was not near him and he hadn’t seen Paul in some time. He looked around the room, and couldn’t find him. He stood up, excusing himself from his hosts, and moved into the middle of the room. He studiously surveyed every segment of the room. Finally, he thought he spied Paul out on the terrace. He began to move in that direction, trying to look nonchalant in case anyone was watching. He moved to the French doors that opened onto the terrace, and pretended to be just chillin’ there, sipping a glass of wine. When he finally allowed himself to look closer, he saw Paul with a gorgeous, womanly creature standing very close to Paul. He watched as one of her fingers ran itself down Paul’s chest.
Well, that’s enough of that, John thought angrily. He pushed through the opening and on to the terrace, making a beeline straight for Paul. He marched right up to Paul, and pushed himself rather obviously between Paul and the woman. “So who’s this then, Paul?” John asked in a fake friendly voice.
Paul was at first surprised by John’s timely intervention, and then amused. “This is Margherita,” Paul said, mimicking the woman’s extravagant Italian pronunciation.
Margherita was a little pissed off by John’s rude interruption at the exact moment when she was going in for the kill. Now she suddenly found herself faced with a very possessive John Lennon. So the rumors are true, she thought to herself. Paul really is bisexual. Instead of turning her off, this only turned her on more. “’ello, John,” Margherita breathed heavily. Maybe a threesome? She wondered hopefully. Truthfully, John was attractive, too.
John snaked his hand behind Paul’s back, and squeezed Paul’s waist possessively. He turned a lowering brow to Margherita and his body language clearly was warning her off. “Hello,” he responded. He then turned to Paul. “I’ve been looking all over for you; why’d you disappear?”
“I had to get away from the overwhelming smell of meat and shellfish,” Paul said honestly. “So I came out here.”
John wanted to hit himself in the forehead and yelp “d’oh!” like Homer Simpson. He should have realized that the platters of food would have seemed like the results of torture experiments to Paul, with his sensibilities about living creatures. “Oh, Paul, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that...”
Paul smiled, but inside he was thinking, no, he didn’t think. He never thinks. Out loud he said, “I’m tired. Shall we go back to the hotel?”
John was relieved to hear this. Margherita, however, was not relieved. She felt thwarted, and only just managed to smile politely at the two men as they said their goodbyes and turned to go. She did think that if John hadn’t interrupted her, she might have got through to Paul. Anyway, that is what she told herself, and - later - anyone else who would listen.
Paul insisted upon saying goodnight to their hosts, and then the two of them disentangled themselves from the crowds, and climbed into the car that took them back to their hotel. There were tourists in the lobby who were excited to see Lennon and McCartney, and the two men signed several autographs, and posed for a few photographs, before going up in the elevator to their suite.
As they undressed, John said, his voice filled with amusement, “I thought that woman was going to eat you alive.”
“I think I can hold my own,” Paul responded as he sat down to remove his shoes and socks.
“She looked like a black widow,” John continued. “She was going to drink your blood.”
“Actually, she was going to do nothing of the sort, because I wouldn’t have let her.” Paul was irritated, and he couldn’t help but allow this to show in his voice.
John stopped in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt. “And why wouldn’t you have let her?”
“Because some people live up to the promises they make to their lovers,” Paul said darkly.
“I was just teasing,” John said, a little miffed by Paul’s attitude. “Why are you so pissed?”
“I’m not pissed.”
“You are.” John was standing with hands on hips facing Paul now. “What’s bugging you?”
“What’s ‘bugging’ me?” Paul asked. His voice had gone up into the higher registers. “Nothing’s ‘bugging’ me!” Paul’s face looked almost comical when he was angry. There was always a darkly stormy look directly contradicted by his angelic features.
“Okay, okay, so let it out. What have I done now?” John was angry now, and feeling pretty impatient. He had no desire to play word games at that time of the early morning, especially after a very enervating concert performance.
