This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage wherever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional; the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.



Chapter 46

By: Tim Keppler

Have you ever heard Randy Newman's Sail Away. He is just an incredible orchestrator, and nowhere more so than in this song and Davey the Fat Boy. I mean, he is seriously an acquired taste. Like Bob Dylan, he can't sing to save his life, but also like Dylan he's a really fine poet, and he can write music. And my god, can he orchestrate that music, something Dylan never tried to do. Newman reminds me most of Van Dyke Parks, I guess, a musician from the `60s who never made it as a pop singer, but later moved to film scores where he shone. He was extraordinarily gifted. Nobody's ever heard of him, but those few of us who did, know that the level of talent is extraordinary.

With Newman, it's the orchestration that's surprising. There are lots of good songwriters, and lots of good musicians, but how many pop musicians can you count who actually orchestrate their music? Madonna does it sometimes. She certainly did on her Ray of Light album. But it wasn't she who did it. (She's not -- gasp -- especially musical.) And Dan Folgerberg used to do it occasionally. Another name doesn't come immediately to mind.

One night after dinner -- after a fiercely-spicy Mexican meal from Kenny that just blows me away (complete with home-made corn tortillas) -- Jason pops a CD into the player, and we hear a male vocalist singing what sounds to me like a Leonard Cohen poem. I have no fondness for Leonard Cohen personally. I think he's a prick. But, the man can write. Gifted. But what's amazing about this song is its orchestration. This is not a guitar, a bass and drums. This is a full orchestra. The sound is lush, and intimate, scintillating. It is truly lovely, and I'm in tears by the end of it. I motion for Jason to play it again, and he does. It's really stunning. There's a crispness to the strings, and an authoritativeness to the -- what? Horns. "Who the hell was that?" I ask Jason.

"Do you like it?"

"Umm...yeah. It was goddamn amazing. Who was it?"

"The lyrics were written by a guy named Gregorio Muñoz. He's also the vocalist on the song. He's Mexican-born, and writes in Spanish. I got one of his poems, this poem, in an e-mail from a friend of a friend of a friend, and the last friend translated it. I was touched. It's about love and children, and reminded me of us, of Kai and Kevin and Kenny and you and...umm...me. It's his use of metaphor, and alliteration. Of course, some of that comes from a really good translation. It was my friend Jorge who did the..."

"The lyrics are very touching, yes, but the music... Did the author also write the music?"

"Umm...no. The music is mine."


Jason looks surprised. "Like I said, I was e-mailed the poem and was...touched. So, I e-mailed Gregorio and asked him if he'd mind if I set it to music. He loved the idea. The orchestra, naturally, is the San Francisco Symphony. I'm conducting -- during a lunch hour. Tilson Thomas...umm...likes it. He wants us to perform it. He wants me to conduct it. There are twelve other pieces, other songs. We haven't recorded those...umm...yet."

"And you orchestrated this?"

Jason nods, and I'm instantly in tears. "You wrote and orchestrated the music for this?" He nods.

I should admit to feeling a little guilty. I just love music. Food and music. I've long since tired of what I do for a living, but it pays the bills. I love Kenny as passionately as I love Jason, but what he does for a living isn't very interesting to me anymore. And, sometimes, because of that, I don't feel he gets much...attention from me. I absolutely adore him, but...sometimes...I feel like I pay Jason way more attention just because...what he does is...way...more interesting...to me. And today is no exception.

"You wrote the music for this...and...umm...you...orchestrated it?"

Jason nods again.

I just stare, blankly. "I just can't believe you did this. It's so...beautiful." Then I look up into his eyes. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm not saying I didn't believe you could produce something beautiful. You do it often. But this is so beautiful. So you say there are twelve more songs. And they're done? Have you finished them?"

"Yeah," he says. "We've been rehearsing them. One of the publicists for the Symphony had this idea for free lunchtime concerts. They do this in London, apparently, at St. Martin in the Fields. I guess it was Neville Marriner's idea, the conductor of the Academy there. It's to promote the symphony. And it does. They've found that their lunchtime concerts draw standing-room-only crowds. But, more important, since starting these free concerts, they've found that their ticket sales for the evening concerts have gone way up. They try to concentrate on more...contemporary music for the lunchtime concerts, but sometimes they do the good stuff, too. Sometimes they do Mozart and Beethoven, and even Shostakovich. Anyway, Tilson Thomas wants us to do these thirteen songs as a program for the free concerts. We'll be performing them three times, on three consecutive weeks, three performances in total. Gregorio...umm...the poet and singer, lives in L.A., and we're flying him in for each performance. He has such an interesting voice, don't you think? Very...earthy. And, best of all, we're recording them. The Symphony is producing a disk of them. Our marketing group thinks they'll sell and, better, they think they'll help `contemporize' the Symphony, make it more appealing to younger audiences. Gregorio sees this as a big career break. I mean, he's a poet, a pretty solitary occupation, one that doesn't really draw much attention. He's been struggling to survive."

