The Improvisation
For someone who went to a musical conservatory, Julian was pretty accessible. Unlike too many overly bookish types who go to such places, he was always more approachable, more playful. That was his attitude in his music, and in his life as well.
He and I met at a coffeehouse that was situated near his music school and my university. We couldn't have been more different. He was a piano guy. I was a software engineer. But both of us connected over public TV, British humor, and wit. He was utterly, utterly clever, funny, and playful. Could tell a joke with devastating timing. Loved satire.
To look at him, though, you might not get that impression. He had hair the color of a rich caramel. A soft, oval face that was gentle and inviting, but with a sufficiently male jaw line. A smile that was equally angelic and mischievous. Thin eyebrows, a strong nose, thin but full lips, and playful, pert steel blue eyes. When he sang, his chin line was more pronounced, and his nearly perfect teeth and mouth were beautiful to behold when he wrapped them around emotional lyrics.
And, like me, he was a big-city kind of guy, hailing from Chicago with its world of stages and orchestra pits. I've always enjoyed live music, but it's never something I wanted to do for a living. Julian wanted to make a career of it, and has been making dough on gigs around town - a wedding reception here, a cocktail lounge there.
Julian attended his music school on a scholarship and from having heard him play little bits for me on his piano, I was thoroughly convinced he deserved it. His main love in life was his music. He enjoyed singing but his passion was creating original piano compositions. As is the case with many musicians, he studied many of the great European composers.
He had to have had at least a 130 IQ ... had to. I was no slouch myself, coming in in the mid 120's. But I never felt ashamed or outclassed by him. We were colleagues in the best way.
Julian was out. Julian was, really, never in. But he wasn't a walking stereotype of gay. No rainbows, no shrieking while out at night clubs, or flamboyant "club kid" apparel. No getting loaded in bars or sleeping around carelessly. But there was no shame in any of that, to him - it's just that none of that was Julian's style. He loved being gay. He loved men, maleness, male beauty much as I did. We'd spent plenty of time watching swimming and diving meets on a local sports cable channel, and ogling hot male models on agency web sites.
We'd always been gay buddies of sorts, with my personal style akin to his - busting stereotypes and, as a result, going home alone from night clubs weekend after weekend. The typical gay scene was never for either of us.
Yet, I think I always carried a bit of a torch for Julian. Part of it was the way he carried himself. He was "serious" but not somber. He had goals for himself. He carried a quiet confidence about him. But he wasn't so stiff that he couldn't kid around or do retail therapy with me at our city's biggest mall.
And yeah, I'll admit it, I thought Julian was hot. The times I've been at his apartment, he's often been walking around with a shirt unbuttoned completely to his bellybutton, flaps carelessly waving in the breeze as he walked. When it was stupid hot during the summer, both of us would hang out at his apartment, no shirts on, kidding and ribbing each other about how hopeless we both were, or how our lives were eventually going to crash and burn in some hilariously spectacular way.
Julian had a simple build. He was what some folks would call sinewy - pleasantly curvy shoulders very nicely accentuated by tank tops, and arms that had a "flow" to them, and were just the slightest bit doughy - some tone, but not much: remember, this is a bookish type we're talking about. In the chest, simply soft pecs but no definition. Potently suckable, large nipples and areolas. Nothing but the finest of body hair to speak of, and no blemishes on his skin, anywhere.
His belly and abdomen were what I liked calling "creamy" - very smooth, and pale but not in an unhealthy way, more like a golden ivory color. No paunch to his middle, either - it was nicely flat, and carried no scars.
And adorning the middle of his stomach, a large (at least the size of a quarter) oval innie bellybutton, deep enough to insert the first full joint of my finger in. I'd never actually done this, but oh, did I want to. On plenty of occasions, after seeing his bellybutton exposed, and getting back home, I'd masturbate to the memory of his navel, shooting an ample volume of cum as I contemplated the erotic beauty of it in the theater of my mind.
One Friday afternoon, he texted me. "Hey, I want to try some musical improvisation with you. Can you come by this evening?"
I thought to myself,
Improvisation? I don't play music.
Why would he want
