I thought I was going to be sick. His mother asked him to entertain us, to play something for us on the piano, and the pert-butt blond tossed the curl out of his face and flowed over to the piano and started to fill the room with Chopin. I'd had this kid in my craw for a good fifteen years, and all I wanted to do was to slam him to the floor and fuck the stuffing out of him. And that was when he was just a series of pictures and narratives in letters from his mother to mine. And now here he was in the flesh, Mr. Perfect. And, damn if he didn't play Chopin like a concert pianist.
His mother, Belle, and mine had gone to school together—more than that, they'd been in the same little social clique from kindergarten through high school in a very small town. Belle had been told she couldn't have any kids. And she didn't have any kids until very late in life, and then there was Jon; her pride and joy. I was the third of five my mother had birthed and was six years old when Jon was born. Mother hadn't thrown it up to Belle that she could have kids at a drop of a hat and Belle couldn't, but from the moment Jon popped out, Belle thought he was the only kid in the world and had made a career out of pushing that idea with all her friends and one upping any talent or achievement mentioned about any other kid in town. And I think she called my mother every day of her life and had a camera implanted between her tits, so she—and all of her friends—wouldn't miss any of the wonderful things Jon was doing.
We lived half a continent away from her, but every time I turned around, my mother was reporting the latest trip to the top of Everest that Jon had taken—walked and talked and pooped where he was supposed to months before any other kid. Straight As at school and first prizes in art, and baseball, and football, and archery, and swimming, and, of course, piano and violin and trumpet. Prom king and a child TV model, and he'd almost made the Olympics as a gymnast. Two years ago he'd graduated from high school (valedictorian, of course) and enlisted in the Navy, where he went off for a two-year stint and saved the world.
When I'd agreed to drive my mother for a visit with her friend, Belle, I steeled myself for Belle's litany of Jon's superlatives, but little had I known that he arrived home just a few days before our visit, finished with his naval duty, where he'd risen to officer status faster than any other known sailor, but had left the Navy because he'd been accepted at Yale for the coming semester.
I was trying my best to be polite, but I know that if Belle had noticed I was in the room at all while she was talking a mile a minute at my mom, she would have caught my sullen looks and, no doubt, compared them unfavorably with her son's perpetual perfect-teeth smile. As it was, as soon as Jon had finished at the piano, she launched into a glowing review of Jon's life with my mother and lost track of both me and Jon altogether.
This turned out to be a very good idea, because Jon came over and flashed me a very warm smile, told me I looked real hot in my jeans and sport coat, and plopped down very near me on a sofa.
"So, how did you like my rendering of Chopin?" he asked me.
"Sounded great to me," I answered. "But I admit that I'm not much of a piano expert."
"It helps to have good fingers," he said, and held up two hands showing very nice, long fingers. When he brought the hands back down, though, one went to the side of my thigh and fanned out. I felt my cock come to life, and I'm sure he noticed that, because my jeans were pretty tight—and my cock is supersized.
"But I'll bet you're more of a trumpet man," he went on to say. "I blow . . . a pretty mean trumpet too, I'm told."
Yes, that's what I'm told ad nauseam too is what I wanted to say. But, instead, I said, "So, did they let you blow the trumpet in the Navy? I mean, you didn't get out of practice, I hope."