"You're going to be published!" I scream.

Now, to be fair, Jason has been published before. He's been the featured violinist on more than one disk that the Symphony has produced -- Mozart, Mahler and Schubert come to mind. But this is mind-blowing. This is his own music, his own orchestration, and he'll not only be featured as the composer, he'll be featured as the conductor. "Jesus Christ, Jason, this is amazing. I'm so proud of you."

And then I notice Kenny's smirk, and look at Jason. He's carefully examining his shoes, never a good sign.


"Well, I've...umm...sort of been helping Kenny...a little...too."

"You haven't told him, have you?" Kenny shrieks, laughing hysterically. "You haven't fucking told him!"

"No," Jason whines.

Then the two of them begin a fast and furious exchange in Cantonese, which they mostly do when they don't want me to know what's going on. Usually, in these instances, I just wait, because I'm confident that "the truth will out". And it's not long before it's outed here.

"I've written some music for Kenny's...games," Jason confesses.

I wait.

"And...?" Kenny demands.

"And...umm...one of the games made it's way into the hands of...umm...Cheryl Crowe. Who knew she was into video games?" he says, breezily, looking into my eyes with a sort of plaintive, pleading look, asking me please not to go any further with this. But I don't need to, because Kenny does.

"And...?" Kenny demands again. Jason gives him a dirty look.

"And, she...umm...liked the melody, liked the song."

"AND...?" Kenny screams.

"She's going to...umm...record it."

I'm confused. "She's going to...umm...?"

"SHE'S GOING TO FUCKING RECORD IT...on an album. She's going to record Jason's song on an album."

How is it that Jason keeps doing this to me? Several years ago, he revealed that he'd "sort of" played my favorite piece of music in the whole wide world, the Shostakovich Quintet, a piece so complex that it takes most musicians a fair amount of study to wrap themselves around it. That admission lead to several others -- that he was a concert-quality violinist, that he was a world-class pianist, and that he could basically learn a new piece of music in a casual couple of hours. Now he's telling me that he's composed and orchestrated thirteen songs that are about to be performed and recorded by the San Francisco Symphony under his direction, and that a very well-known pop artist is about to perform his music. I'm lost. I'm just completely lost.

"Why haven't I heard about any of this until now?" I ask, looking directly at Jason for the first time in...minutes.

He's checking out his shoes again, making sure they're...clean. "I don't know," he whines.

"Because he doesn't share anything that isn't perfect," Kenny says, with a mixture of amusement and bitterness, a tinge of recrimination. I can see all these emotions in his eyes. "When it's in the can, he'll tell you about it...if it was good. He's not willing to expose himself if he thinks he might not be perfect. He's not willing to take a chance...on us."

With those last two words, Jason turns to Kenny abruptly, as though he's been struck, and stares at him for a long moment, and in that time you can see the play of emotions across his face. There's anger, and then pain, and then a profound sadness. He starts to cry.

"He's right, you know," Jason chokes. "Even...now...I'm not very..."

"Confident," I whisper.

He nods.

"But...you can be confident in us, can't you?" I say, utterly confused. "We'll love you whatever you do."

And that's the final blow, I realize later. It's the comment that keeps him sobbing for nearly half an hour. Somewhere in the middle of that Kenny goes to him and holds him, rocking him back and forth. "I'm sorry, Jase. I wasn't being critical. I was being...stupid. I was trying to be funny. But it was really...mean."

"No. It was right. You're...right about me. I'm afraid to...umm...let my guard down, even with you, who I...umm...know...love me...unconditionally." Kenny leans forward and kisses him, hugging him tight. "I'm so ashamed," Jason chokes. "I'm so ashamed. I love you guys so much. You are my life. I couldn't go on if..."

Now it's my turn to reassure. I cross the room, and we engage in one long group hug. "Ashamed of what, Jase? I mean, I'd like to be more involved in your inner life, and I think Kenny would, too. We love you. We'll always love you. We loved you when you were a lowly college student pursuing a comp sci degree, when you were a new violinist with the Symphony, and now, when you're about to be a published composer. And if tomorrow you're out of a job, indigent, we'll love you then, too. But this is a moment for celebration. You've accomplished something great, something momentous. Take pride in that, and let us take pride with you...because...we love you." Jason crumples, covering his face with his hands, but then recovers, and looks into our faces.