“You mean, other than paying some twat to fuck you? You mean, other than expecting me to swallow that without batting a fucking eyelash? You mean - other than that?” Paul’s voice had risen to shouting, which was extremely unusual for him. “Maybe you could have brought back some fucking disease, and infected me! Did you ever think about that? And what if that guy had killed you? He was a complete stranger! And it’s only a matter of time before he sells his fucking story to the tabloid! Did you even think of that?”
John was stunned. It had been over a month since he’d returned from America, and Paul had hadn’t expressed real anger towards him over what he had done: impatience, perhaps, and a little irritation over taking such a risk, but not anger. John stood there, blinking, as Paul seethed.
“You’re so fucking selfish, John! How do you think it feels to be me - always picking up the fucking messy pieces! With people snickering at me or pitying me behind my back? And what about all your crazy schemes? A penthouse in New York, and never mind I can never stay there with you, you go ahead anyway! What message am I to take from that? And I’m the villain because I refuse to voluntarily subject my family to the worst consequences of my choices? Do you spare even a moment to give a shit about my family - the thing that means so much to me? And what if I didn’t want to put up with this shit anymore? What would you do then? Do you think there is anyone else in this whole fucking world who would handle it better than I do?” Once Paul had started, the verbal vomitus was never-ending. “You love me yes, you love me no, you love me yes, you love me no ... I never know what the fuck you’re going to do next! Maybe you find that kind of chaos fun to live with, but it’s ripping me up inside!”
John had gone beyond ‘stunned’ to ‘astounded’. Paul had used the word ‘fuck’ at least six times in the last few seconds, not to mention the word ‘shit’. Paul rarely used swear words, even in anger, and especially not those ones. He was clearly spitting mad. And for Paul to be so wordy when he was mad was unheard of! Not for Paul verbal harangues. No, storming out of the room slamming successive doors behind him or banging loud unmelodious chords on a piano were Paul’s usual methods of expressing extreme anger.
The room had become silent as John digested Paul’s tirade. John was still standing there, his hands suspended in the frozen act of unbuttoning his shirt. Paul had delivered himself of the worst of the fury that had been quietly building up force with him over the past year, and had sunk down on to the side of the bed, where he stared at his shaking hands.
“Wow,” John finally was able to say. “How long have you felt this way, Paul?” John’s voice was not angry or defensive. But it did contain a note of self-pity that grated on Paul.
“I could ask you why you haven’t put yourself in my place and wondered what it must feel like,” Paul responded back with a lower, less angry voice. But it was a voice that was clearly not going to give in to John’s tendency to turn every negative emotional episode into an examination of his own hurt feelings.
John finally noticed that his hands were still holding the button, and he dropped them while he turned and sat on the other side of the bed, his back to Paul’s. He honestly did not know what to say. His mind was roiling with mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was a relief to hear Paul unload like that. Hadn’t he been trying to get Paul to do so? On the other hand, it was awful to hear such ugly truths about one’s self. On still another hand, had he permanently damaged his relationship with Paul? Or, on the other hand, did this venting of anger mean they could work to build a more authentic relationship? At this point, John realized he had collected too many hands, and stopped thinking.
Normally, it would be Paul who would act to end a bad situation by apologizing, or making a joke, or moving physically to shrink the gap between them. But this time, Paul remained slumped on his edge of the bed and did not move. It finally dawned on John that he would have to make the first move to try to heal the breach. John forced himself to stand up and walk over to the other side of the bed. He got down on his knees in front of Paul, placed a hand on each of Paul’s thighs, and leaned his forehead against Paul’s bent one. And he waited. It was a fairly long wait, lasting several minutes. But he waited patiently.
“It’s always been like this with us,” Paul finally found the will to say out loud. “I tell myself I can’t trust you, and then you beg me to trust you, and so I trust you, and then you prove to me you can’t be trusted. Over and over, ever since we met, John.”
John waited some more.
“If I had any pride, I would have refused to take you back all those times...”
