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Paul had a boyfriend. Paul - scourge of girls all across Merseyside, the doe-eyed irrepressible charmer who made knickers drop with the bat of his eyelashes, the most beautiful lad in all of Liverpool - had a boyfriend. It made a sort of weird sense to John. Paul was so pretty: big eyes, button nose, lips made for sucking cock. He knew how to act around people he wanted to have like him, smiling and flirting, sitting just a little too close and letting his thigh touch theirs. He'd fucked about a thousand girls already, maybe he wanted to try the other side. It did sort of make sense, John had to admit to himself, but when he thought about it even for a second he felt the heat rise through his entire body and he had to bite his lip to keep it from curling. He fucking hated Paul's boyfriend. He hated the boyfriend more than he'd ever hated anyone, because he had Paul in his bed every night and all John had was the revolving door of nameless birds he didn't give a good goddamn about, and he wanted Paul for his own. Always had. He hadn't realized the strength of the feelings, how tightly it curled around him, almost crushing him, until he blinked one night - after a gallon of beer and fuck knows how many pills - and found himself stabbing a pair of scissors into a wardrobe, piles of shredded clothes at his feet, as a slag shrieked in fear and Paul was yelling at him to stop. It wasn't much longer after that Paul started going with the boyfriend.
Paul got himself a German boyfriend and spent all his time mooning over him, and John thought he might be sick if he had to watch lovestruck Paul sing a song for his boyfriend or make bedroom eyes at him or even speak his name. They started dating during the first trip to Hamburg, kept it going long distance, and now they were together again. Paul went out most nights with him, sometimes not coming back to their rooms over the Top Ten until the morning, the bites on his neck not covered by his collar and walking like he'd been thoroughly fucked. John curled his hands into white-knuckle fists and nearly swallowed his tongue a few times, watching him.
"You know what you're doing?" John said to Paul one morning, sitting on his bunk and dressing in last night's clothes. "This is treasonous behavior. Sleeping with the enemy. They bombed the shit out of us during the war and now you're going steady with one of them."
"I don't see how it's any different from you shagging every girl you make eye contact with," Paul said, making his bed, just like he did at home and his dad told him to. "They're just as German as he is."
"I'm not dating them. A shag is a shag, a slag is a slag, it doesn't mean anything."
"And what about Stuart and Astrid? They're pretty steady from what I can tell."
"Astrid's one of the good ones. For all we know your little boyfriend was a member of the party back in the day." John held two fingers between his nose and upper lip and thrust his arm up in a Nazi salute. "Sieg heiling up and down the Grosse Freiheit or whatever it was called in those days."
"He was a baby during the war, just like us." Paul grabbed his boots from under his bed and started walking out of the room. "And before you say anything else, his parents weren't Nazis either. His grandmother was from Wales."
The enemy that Paul was providing aid and comfort to was named Daniel. He was an associate of Klaus and Astrid, one of the Exis who wore only black and smoked his ciggies like someone was going to take them away from him. They had met when he'd come to the Indra with them one night the year before. Klaus bought a round of drinks after the set, and Paul had crammed himself into the booth next to Daniel. John hadn't thought much of it until he looked over and saw, even through the haze of beer, that Daniel's hand was on Paul's thigh and Paul was smiling at him and letting his legs open ever so slightly. Daniel had light brown hair the color of brackish river water, blue eyes even bigger than Paul's, and skin like a china doll. He spoke English, studied philosophy at the university, and always carried a notebook and pen with him in case he had a thought worth writing down. Paul was obsessed with him. John loathed him.
The band left Hamburg after the first trip in disgrace, emaciated and broke, and the one small comfort John took in his ignoble departure was that Paul was sure to break things off with Daniel and put all his focus back on his music. The thought kept him warm for the two weeks he stayed in bed and didn't talk to anyone, ignoring Mimi clucking over him and not even looking at his guitar. It was for the best. He would say as much to Paul when they saw each other. He knew that Paul would be the one to reach out to him first, and when the phone rang he didn't mind sliding out of bed in his t-shirt and briefs to answer it. "My dad's at work," Paul said. "Bacon butties and a pack of ciggies. Don't leave me alone with Mike."
"What's young Mick up to?"
"He got a new Kodak and he keeps jumping out from behind corners with it. I've got spots in my eyes from the flash. Come on."
