Piano Study

Preface:

First-time performances abroad – in Athens – lead our young artists into contact with a highly specialized audience and new men who will matter mightily. I invite you to come along for this first part of the adventure. And please remember the opportunity to register your approval/enjoyment/delight at the end.

Talents honed over our next year, repertoires expanded, Michael and Ramses were ready to be exposed before a discerning public. My contacts, the Apollyons, due to Joe’s successes on Santorini, scrutinized videos of both and agreed. The Athenian Conservatory consented to provide its recital hall for a series, “Discovering Pianists,” a series of three solo programs for invited audiences.

I had not known of a secret, worldwide organization called The Hyacinthus Union. Its wealthy membership– paired couples consisting of an erastês and his erômenos – peopled the hall. Monies provided covered our travel. We four were housed in the vast apartment of Pavlos Pisauris, a man of means with a taste for teens.

Civil to me, he was overly anxious to impress my boys. How his eyes traced their outlines and features, and followed their movements! Joe’s body language – assured – spoke to him so intensely that it was obvious to me why the Apollyons had placed us with him. That, and the fact that he had a Fazioli concert grand “exactly like the Conservatory’s.”

Pavlos’ on-premises staff took very good care of us, and stayed largely out of sight except when needed. If their employer wanted them to be attentive to his guests, they were. Around only mornings and evenings due to complex business meetings, Pavlos clearly craved to see more of the boys. He did chance to see Ramses wearing only his pyjama bottoms while walking unannounced in a corridor.

“Such a torso,” he exclaimed to me, face aglow.

“I expect that, after his recital tonight, if it goes as he’s prepared it to, that he may be willing to let you see all of him.”

The program, planned for an uninformed but civilized audience, began with Beethoven’s Pathétique and Moonlight Sonatas (both of which contained music familiar worldwide). Ramses delivered them as Classical portals swinging wide on Romanticism’ early effusiveness. Better interpretations could not have been known to the hundreds who heard them.

Liszt’s Third and Tenth Hungarian Rhapsodies may have been first hearings for all but there was such clamor that the Tenth had to be encored before intermission. Some catamites literally were jumping with Lisztian energy – hinting at reserves for post-recital fun in bed.

Ramses’ second part started with Gershwin’s Three Preludes and a solo arrangement of

Rhapsody in Blue (ending with Sanroma’s added glissando – a smash, need I tell you). For contrast, he offered Respighi’s calm Notturno, then ended with Gould’s hyped-up Boogie-Woogie Etude.

Acknowledgments by Ramses of the audience’s enthusiasm eventually included two encores: the Shostakovich Polka (pizzicato and glockenspiel effects) and Copland’s Cat and Mouse (a cartoon-like musical chase scene). Pandemonium!

Every boy, every man wanted to get their hands on Ramses, but Michael, Joe and I, with Pavlos driving his Bentley, managed to spirit him out and away and back to our accommodations – safely. We had cheeses, grapes, and bottled water for refreshment, Pavlos so carried away that he had to be reminded about crackers.

With Pavlos’ back turned, Joe whispered something to Ramses, whose half-smile showed he knew what to do. The little snack over, Michael and I enjoyed the sight of Joe keeping a straight face as Ramses positioned himself before the seated Pavlos. Looking the man directly in the eyes, Ramses lifted his shirt high to reveal a button-like navel and the ripples of a tight abdomen.

Pavlos grew light-headed at what was inches from his face.

Ramses sensed the effect this little of himself was having on our host, so unfastened the dampened shirt from its bottom up, saving his luminous, near-golden pectorals and their dark, prominent nipples for last. Keeping eyes focused on Pavlos, he opened his belt and lowered his zipper. In an inspired move, he turned so that his fine back caught an appreciative gasp in Pavlos’ throat.

There were coughs and sounds of that throat being cleared.

Ramses dropped his pants which fell from sight. Pavlos bit the back of his hand – Ramses’ developed posterior sported a black plug and a wideband athletic supporter the same daunting dark. As that view sank in, Ramses faced Pavlos. His amply outlined pouch held what surely was treasure. A terrible whirl of excitement elevated Pavlos’ desire and markedly shortened his breath.

“Understand,” I broke the spell, “that your need will be unrequited until our series’ end.”

I waved off the boys and said to Pavlos as sympathetically as possible, “You haven’t come under Michael’s spell yet. Don’t over-anticipate.”