John’s curiosity was piqued now, and he couldn’t help himself. “I never left you, Paul - to me it felt as though I was always chasing you, maybe not physically, but emotionally. Even when I went to New York - I felt like maybe if I go away, you will follow me. But you didn’t.”
Paul made a noise that sounded like a self-aware snicker. “What comes first - the chicken or the egg?” He asked cryptically. It was obviously a rhetorical question.
Again, John waited, hoping for an explanation. After a few more moments, Paul obliged:
“Are you insecure about me because I guard my feelings? Or do I guard my feelings because you have betrayed my trust too many times?” Paul’s voice sounded weary. “I guess until we know the answer to that question we’re doomed to repeat this ridiculous, unhealthy pattern we’re stuck in.”
John saw now what Paul was saying. He had always assumed that Paul was just made that way: distant, hard to know, endlessly layered, and impossibly self-contained. It had never occurred to him that maybe Paul hadn’t started out that way; that maybe Paul had been forced to build up ever-stronger defenses to John’s ever-swinging moods and loyalties in order to protect himself. He sat back on his ankles and stared at Paul. “Babe, I’m sorry I never saw it that way before,” John said honestly. “Once you finally point it out, I can see that it is obvious.” Paul nodded slightly in response to John’s apology, and John squeezed Paul’s thighs and added, “Where do we go from here, Pud?”
Paul felt it happening again. The inevitable melting inside of him when John acted loving to him like this. He wanted to maintain distance, and to remain unmoved, but he was emotionally incapable of doing so. He was always so eager to assure John that he was loved, and that there was at least one person in the world who would never leave him, no matter what. Entering John’s life just when they’d lost their mothers had bonded them in such a deep, primal way that somehow Paul had come away from that experience believing that he was meant to give John the unconditional love he never got as a child. Like it was his sole purpose in life. Almost as if by rote, Paul’s hand came up and ran it’s way through John’s hair. He then brushed the hair off of John’s face, and smiled reassuringly into John’s fearful, insecure eyes. “Right now, I think we should just go to sleep. All this shit will still be here waiting for us when we wake up, but maybe we will be able to make more sense of it then.”
He said ‘shit’ again, John thought randomly. Somehow the fact that Paul was using earthy language calmed John down. It was as if this was Paul, allowing John to see his weaknesses and frustration. It was an odd thing to be happy about, John supposed, but then all he’d ever really wanted was to be as close to Paul as possible, to the exclusion of virtually everyone else. If he could have climbed inside Paul’s mind and merged with him and become one with him, he would have done so long ago. That isn’t too much to ask, is it? John was serious as he asked himself that question; the irony of it did not penetrate.
Paul helped John get up off the floor, and then they each completed their bedtime ablutions, and climbed into bed. There was no awkwardness because Paul, performing his usual role in their oft-repeated dance routine, pulled John into his arms, and whispered comfortingly in John’s ear, “I love you.”
*****
The freelance tabloid reporter had approached his assignment as if he were tracking Deep Throat. And, the reporter chuckled, in a way, maybe he was. The clerk at the hotel had sold him the photo of the credit card receipt for $750: cheap at one-tenth the price. But now the reporter wanted to track down who was with Lennon that night in the cruising hotel. All he knew so far was that the assignation happened in Room 614. The reporter had been frequenting a few of the trendier gay clubs in the hotel’s general area to see if anyone remembered seeing Lennon partying there, but what he ran into was a goodly number of 25 year-olds asking him, “Who’s John Lennon?” And even most of the ones who did recognize the man’s name didn’t know what he looked like! This was exceedingly frustrating to the reporter. Still, he kept digging. It would be a huge story - a gigantic payday - if he succeeded in tracking down Lennon’s cruise partner. And what if the young man was more than just a one-night stand? What if Lennon had a young, male lover on the side? When the reporter closed his eyes he could see dollar signs swimming in front of him.