"So, you liked the song?"

"I loved it," I respond. "Wasn't that clear? I mean, I'm not especially difficult to read on music, am I?" I ask with a snort, a comment that has Kenny beside himself with laughter.


A week later, Kevin, Kai and I are at Davies Symphony Hall to hear the luncheon program. The auditorium is packed, but we manage to find three seats in the third row of the orchestra section. Kenny couldn't come because he has a class that interferes. He'll catch the third performance, two weeks from now, by having Dinh monitor his midterm.

"Is Daddy going to play today?" Kevin asks.

"No," I respond, "Daddy's going to conduct. Do you know what a conductor is?"

"Is he the guy that waves the stick around?"

Wow! I'm impressed. He knows. "That's right, Kev. Very good!" Kevin giggles.

Just at that moment the orchestra files in and takes their seats, picking up their instruments. And then Gregorio Muñoz makes his way to a music stand at the left of the podium. Finally, Jason enters, in a crisp tux and pink shirt, a little informal for the luncheon concerts. He takes a bow, and begins to speak.

"Several months ago, I was e-mailed a poem by a friend. I suppose that doesn't say much for our copywrite laws right now. At any rate, the poem was by Gregorio Muñoz," he says, motioning to the singer, "and I was touched by it. It described the love between fathers and sons, and reminded me of my family, of my two sons, Kevin and Kai, and of my husbands Tim and Kenny. I was so touched that I asked Sr. Muñoz if I could set his poem to music. He liked the idea, and sent me several other poems that I felt would also make very good orchestral songs. The result of that collaboration is a song cycle, our program for today...which I hope you enjoy." Saying this, he turns, tapping his baton on the podium to alert the orchestra. And the music begins.

I have to say that I'm stunned and close to tears before the orchestra even starts to play. I mean, Jason is very open about his sexuality, and always has been, at least while he's been with me. The orchestra has always known he's gay, but he's never exactly "come out" to the audience. Why would he? But here, in describing his affinity for these songs, he simply "swung from the hip" and acknowledged why they touched him -- because they remind him of his family, his decidedly non-traditional family. I am very touched by his nonchalance and by his courage. He doesn't make a big deal of it, but he doesn't hide it, either.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" Kevin asks as he sees a tear trace its way down my cheek.

"Nothing, Kev," I say, brushing it away. "I'm just really proud of your daddy right now."

He looks at Jason as he begins to conduct the first song. "Yeah," he says with a smile. "Me, too."


"I'm sorry, baby. That's my fault. I haven't made enough of your achievements. I guess it's because software development is something I can do, and therefore something I can conceptualize. What Jason does is completely outside my range of accomplishments, something I will never do, can never do. That's why it impresses me. That's no excuse though. What you do is phenomenal. I'm so proud of you, both of you."

Kenny and I are in bed, one afternoon, lounging after really good sex. Usually in our house we have three-way sex -- Kenny, Jason and me. I love three-way sex; it's very...active. But on punishment days, Kenny and Jason usually like to finish up with sex, so after they spend 40 minutes or so on my lap, two of us will hop into bed for a romp. Kenny is the more active of the two sexually, and by that, I don't mean that he wants it more often, I mean that he's more sexually energetic. First, he's "versatile" which is a gay code word for someone who likes to give and to receive. Sometimes he likes to be fucked, and sometimes he likes to fuck me. This is good for me, because I'm the same way. Jason, on the other hand, is a confirmed "bottom". He could simply never fuck you. It's not in his nature, which is fine. But, beyond the "top or bottom" distinction, Kenny is just much more experimental. He's much more likely to do something to me that's completely unpredictable -- like pinching my nipple, which sends me "over the rainbow". Jason would never think to do this, mostly, I think, because he'd think it'd hurt. And it does. Quite a lot, actually. But, it also makes me cum faster than almost anything you can do to me. Kenny knows this because Kenny has tried it. I guess they fuck the way they cook. With Jason, you know you're always going to have a really pleasurable -- if predictable -- experience. With Kenny, you never know what you're going to get. Sometimes it's going to be a little weird, and sometimes it's going to be mind-bending-screaming-as-you-cum-best-sex-ever. And I like both, frankly. Sometimes I'm in the mood for one, sometimes for the other. I love both my guys, though for different reasons. They don't have to be identical twins, right?