John did like a bacon buttie and a cigarette. He got dressed and walked across the golf course. Paul was still too skinny, flesh beyond baby fat melted away during those famished days at the Indra, but there was color in his face and he was in a good mood. "Go on up, I'll be there in a minute," he said, nodding towards the staircase. "Have to finish the sandwiches."
"And a cuppa, yeah?"
"I'll burn your bacon like you like it. Off with you. I've got some lyrics on my desk, have a look."
In Paul's room John settled himself at the desk and started rifling through the sheets of paper Paul had left out. There were some good lines, and some that could be improved, and a few rejects. He moved aside a pile of paper and found an opened envelope at the very bottom. Picking it up, he saw the delicate handwriting, the return address and postmark from Hamburg, multiple sheets of folded paper poking out. He didn't hesitate before unfolding them and having a look. Dearest Paul, the letter began. Hamburg is colder without you.
Daniel, that fuck. He'd sent Paul a love letter, probably paying out the nose to mail it from Hamburg. Writing his little missive with one hand and pulling on himself with the other, most likely. John flicked through the pages - five of them, five pages of Daniel vomiting his feelings up. I miss you, he said. Please write to me, he said. Paul, mein Schatz, he said, and John knew what that meant, he'd heard it from the whores in the Reeperbahn. Who was this university cunt acting like he owned Paul? He didn't own Paul, couldn't have him, John wouldn't let anyone take Paul. John's fists tightened around the letter, paper crunching. The only thing that stopped him from shredding it right there was the sound of the stairs creaking. No way could he blame it on the drink or the Prellies. He quickly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope, shoving it back into the pile, and putting on an air of nonchalance as Paul walked in, a plate with two sandwiches in one hand, two mugs in the other, and a cigarette pack in his front pocket. "Like what you see?"
No. "Looks good," John said. "Could be better."
"Show me."
Paul didn't talk about Daniel, and John didn't ask. It was best to keep the news under wraps. Paul was already accused of being a queer for having delicate features, like an accident of birth like the arrangement of his face was responsible for what got him off. Stu got a taste of the same treatment, too, because he looked like James Dean and it was given knowledge among the local unwashed that all film actors were benders. Stu was an artist, too, which gave them further ammunition. John never paid it much mind. He'd heckled and jeered with the best of them, but Stu was different. Stu was mature, even though he was only four months older, and he knew things. He knew about art, and painting, how to take what was in your head and spread it on a canvas so people could know you. There were times that John thought that, maybe, he was heading for something with Stu. Exactly what, he wasn't sure. They painted together, shared a tiny student flat, stayed up all night talking about religion and literature and the future. The thought that there could be another step didn't scare John. He would have been willing to make it, if Stu was going to meet him there. But then Stu met Astrid, and anyone could see they were made for each other. After that Stu lost a bit of the luster he had in John's eyes, and Paul gained a little.
It was four months between staggering home in hungry defeat and going back to reclaim their glory in Hamburg. Paul had briefly gotten a job, but gave it up after John convinced him to. They played Litherland Town Hall, the Casbah, Aintree Institute, Lathom Hall. After coming home from Hamburg John had sat with his thoughts and asked himself seriously if he wanted to keep going as a musician: long nights, no money, sweating in seedy clubs and getting deported. For a moment Mimi had a glimmer of hope that he might give up music and get a job, but it was a passing mood. On stage, he watched Paul drip with sweat as he threw himself around and played his guitar like it was an extension of his dick. He'd never be able to give up the sight. He couldn't let anyone else even dream of taking his place at Paul's side. Daniel might have been his boyfriend but John was his best mate, band mate, songwriting partner, the one who was going to take him all the way to the top.
If there were more letters from Daniel, John didn't see them. He was over at Paul's house two or three days a week, eating fried eggs and listening to the radio between writing sessions. Sometimes the songs came easily, at the piano or on their guitars, but other times it was like trying to find hen's teeth. Frustration built, and there was an excellent way to dissipate it. "I'm sick of this one," John said one afternoon, tossing his pencil at the wall of Paul's room. "Can't make it any better."
"You don't have any suggestions?"
"Well," John drawled, pressing his palm against his groin. "Suppose I've got one. To get us in a more relaxed state of mind."