***

Michael exuded presence from the moment he took the stage. From his bearing, the slight cant forward of his head at applause, the way he sat simply to the piano and immediately placed his hands on its keyboard, and waited until silence prevailed, men in the audience felt the hairs stand on their forearms, some on the backs of their necks, men whose experience in concert halls informed them of an extraordinary event about to happen.

The Hess arrangement of Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring had not had such cantilena treatment since Dame Myra herself intoned it with infinite dignity. Nor had Schumann;s G-minor Sonata been taken to the extremes demanded by its passionate first, third and fourth movements or been treated to so tearful a Romantic caress as in its Andantino. Brahms’ last Piano Pieces (Op. 119) picked up where the man’s discoverer left off more than thirty years before. High Romanticism charged the house. The E-flat Major Rhapsody thundered to climax like an act of nature.

Scarcely a sound followed Ramses’ removal of his hands from the keyboard – for perhaps three or four seconds, so awestruck was everyone. Then – I need not tell you.

Intermission granted respite. No one was allowed backstage. He and I conferred and shared bottles of water and some Belgian chocolate. Together, we waited until the house resettled and prepared itself to listen.

Griffes’ Roman Sketches insinuated American Impressionism into the audience’s subconscious, reducing any resistance to emotional putty. The room’s light was such that titles could be read: The White Peacock, Nightfall, The Fountain of the Acqua Paola, and Clouds. Michael’s touch made magic – we saw the bird, felt evening moods, got sprinkled by water jets, and watched mentally as forms appeared – whites against blue – in the sky.

His full forces in reserve until the last, Michael launched Liszt’s March of the Three Holy Kings on its inexorable way. The tonal cataclysm of its final pages was devastatingly thrilling – causing many to begin applauding ahead of the last chords. Shrill whistles from boys and bold bravos from men blended into a roar that Michael’s usual composure could not withstand. His smile, slow to form, spread beyond his cheeks almost to his ears.

Minutes piled upon minutes before a single encore could be offered. Michael’s heart-stoppingly sentimental arrangement of Brahms’ Lullabye.

***

Joe had to drive the Bentley. Pavlos could not stop crying. “My dear mother used to sing that to me,” he blathered. “Turn left at the intersection.” A pat to his knee by Joe set off more tears. Safe in the rear seat, the other boys and I sat tight. “Just down there, the garage entrance.” More blubbering.

Joe got Pavlos into bed and joined our expedition into Pavlos’ refrigerator. There was some cheese left; a large, fresh bunch of grapes lay in repose behind a bottle of Krug grand cuvée.

“Surely meant for us,” Michael said. “And a plate of American-style deviled eggs.”

To myself, I thought us lucky not to have been left stuffed grape leaves. Never liked those.

The delight on Ramses’ face spread around the table as bubbles popped from Pavlos’ Baccarat flutes to tickle his nose.  Giddy, he rolled his eyes and started playing handsies with Michael’s crotch.

His wicked humor on the rise, Joe urged, “Do him right here.”

“How about we take Michael into the living room and strip him there?” I suggested. “He was going to tantalize Pavlos anyway. Let’s tantalize him – and not risk breaking one of these,” I lifted my flute for the last swallow.

Michael put up no fight beyond a few attempts to ward off being goosed. In fact, he welcomed Ramses’ mouth to his defrocked erection while Joe and I held his hands to the carpet. Sensing risk after hastily-consumed cheese, grapes, eggs, and champagne – he might gag – Ramses rid himself of all clothes before the spittle he left might have to be renewed, then sat carefully, settling on Michael’s cock in triumph.

“Gotcha!”

This boy in whom I had seen so little…a source of wonder! What a teacher my Michael is!

Further thoughts halted. The telephone rang. Not wanting Pavlos to waken, I answered, “Pisauris residence.”

Joe took control of both of Michael’s hands, stretching fully.

Fortunately, the Grand Officer of The Hyacinthus Union spoke English. “Yes, it is I. Pavlos is in bed. He needed an early night. I’m with my boys. … So pleased to hear that. … Really? That much in a fund will be truly helpful. … Fascinating. Let us refrain until, say, the day after tomorrow’s recital by Joe. … No, I seldom audition piano talents, but Michael and Joe certainly can and will if that will help the cause. … Delighted to be of service to an organization which is doing so much for my boys. … Yes, I’ll convey your message to Pavlos in the morning. He’ll return your call. Absolutely. And a good evening to you, too.”