So, Kenny and I are in bed one afternoon, lounging after really good sex -- and a really good spanking, one that he requested, one that was premature based on his usual schedule. Kenny usually gets spanked every couple of weeks. He starts to get grumpy, and surly, and I know it's time. This time, he just flat-out asked for it. "Tim, I'm feeling really bad. Could you spank me?" This was only six days from his last spanking.

"Okay." And that's what we do. I spank. He sobs. We sit. And then we have really good sex. I fuck him this time, fuck him and stroke him, and he screams, something he rarely does. He must have really needed it.

But why? I mean the sex I understand. But why did he need the spanking? Was he paying for something specific, or just feeling blue -- general malaise? Finally, he tips his hand.

"That's really great for Jason," he says. "I'm so proud of him. I...umm...just wish that I could do something that could...get that much...attention." And, by attention, he doesn't mean public acclaim. He means my attention. I mean, come on! Dark Angel, Kenny's game series, is in the hands of how many millions of people? One hell of a lot more than have seen one of Jason's concerts. Kenny is asking for my attention, and, you just can't know how bad that makes me feel, how awful, how mean. I absolutely adore Kenny, because he's so open, so vulnerable, and so sincere, and I take him so much for granted because his disposition is so...even. He doesn't get especially emotional. He never gets particularly upset. He's just...always...Kenny. Where Jason is passionate, Kenny is calm. He keeps us all centered. From an achievement perspective, his income was six times what Jason makes, and last year he made one and a half times what I made. He is smart and, by anyone's standards, very successful. And I don't recognize him enough. (He's also drop-dead gorgeous, and, as I've said, really great in bed. What else do you need?)

I lean forward and kiss him, and we go at it again. This time, he fucks me. Kenny is quite well hung. His dick is shorter than mine, but it's fatter, and I find that...comforting. I personally like the girth more than the length, although a long dick is also nice. Kenny is a very considerate lover, but has long since realized that I like it a little...rough. And he's certainly eager to please. You don't always find a partner you can just ream with abandon, which is frankly how I like it. He doesn't get to fuck me all that often, though, because I have to be in the mood...to take it. Mostly I like to fuck him, and mostly I think that's what he likes, too. But right now, I'm in the mood, and so is he, and he is not gentle. He is fucking me for his satisfaction, and I can't tell you how good that feels to me. Is this punishment sex? Do I feel guilt about treating him badly, so I want him to pound my ass? Maybe, but it...just...feels...soooo...good. There's a little pain, but mostly it's sheer bliss. He's hitting me right where he should with each thrust, and, Jesus, the thrusts are...energetic. And, it doesn't take long. Ten minutes, and I start to cum without ever touching myself. It's just spontaneous. And, you know how that goes. I always try to scrunch down on my sphincter muscles when I get fucked, to "massage" my partner's dick as he withdraws and to ease up as he drives into me, but there's just something that happens when you cum that does things to your partner, that stimulates your muscles in ways you can't do consciously. As I cum, so does Kenny, and when he does, his dick swells to mammoth proportions and just feels...so good. His body is absolutely rigid, and he's squeezing me so tight that I think he'll break something. I've turned my head, and we're kissing, our lips sealed, and as he starts to cum, he breaks that kiss and...screams. He just fucking screams. They can hear this scream for miles. It's a scream of sheer ecstasy. His eyes are scrunched, and he continues to squeeze me...so hard...so hard. He screams...and screams...and screams. Finally, he returns to my mouth, and we kiss for what seems like hours...as his dick deflates. This was good for me -- very, very good -- but from the volume, I'd say it was better than very, very good for Kenny. I think the neighbors would probably agree.

After 30 minutes or so, during which we've snuggled, I hug him and say "What do you want to do this weekend? I usually try to come up with something, but I'm out of idea. What do you want to do?"

Kenny thinks while I nuzzle his neck. "I'd like to go to San Francisco. Have you ever heard of Baker Beach?"

I rise up on my elbow and look him in the eye, and then I start to laugh. "Umm...yeah...I've heard of Baker Beach..."

Baker Beach is a San Francisco landmark. It has one of the most beautiful views of the Golden Gate Bridge that there is anywhere in the city. It's warm, and the sand is really soft. I'm not sure why. It's very small, as beaches go. And...umm...like much of San Francisco, clothing is basically optionally. I once sat with a former boyfriend watching two very hunky guys fucking not ten feet from us. We'd been sitting there kissing, and so had these guys, and then they stripped, and started fucking. Fine by me, although it can't have been very comfortable. I mean, they were covered with sand. I don't think I'd like to be...penetrated...umm...that way. They were very into it, though, and I'd loved to have asked them why. Was it the warmth of the sun, the luxuriously warm day, or the picturesqueness of the spot, because the penetration must have felt like sandpaper. It just can't have been very pleasant.