They sat next to each other on the bed, backs against the wall and legs bent over the side, eyes forward. John took the lead, as he usually did. "That platinum blonde we saw at the Indra," he said, taking himself in hand and stroking slowly. "She was something, wasn't she? Gave it up to anyone who bought her a drink. Looked good, though."
Paul made a short noise of agreement. He was going faster, squirming as he went. Always eager for the finish. He had to learn to enjoy the ride. John kept talking. "Good thing I've got my poster there, yeah?" he said.
"Yeah," Paul said, sounding distracted.
"Ah, Brigitte," John sighed, picking up his speed as he felt his orgasm building to its peak. "Perfect skin. Blonde hair. Tits until next week. God, her mouth on your dick. Those lips."
Paul let out a soft whine. John looked over at him without moving his head. Paul had tilted his head back; his mouth was slightly open, soft lips twitching, and his eyes were closed. John watched his Adam's apple bob up and down in time with his quick, shallow breathing. He was going to come first, John thought, just by looking at the way he was frantically working on himself. "Think of that," John said, wanting to help him along, nearly there himself. "Brigitte on her hands and knees, tits falling out of her blouse, taking your prick in her mouth -"
"Daniel," Paul breathed, barely audible.
Instantly John lost all momentum. He came weakly over his hand, heart slowing and stomach dropping. Paul managed to drag himself along for another few seconds, drawing it out as long as he could, before coming like a shot on his stomach. John stayed rooted to the spot as Paul got up and got the tissues to clean up. He gave no indication that he'd just said his boyfriend's name during a wank. What if he hadn't heard himself? He was lucky it was just John and there weren't any other blokes there. Maybe that was why he'd let himself say it.
John didn't initiate another wank for the rest of the time they were home. When they went back to Hamburg, there was no need: sex was everywhere in the Reeperbahn, oozing out of the walls and coming up out of the storm drains. Shops selling prophylactics, dirty books, and toys were on every corner; as soon as night fell the street walkers came out of hiding and beckoned the men walking by. The Top Ten was full of birds who wanted a piece of the new house band, and John, George, and Pete were only too happy to oblige. Stu picked up where he'd left off with Astrid. When John watched them together, looking into each other's eyes like the chaos around them was just background noise, he felt a quick stab of envy for the both of them, for what could have been. But he had more pressing issues. Their first night at the Top Ten, Daniel was in the audience, and when the set ended at two Paul jumped off the stage and onto Daniel, kissing him so hard that they could probably tell what the other had for breakfast. They disappeared shortly after. Not even the slag John picked up an hour later got his mind off it. In the morning Paul staggered back to their room, bites prominent on his neck and legs shaking. Distance hadn't cooled them off at all.
The days melted into each other and turned into weeks. John preferred to stay drunk and Prellie'd so he wouldn't have to think about Paul and Daniel. He still did, of course, but he told himself that it was because he wanted to, not because he couldn't think of anything else. When he was horny and didn't have a girl he thought about Paul, wondered how he liked it, as he stroked himself. Was Paul on top or bottom? How did he suck cock - the lips were perfect for it, but was he clumsy and let his teeth get in the way, or was he smooth and skilled? He thought and wondered until he came hard enough that his back arched. It just felt good to want something, almost as much as it hurt. It felt like it meant something.
One night, or morning, John pushed himself away from the table where he'd been drinking and stumbled off, trying to remember where the toilet was. For once he thought maybe he'd drunk too much. He knew that he hadn't eaten since that morning. He tongued a sore in his mouth that wouldn't heal, and wondered idly if he was coming down with scurvy. Living on cornflakes and cheap sausages would do that to a body. He was remembering the fresh fruit Mimi got when she had a little extra money when he found a door and decided to open it, figuring that it was either the toilet or at least somewhere he could piss. At first he was glad to see the back alley but seeing the shape of two people pressed against the wall stopped him from stepping out. He closed the door to a sliver and looked out, not wanting to disturb anything. "Let me," the man said, in a soft, familiar German accent. "It's been too long."
"Only a day," Paul said. Fuck. "You're insatiable. You're sure we won't be seen?"
"Of course not. Nobody comes here."
"Go on, then."
