I was turning out the lights and headed for bed just in my sleeping shorts at nearly 3:00 a.m. when the doorbell rang. I opened the door of my New Orleans Garden District Victorian house to two black men. The scrawny, nearly bent-over one I knew: Trayvon, who played piano--and damn well too--at various jazz and bar venues in the French Quarter. The other man, almost ebony black, towering, young, a mass of muscle, and gorgeous, I'd never seen before. I would have remembered if I had.
"Tray said he lived here," the hunk said rather hesitantly in a deep baritone voice. He was carrying a duffel bag on one shoulder, a saxophone case on the other, and was holding Trayvon up, doing it all with no difficulty.
"He does. Not right here, though. He lives in the cottage in the garden behind the house. You can help him around to there," I said.
"Thanks, Mon," the gorgeous hunk said, and, supporting a grinning and obviously drunk-as-a-skunk Trayvon, he moved off the porch and took the flagstone pathway around the side of the house to the back.
Or you could come inside and entertain me, I mumbled to myself when they were gone. I couldn't resist a hunk of a black man. I went to the back of the house, in the dark, to check on whether they got to Trayvon's cottage safely. I turned on the floodlights back there to ease their passage. Trayvon wasn't a servant. He'd come with the house I'd inherited from my uncle. Uncle James, known as Jimmy the Man here, had owned a couple of nightclubs in the French Quarter. Trayvon, now close to hitting forty but seeming more sixty when he was drunk, had played piano for my uncle on demand as needed and, in return, had been permitted to stay in the cottage. When my uncle died, Trayvon hadn't made any move to depart as well. I had no need for the cottage and enjoyed Trayvon's company from time to time, so he still was here.
The big black hunk, I knew nothing about. But, having seen the saxophone case hanging off his shoulder, I had an idea about him. Trayvon was good about bringing home stray musicians--especially ones who would top him. Trayvon was also good about getting drunk in the process of recruiting a guy to top him. He wouldn't like anything better than for this guy who'd dragged him home to stay the night and hump him while Tray was half out of it.
I stood at the kitchen window, watching the men reach the cottage and the living room and front porch lights come on there. The duffel bag went into the living room and Trayvon dropped into a chair on the front porch. The hunk went inside and the cottage's kitchen lights went on. After a few minutes, the hunk came out with two cans of beer. It was a hot night, and he'd stripped down to his briefs, and he was a gorgeous, muscular, six-and-a-half-foot tall ebony god.
The ebony god handed Trayvon a beer, but he also dipped his face down to Trayvon's and they must have kissed. Trayvon wasn't completely out of it. He put one arm around the hunk's waist, pulling him in, fished a massive cock out of the man's briefs, and took the shaft into his mouth, giving the man head.
That heated me up, my hand went down under the waistband of my sleeping shorts, and I stroked myself. I hadn't had any in a while and was keyed up by the sheer sexuality of the black giant.
After a few minutes, the hunk picked Trayvon up and turned him in the chair so that he was in the chair on his knees with his arms dangling off the back. His trousers and briefs were puddled on the deck next to the chair. The hunk's briefs landed on top of those and, naked, with plump and firm butt cheeks that tightened and relaxed in a steady cadence, he saddled up behind Trayvon and fucked him. It wasn't long before the hunk pulled Trayvon out of the chair, carried him into the cottage, and I saw around at the side of the cottage that lights had come on in Trayvon's bedroom behind the living room.
My eyes had focused on the movement of those muscular glutes as the unnamed hunk fucked Trayvon, and, before he carried Trayvon into the house, I'd released my load into the kitchen sink.
It wasn't more than ten minutes later that the hunk came back out of the house, slipped his briefs back on, took the saxophone out of the case, and sat in the chair he'd fucked Trayvon in and began to play a mournful tune, "Slow Blues." He did know how to play the saxophone.
I didn't hesitate. I pulled two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels out the cupboards and went out into the garden through the kitchen door and to the front porch of the cottage. He didn't seem all that surprised to see me, and smiled as I poured him a glass of bourbon and handed it to him.
"You blow a mean saxophone," I said, not mentioning that it was 3:30 in the morning in a residential neighborhood. If the neighbors didn't appreciate good music, fuck 'em. He'd picked a smooth, quiet tune.
"Thanks, Mon," he said, swigging on the bourbon I'd given him. "I saw you watchin' us through your window," he said, pinning that down.
"Yeah, I did."
"But you didn't call the cops or anything."
"No, I didn't. I know how it is with Trayvon. Is he all right?" I asked.
"He zonked out on me. I don't keep doin' a guy who's totally out of it. What's he to you--he out here and you in the house? You alone in that big house?"
"Yes, I'm alone in the house," I answered, with a low laugh. "I inherited it. Inherited Trayvon too. He was here, in the cottage, when I got here. He stayed. Nothing between us. He worked for my uncle--who left me the house."
"And you were fine sticking with watching me fuck him?"
"Yeah, I'm fine with that," I said.
"You both bottoms--both you and Tray?"
"Why do you ask?" I said, surprised.
"He told me that the guy living in the house took cock."
"Yes, we're both bottoms," I admitted.
"You got some black in you, do you? I think I see something."
"Yes, I guess I do. I haven't thought much about it. My uncle--my mother's brother--was a quadroon--one quarter black. My mother was too. That's not unusual here in New Orleans. I guess that makes me an octoroon. My father was white. That's even more common in New Orleans. Why do you ask?"
"I don't do whites."
"Good to know," I said. "My name is Hendrix--Henny for short." I probably should have told him then what I did for a living here--that I booked musicians for gigs in the French Quarter. I worked. The house was a nice one in a rich neighborhood, but I had inherited it and I wasn't independently wealthy or anything. I worked for my money. It may have saved some time and effort if I had told I him I worked with musicians, but I didn't. I was reeling a bit from his self-confidence and directness.
"I'm Darius," he said, fiddling around with his sax.
"How do you know Trayvon, Darius?" I asked. "And are you just passing through?"