I had seen Ramses wring an orgasm from Michael, whose mouth he covered while relishing his plunges onto my lover’s spasms. Now, it appeared, he was after another.

I moistened an index finger in my mouth for placement in Michael’s bottom. First though, I diddled his balls to open his legs, then reached between. Joe leaned over to plant a precisely timed full-mouth kiss to prevent Michael’s calling out as I found his prostate and gave it encouragement.

Whatever Ramses did at the same moment, Michael strained upward – and came.

***

Beside himself with excitement, Pavlos put down the ’phone. “I love you all. My business will increase by thirty or forty percent because of you.”

We were puzzled, naturally, but continued with washing and drying breakfast items, nonchalant.

“Executives of major corporations, men I’ve never had dealings with because I couldn’t get to them, they are wanting to meet me – thanks to these recitals. They and their little Ganymedes are so turned on!”

Talk came to him as with others of Mediterranean origin in the form of arm gestures to exclamations. Excitement suggested need to explain. “I’m not in the H.U. but some of my friends are. They considered me safe to house you because I have no boy of my own. They’re jealous of theirs. No one wanted to risk having gay strangers with them – possibly to pose any threat to their relationships. I’m not even into little boys. Well, not since I was one.”

Shock registered on Ramses’ face. “Kids who aren’t in music? Are they kidding? We’ve got each other. We’re like…a unit.”

“Germans call it a Gestalt.”

“Thank you. The voice of authority. But we didn’t know that. We didn’t know anything about you guys, only that the Apollyons vouched for you – and they’re super-influential. I could….”

“Easy does it, Pavlos. There’s one more recital to go. Or have you forgotten…” – I looked Joe’s way – “…who’s performing tonight?”

“No-no-no! Of course not, it’s just so mind-blowing already.”

“Please do yourself a favor and squire these two to see some historical sites. Joe and I must put some things together before the evening.”

Pavlos perked, “Better than that, I’ll take them with me to my office and engage a professional guide to meet us there. I’ve a lot of calls to make. The guide service, Ruins-r-Us, knows Athens better than I do the back of my hand.”

He rubbed his knuckles.

They were soon off. The Fazioli stood ready.

***

Excitement peaked – you might say exploded – when Joe opened his program with a trio of Scarlatti Sonatas. The fast one’s flashing repeated notes and runs glittered! Before and after came the genial beauty of slow ones each finessed to the nth degree.

Oohs and ahhs of admiration preceded a tidal wave of applause. It was as if, while walking onstage and looking at the audience and directing his attention to certain striking faces in the house, Joe had divined a vein through which to communicate directly to musical reactions embedded in everyone

Beethoven’s Sonata, Op. 111 – the juggernaut he performed for us back home – although above the heads of prepubescents, adolescents, and all but the savviest of men – hit home so resoundingly in the first movement (think earthquakes) and with such otherworldly detachment in the second that its profundity held even me in thrall.

A fraction of a second before applause might have destroyed tranquility, Joe held up his right hand until all eyes were on it. He brought his hands together just under his strong chin.

“Gentlemen,” he spoke distinctly, “with your consent, let us not sever this rare connection we have with music by taking the listed intermission. Rather, let me pick up the unique thread which links us through love to what composers confide to us. Listen….”

Schubert’s little A-Major Sonata, sweetest imaginable sequence of movements starting with musical love, passing through broken-heartedness to joyous delight ever written, came to life via Joe’s unerring fingers. I confess to being moved uncommonly. Warmth from the audience touched Joe, who flicked something from under one eye as he nodded from the keyboard.

Ramses elbowed me gently to look at Pavlos. I did, and nudged Michael to, also. “He looks melted,” Michael said within Ramses’ hearing.

My turn to whisper came, “Wait ’til he hears what comes next.”

The solemn theme from Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony in low octaves meant Godowsky’s Passacaglia. Joe’s conception and execution surpassed in thoughtfulness and projection how he played it for us. Perhaps my questions, variation-by-variation and quite personal, during our time together contributed to the mighty edifice of tone which rose in our ears. My every question was answered by Joe’s performance.

Imagine, if you will, the applause. The sight of two small boys coming up to the lip of the stage to offer bouquets of flowers to Joe added to the uproar but not as much as what he did to thank them. Bouquets resting in the bend of one arm, he touched two fingers of the other to his lips and transferred kisses to the boys’ cheeks.