John closed the door even further, until he could only look with one eye. His piss-poor vision kept him from seeing the finer details but they were only a few yards away. Paul had his back against the wall, and Daniel was flush against him. They were kissing like they were about to be executed. Daniel moved away from Paul's mouth to kiss and nip at his neck, pulling his shirt down to start on his collarbone. Paul let out a whimper and let his head loll to the side. So that was how he looked when he was about to be fucked. John pressed his palm to his groin, feeling himself getting hard as he watched Paul. "Do it," Paul said. "I need you."
"With pleasure," Daniel said, slowly lowering himself down to his knees and opening Paul's fly. Without another word he took Paul in his mouth, making Paul toss his head back and let out a moan. John couldn't stop himself from unzipping himself and taking his own cock in his hand, pumping as he watched Paul get the blowjob of his life. He kept in time with Paul, picking up his speed as Paul got close to coming, closing his eyes and imagining that he could feel Paul's mouth around him - Christ, that mouth. He opened his eyes and saw Paul grasping at the wall behind him, fingernails scratching the bricks, mouth open in a perfect O, making a strangled noise from the back of his throat as he came. John came at the sight, into his pants. At least he was wearing his leather trousers, and no one would know. He zipped and adjusted himself as Daniel got up and gave Paul another kiss. He swallowed. Not even the girls swallowed.
John took off so they wouldn't see him. He forgot why he'd been there in the first place. Back at the bar, he drank more, speculating loudly and at length on Daniel's parentage, education, the size of his penis, and his eternal destination, to no one in particular, until he collapsed.
They kept going in circles, Paul with Daniel and John with the nameless birds who'd do anything after midnight. The songs ran together until they all sounded the same. John drank until the beer lost its taste and took so many pills he thought he would vibrate out of his skin. It seemed like nothing would change until the night John found himself in their room alone, lying on his bed only a little drunk, thinking about going out to find something to eat or a girl to fuck, when the door banged open and Paul came storming in. "Who pissed in your cornflakes?" John asked.
"What do you care? I thought you'd be deep in some slag by now."
"Can't decide if I'd rather fuck or have dinner. You didn't answer my question."
Paul sat down on his bed, stripped his jacket and pulled his boots off. "If you find a girl, do me a favor and don't bring her back here. I can't take it tonight."
"Because?"
"It's over with me and Daniel."
John's first instinct was to jump up in celebration. He stayed put and said, mildly, "Is it, then?"
"Yeah. All he wants to do is screw or talk philosophy. I was tired of it. He doesn't even listen to music that much. There's only so many times you can have sex instead of a conversation."
"I don't know, I've never wanted for conversation with the birds."
"You wouldn't." Paul peeled his black t-shirt off, balled it up, pitched it at John's head and missed by a foot. "You're mostly a fuck and run type."
"Not all the time. When I find someone worth talking to. Not often, though." John sat up. Paul was down to his drainies and socks. "You'll be fine. A pretty face like yours, somebody's going to be sitting on it soon enough. I always thought you could do better anyway."
"Yeah?"
"Daniel was a pretentious little oik. And I bet he had a small dick."
"His dick was fine," Paul said, "but it didn't make much difference to me because I was always on top."
John's heart nearly seized. "Not that you'd know, from what you saw," Paul continued. "Most people aren't as blind as you are. I could see you peeking through the door, you dirty boy."
"I -"
"I'm not angry with you. I didn't mind. I was surprised it took that long for you to catch us. I wanted you to see."
John sat up, the tips of his ears getting hot and the rest of him going cold. "Why?"
"Because I thought maybe you'd stop circling me and do something about it." Paul got up and joined John on his small, creaky bed. "You're right, I could do better. You're right here, aren't you?"
"This whole time we could have been having it off with each other."
"I thought you were going after Stu."
"He went with Astrid."
"You still didn't do anything about it."
"Fuck's sake, Paul. You're impossible."
Paul smiled and ran the tip of his tongue around the rim of his lips. "Go on, then. Show me what I've been missing."
John didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed Paul's shoulders and pulled him in for an open-mouthed kiss, sucking on his perfect blowjob lips before pushing him down on the bed and yanking his trousers and pants down. "Still a pigeon chest," John said, as he pulled Paul's socks off and then frantically stripped himself. "But you'll do."
"Fuck off." Paul stretched out, like he was one big muscle. His cock, already half-hard, lay against his thigh. "Come on, Johnny. Make me forget about him."
"First things first." John sat down on the bed with his back against the wall. "You know how long I've been thinking about your mouth?"
"How long, Johnny?"
