B & G

Chapter 1-3

“Lovely!”

“And the Manfred Overture will be just before intermission. The first half of the program will be fairly short, actually.”

“Surely there will be something before the Manfred.”

“Yes, and that’s where you come in.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Colin Fiske, the conductor of the group, would like to do the Konzertstuck for Four Horns.”

I smiled broadly. “Great piece! Very showy, very melodic, lots of bravura stuff for the horns.”

It was the dean’s turn to smile. “I’m glad you agree. You see, we’d like you to be one of the quartet of horns.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Roger Burton, who is our professor of French horn, will be playing, along with his two best students. But Roger doesn’t have anyone else he thinks is really up to it. We’ve all heard about your playing, and we’d be pleased if you’d make the fourth member.”

“I admit I’ve always wanted to play that piece. So, dean, I’m flattered. And honored.”

She stood and gave me her hand. She had a lovely, almost motherly smile as she said, “That’s wonderful. It will be a nice way to introduce you as a performer and not just as a writer of elegant program notes. Lavonne will give you Colin’s office number. Why don’t you call him and tell him we’ve talked?”

I said I’d do that. As I walked back to my office, I was amazed anyone here knew about my playing. I’d perhaps mentioned somewhere in my vita I played horn, but I was so focused on music history I certainly didn’t emphasize it. Yet the dean or someone must have been in touch with someone back in New York. Well, great! I was really looking forward to playing with three other hornists and the symphony.

It was a hectic fall. I tried to get to all the individual student recitals and the recitals of the various ensembles. It took more time than I expected writing the notes for the programs of all the ensemble recitals. There were also my classes, of course, plus rehearsals in October and November for the orchestra concert at which I was to perform.

Gabe, the hunky electrician whose ass I often fantasized about, was at many of the recitals. He cleaned up good, usually wearing a pair of dress slacks, a nice sport shirt or sweater, and well-polished loafers. Sometimes he’d wear a blazer or jacket with a shirt open at the collar. A couple of times he invited me to a local bar afterward.

The first time that happened, he suggested a place some distance from campus. It was not too busy at ten o’clock on a weeknight, and we got a booth where we could talk without having to yell.

“Brent, I don’t know whether you’re a wine drinker or not, but if you are, don’t order the house wines. They have some pretty decent wines, but you have to specify what you want.”

“I would have had a beer with you, Gabe, if that’s what you had chosen, but I’d prefer a glass of wine. Why don’t you order for both of us?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Red or white?”

“Surprise me.” I grinned at him. He surely did look good. His baby blue turtleneck complemented his intense blue eyes. My heart rate increased as I studied his handsome face, and my c**k, semi-hard already, became totally rigid. I had to adjust myself under the table as he ordered the wine.

He chose Columbia Crest Chardonnay. The first sip was fine, and I told him so. After that, I could have been drinking swill, for I was so engrossed in Gabe that I didn’t taste the wine. I drank it, and a second glass, I just wasn’t aware of what it tasted like, perhaps because I was fantasizing about other fluids.

We talked about the music we’d just heard, about the Browns and the Bengals, about the upcoming elections. Not only was this guy great to look at, but he was also well read and very articulate. I felt completely comfortable with him—except for my constant hard-on. He was thoughtful sometimes, witty at others, just very good company.

The second time we came to that place we had a nice Australian shiraz, but I can’t remember the name of it. That evening I was still fascinated by Gabe. I just couldn’t reconcile this intelligent, obviously cultured guy with the electrician who wore work boots and jeans and worked for B & G. But he’d told me that he’d explain that sometime, and I decided I should just be patient and let him tell me when he was ready. I didn’t want to botch the whole thing and come across looking like a patronizing ass. As we talked, I enjoyed his company greatly, but there was a lot more I wanted to discover about Gabe Sutton.

That night in bed I fantasized, as I had so many nights, about Gabe. He was probably four or five years older than me, which would put him just under thirty. When I was with him, I felt awkward and immature. And I wasn’t used to feeling that way. I was used to being on stage as a soloist and in performing groups. I had taught as I worked on my doctorate. I usually managed to hold up my end of conversations at social gatherings. But my tongue, even my mind, had two left feet, so to speak, when I was around Gabe.

I beat off imagining his naked body lying on mine as he deep kissed me and humped his hard c**k against mine. Or, in another favorite fantasy, I first rimmed and then f****d that ample ass. I’d seen it so often on campus covered in khakis or in faded jeans. I threw wood every time I saw it, and I lusted after it. Oh, and there was also the fantasy of me lying on my back, feet locked around his waist, as he plowed me.

But, of course, I had had no indication, no signal whatever from him that he was anything but straight. Except that he did stop by my office fairly often, usually just to say hello, and we had almost a standing date to go for a drink after recitals and concerts.

It scared me that I was so attracted to this man. I’d never allowed myself to get close to anyone. I’d always told myself I’d be opening myself up for a world of hurt if I did. Not the physical kind of pain I had when I was beaten up in high school, but emotional pain, very likely. But the appeal of Gabe Sutton was so strong, I found myself willing to risk it.