In gratitude, Joe placed the flowers to the Fazioli’s left and sat. He kissed the same two fingers. His mouth puckered as he blew that kiss to the house and recited –

Your love for me gives me my worth,

Your eyes transfigure me in mine own,

You raise me lovingly above myself,

My guardian angels….

Liszt’s transcription of Schumann’s immortal Widmung (Dedication) wrung pangs of love’s joys from within us all, even me. Me, perhaps more than anyone else, since I knew where Joe had come from, where I had taken him – or guided him –  and how, and where he was in the firmament. A star.

The tumult of adulation subsided presently. After speaking intimately for a while, we left for the stage door where the Grand Officer of The Hyacinthus Union had in tow three tall, tuxedoed men and their catamites, dressed also in tailored tuxes with pearl studs in their smartly starched shirts.

“May these boys greet you in our fashion?” Joe was asked. I stood back.

One, first to approach, I recognized as having borne a bouquet to Joe. He looked at Joe’s benign face and touched his right palm to the front of Joe’s pants where it found what it sought.

“Sir.” He stepped back, “Oh, golly,” the boy said to the next in line.

That one and the remaining boy apparently broke with conformity. Both reached for the same place together and palpated the bundle with brief gusto.

“You’ll get a spanking for that”

“You, too.”

Obvious embarrassment in their men’s voices.

“Ahem,” the Grand Officer spoke out. “Mr. Psmith, these are the talented if not entirely well-behaved boys who want to audition for you.”

I took charge. “Joe does not hear auditions because he shortly will go away. His brother Michael Psmith and our associate, Ramses Córdova, will hear the boys who, I take it, have been screened?”

Michael and Ramses arrived with Pavlos and were introduced. Michael nodded, Ramses shook hands.

“Pavlos, be a dear, and give these gentlemen your personal card,” I said. He did so with pride.

To the perfectly behaved boy, I leaned to say, “Make sure your gentleman brings you at four o’clock precisely.”

I pointed to the bolder of the other two, “You they will see at two o’clock,” then looked at his man for confirmation.

To the remaining boy, “You are to be on time at three o’clock.” His man shook my hand.

“By noon tomorrow, I expect we will have our figures for your scholarships,” The Grand Officer informed Ramses and Michael – touching Ramses’ hair and Michael’s neck. He shook Joe’s hand ceremoniously – appraising his body up and down with steely eyes – and bowed, “I personally will contact the Apollyons about our support of their Retreat and you.”

A dazzling young man – no more than fifteen, near-blond hair slicked into place, dressed in a high-collared black-edged crimson uniform – approached from the other direction, respectfully touched the Grand Officer (whose name had never been given) on the crotch, and said, “Sir, your car and I are ready.”

“My cadet. I bid you good night.”

***

I reflected on the Grand Master’s impersonality. Not a word to Joe about his credulity-stretching recital nor any congratulatory mention to Ramses and Michael of their musical achievements. True, he did touch them with what passed as affection. Shook Joe’s hand. More than that, no. He spoke ahead – of money and the three boys’ auditions.

His cadet? What was that about? I shudder.

Huddling with my three, nuzzling them in my arms, kissing them tenderly, I complimented their mastery of instrument and music, the maturity of their interpretations, and their capacity for love.

Michael, his face buried in the nook of my neck opposite his brother, joked, “Getting mushy, isn’t he?”

Ramses, whose ear was against my ribs, joined in, “His heart’s all jumpy. I think he means it.”

Joe’s turn came. As if the three of them were not draped over me on my bed, as if I were not there, he said into my ear but spoke to them, “When you’ve known our greatest teacher as long as I have, you’ll understand he’s really all about love.”

He ran a hand over Ramses’ backside, prompting, “Even when he fucks us?”

“Especially then.”

“Enough!” I flung my arms away. “You’re spoiling my mellow mood. To bed with you – only not you, Joe. You’re spending the night with me. Your comfort is what I need.”

No protest. Nor any word spoken about the tour of Athens.

Michael and Ramses shuffled off.

Peace reigned.

Three chapters lead into this, and may be found here on GayDemon with my other stories.

Adroit use of his eighteen-year-old ass and other wiles, enables a genius-talent in the art world to success in my novel found at Amazon.