"The more you keep talking the longer I have to go without." He took his cock in his hand and began stroking languidly. "What are you waiting for?"
Paul was better than John hoped. He had a firm hold on John's thighs as he sucked, soft lips ringed around him. John threaded his fingers into Paul's thick hair and pushed him down just a little, curious to find out how much he could take, and when Paul's only response was to him and keep going John pushed him further until he was all the way in Paul's warm mouth. He knew he could come just from this but he wanted more. "Stop." John yanked on Paul's hair. Paul lifted off and wiped his mouth. He looked so pleased with himself. "I'm not through with you yet."
John went into the dresser and grabbed the little container of Vaseline that they used on their hair or for a quick wank before jumping back onto the bed and straddling Paul. He opened the Vaseline and scooped out a generous amount with two fingers, applying it to Paul and then himself before lying down on top of Paul and beginning to rut against him, cocks sliding together as they kissed. John wanted Paul to fill every sense, wanted to touch his warm, smooth skin; to smell him, sweat and leather and the cheap soap they made do with; to hear him moan and sigh underneath him, not just that night but every night; to see him blush pink and toss his head back; to taste him, his mouth and his cock. He wanted all of Paul, all the time, forever.
"Ah, John," Paul moaned, rolling his hips. "You feel good. Right there."
"I need more," John growled, nipping at Paul's earlobe. "You need it. Gotta get inside you."
"So do it."
Paul was no edge of the bed virgin, someone who would blush and giggle and only go halfway, oh no. He'd had plenty of practice. John got up and went back to the Vaseline, scooping out more and coating his finger before pushing Paul's legs open and kneeling between them. "Christ, you're good," he said, pressing his finger into Paul's sensitive cleft and then up inside, making Paul arch his back and let out an open-mouthed whine. "You feel so good. How many times did he do this to you, Paulie?"
"A few," Paul breathed. "But he was rough. Not smooth like you."
"I'm better than him, am I?"
"Yeah. Yeah, you are."
John found his rhythm and Paul followed him, moving his hips and tensing as John added a second finger. "Don't come for me yet," John said, slowly pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the sheet. "I've got one more trick up my sleeve."
"Fuck me."
"Ask me nicer," John said, bending down and running the tip of his tongue up the length of Paul's election. "Go on."
Paul arched his back, sucked in air through his teeth. "Please," he hissed.
"Now?"
"Yes." Paul reached up, wrapped his hand around John's cock, brushed the pad of his thumb over the slit. "Please."
John slicked himself one last time. Paul repositioned, let his legs spread and open as far as he could. John lay down between Paul's legs, pinned his wrists to the bed, and slowly pushed in. Paul made a noise between a gasp and a moan as John began to thrust, as the underside of his cock rubbed against John's lower stomach. "Faster," Paul moaned, so John picked up his speed. Paul felt amazing, warm and tight, and the way he squirmed and whimpered on the bed was almost too much. It was better than he thought it would be. Paul rocked his hips in time with John, sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, arched his back. "I'm -"
"Yeah?"
"I'm gonna - "
"Yeah?" John repeated, with a smile, and before Paul could say anything John pushed in deeper, pressed down harder on Paul's cock, and Paul couldn't hold back another second. John let go a second later, releasing Paul's hands to grip the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white. He pulled out and collapsed onto the bed, stars on the edge of his vision and heart pounding. Even though he'd been on top John felt like he was the one who had been thoroughly fucked.
Paul got out of bed and dug around in his trouser pockets until he found his ciggies. He got back into bed, put two in his mouth, lit them, and passed one to John. It was like watching a cat wash its paws after murdering a defenseless mouse. "Got it out of your system, did you?" he said, blowing a smoke ring.
"Suppose I did."
"Feel better?"
"Yeah." John took the ciggie out of his mouth and lifted his head. "Am I really better than him?"
"No contest."
"Why him?"
Paul shrugged. "Didn't think you'd get over yourself and try. He was interested."
"But it's over with him?"
"Completely."
They smoked until the ciggies were down to nubs and stubbed them out in the ashtray on the dresser. John decided that he could eat, so they got dressed in the clothes they'd torn off and went out into the Reeperbahn for something cheap. On the pavement, John shoved his hands into his pockets and let his shoulder bump against Paul's. Nobody was going to take them away from each other, ever.