"Well, now, that was a real sweet song, Rick," Mr. Haskins said. "You're developing the soft mouth you need to be a great trumpet player. Someday you'll burn up Bourbon Street." Just like those framed newspaper articles on his living room wall said Mr. Haskins had done--if ever so briefly and such a long time ago. "Just a few more years of preparation," he added, as he often said, to keep it all real. He wanted to encourage me but he wasn't about to sacrifice his integrity. I, of course, was possessed by hopeful thinking.
"Thank you, sir," I answered, feeling I was ready for Bourbon Street--whatever that was--now. I didn't want to argue with him, but in two more years I'd be twenty-one. At twenty-one, according to the newspaper clippings, Mr. Haskins had made his mark in New Orleans and would soon be coming back home. There were some things I could do legally until then, but I thought if I hadn't made good with music by then I'd probably end up working at Steele's garage the rest of my life.
"You know what else that soft mouth would be good for now, don't you?"
"Yes, sir." And I did know. I went down on my knees to the man and unzipped him. He was hard enough to just plop out into my hand--and then into my mouth--and I gave him suck. Mr. Haskins gave to me generously with his teaching time. I couldn't have afforded it, if I was paying him in cash money. I wasn't doing anything with or for him that I wasn't do for other men.
After a bit, he murmured in a husky voice, "I think we can take this into the other room now. You can play me a sad song on the trumpet."
The other room was the bedroom in his small farmhouse bungalow on the edge of Rio, in eastern Louisiana, near Highway 21S leading into Mississippi, where he did enough farming by himself to get by when added to what he could make from teaching various musical instruments to folks in this small southern town. I didn't pay in money. I paid in giving servicing to the man, barely forty but already scrawny and played out in a life that hadn't worked out to his satisfaction and had spit him back to rural Louisiana after a brief flash of success. He often said that it was cruel to have given him any success at all if it was going to be that brief.
I didn't want to wind up that way. Two more years in getting professional was a lifetime away.
But he'd been to New Orleans and he'd played his trumpet there in a district he called Bourbon Street. That's what I wanted as well. And, even though barely nineteen, I didn't want to wait. I'd had enough of being shunted between uninterested aunt's house and tired-out other aunt's house where I lived because my mother was in the pen for drugs and I'd never known a father. And the aunts certainly didn't know anymore what to do with me at nineteen than they did when I was a child, when my mother was in the pen before for the same habits she couldn't give up.
"Good thing you were born with straw-blond hair, blue eyes, and a good smile," my aunt had said. "You might make it out of here on the strength of your looks. It's too late for you to do it on the back of academics or sports." I think my aunt had always known that I would be queer and go for men. She didn't show no nevermind. I knew she gone with women as much as men herself.
Yeah, well, I hadn't been given much help with either athletics or sports. I was good enough in sports; I just hadn't concentrated in one of them good enough to win a college scholarship. Conversely, I'd been given a lot of encouragement to give out to men.
I wanted to make it somewhere on the strength of my trumpet playing. I already knew where my good looks and trim, tanned body could get me. I'd been getting favors for giving those favors for over a year. I hadn't gotten to where I'd figured out how to make money off lying on my back, though.
"You lie on your back on the bed and spread your legs and play me a sweet tune," Mr. Haskins said, as I complied and he pulled off my jeans and my briefs. I put the trumpet to my mouth, reclining back on my other elbow, and looked down the length of my sleek but hard-muscled chest--I was bare-chested. I looked down to the top of his bald head, fringed with gray-flecked mousey-brown fuzz, as he took my cock in his mouth and pressed a finger into my hole. When he'd moved down further to tongue my hole, I was panting too hard to continue playing and I laid back on the bed, arms extended, trumpet clutched in one hand, and watched the scrawny, weed-choked land outside his bedroom window.
"Oh, shit, Mr. H. You do me so well," I murmured.
A couple of rubber packets and a tube of lube lay on the bed between me and the window. They'd been there while I was getting my trumpet lesson in the other room. They'd been waiting for us here. This had come down to a routine. I could disconnect from the act itself when I lay here and watched the world beyond the window. He did, in fact, do me real well. He wasn't the looker or the young, muscular guys who sometimes did me. But he was experienced. He knew how to get me off.
I wasn't disconnected from him like I was for some others who I gave it to for money. I liked being fucked. It felt good that men wanted me so bad they'd fuck me, and I particularly liked being fucked by Mr. Haskins. His hands were grasping and squeezing my butt cheeks as he ate me out, and I moved my hips, rocking them against his face, and murmured, "Yes, yes, yes. Do me. Do me hard."
He stood, grasped my ankles and hooked them on his shoulders. He was nuzzled into my pelvis. Leaning over to the side, he picked up a rubber packet, slit it open, and handed it to me. "You know the thing of it. You need to say yes to me sticking my dick in you," he said. "You have to want it. You have to put it on me before I put it in you."
It didn't really matter to him if I wanted it. He just needed something to assure himself for not being able to resist sticking it in me. He told me I was too fine looking for him to deserve. But that didn't stop him from sticking it in me.
I let loose of the trumpet and raised up to him. Putting both hands between our bellies, I placed the tip of the disk to his cockhead and smoothed the rubber down the sides of his shaft. He was in full erection, but he wasn't a big man--certainly not as thick as Reverend Manning was. He just knew what to do with it better than most of the others. He was panting and making little grunting sounds. He took up the tube of lube and squeezed some out, brushing my hands away from his sheathed cock to slick that up and then moving down to my hole.
"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck," I murmured as his slicked fingers entered me and spread me open. He stifled further exclamation, though, by leaning forward and taking my lips in his. When his fingers came out, his hands went to my waist and pushing my chest away from him. He positioned the cockhead at my hole, and I moaned. His mouth moved down my throat, and managed to reach my nipples as I was leaned away from him. All of my sensations went to that cockhead lodged at the entrance to my hole.
He let loose of one of my nipples and straightened up, looking down at me, capturing my eyes with his.
"Such a sweet golden angel," he murmured.