"Yeah, I've heard of Baker Beach. You haven't been there?"

"No," he says. "Is it nice?"

"Yeah," I say with a bit of a giggle. "Nice views."

And that's where we end up on Saturday afternoon. We start out with brunch at Greens, a vegetarian restaurant at Fort Mason. Kevin is very big on mushrooms -- truly my son -- and Kai loves anything his older brother likes. So they both want the Sautéed Shitakes with Goat Cheese and Herbs. I plan to order a Baked Portabella Stuffed with Black Beans and Bulgur Wheat. Kenny wants the Spinach Fettuccini, and Jason wants the Vietnamese Yellow Curry, which he knows isn't Vietnamese, because the Vietnamese don't eat curry, but might be good anyway. Typically what we do is all order something different and rotate, treating it as basically a "family style" meal, and that's the plan today, although we can't get Kai to order anything different from what his brother orders. He absolutely idolizes Kevin these days. So, when the waiter comes to take the order, and is just about to walk away, I abruptly change Kevin's order to the Portobello, Crimini and King Trumpet Mushroom Pizza. "It's okay, sweetie," I tell him. "It's mushrooms. You'll love it. And we're all going to share anyway, like at home, so you'll get some of Kai's." We can't, of course, tell the waiter we're going to share, because the minute he knows that, he'll bring us extra plates that we don't need, and charge us another $8-$10 each. I love Greens, but you have to know what you're doing when you order. It's good organic food, and the view is spectacular, but we don't need 27 extra plates for $40 extra.


Once we've finished brunch, we head over to Baker Beach, and it is spectacular. We roll out a couple of blankets on the sand, and get Kevin and Kai out of their clothes and slather them with suntan lotion. They're wearing bathing suits under their jeans, as we all are, so getting ready is a breeze. They start to run around on the beach, Jason starts to read, and Kenny and I start to doze, baking in the sun. And then it happens. "Daddy," Kevin says, running back to the blankets, "why is that man naked?"


Jason knows about Baker Beach. He's been here before...with me. Kenny looks up, sees the naked man, and his first inclination is overkill. Jason gives him a look that tells him to back off, and then he hugs Kevin. "I guess he's hot, Kev."


"Can you do that?"


"Well, you probably shouldn't, but maybe he was really uncomfortable in his clothes. It's pretty warm out today."


Kevin nods, and then the crisis is over. He runs off to play with Kai, and they even chat with the naked guy, who ruffles their hair as he walks down the beach. BFD -- Big Fucking Deal. One of the wonderful things about San Francisco is that no one really gives a damn. I mean, you wish that the fat guys who come out for the Bay2Breakers race would keep their clothes on. And you wish that the really fit and trim guys would take them off. Usually it works just opposite of what you wish. But, at the end of the day, we all have the same basic mechanics. The sooner that Kevin and Kai realize this, the better. Ultimately, who cares? I don't want them running around naked, but I don't think that's a concern. And, even if that turns out to be a problem, it's something we can deal with when it happens.


After a couple of hours at Baker Beach, once we're baked out, we head over to the Castro -- boys' town. There isn't, ultimately, much to do here, but I have dinner in mind, and Catch is where I'd like to eat. I have a huge fondness for monkfish, which tastes sort of like lobster. It's an east-coast fish, and is just divine. (Did I say that? I must be gay.) It is truly wonderful, and Catch does it to perfection, with lemon, and capers. Very Italian. Kevin and Kai aren't particularly hungry, and share a chowder and shrimp cocktail. Jason has the Seared Halibut with White Corn Risotto, Asparagus, and Truffle Vinaigrette. Kenny has the Seafood Stew with Mussels, Clams, Shrimp, Scallops, Crab and Fresh Fish. You could almost make a meal of the names alone, they're so damned long


I just love this restaurant! First, they serve the thing we all love most -- seafood. And, second, it's right in the middle of the faggiest place in America, maybe in the world. I'm not big on ghettoization, but I have to say that walking down the street holding hands with your husbands is a lot more comfortable here than anywhere else I can name, and it's so nice to be able to express my feelings publically. It's so nice to be able to hold their hands. It's so nice to be able to lean over in a restaurant and kiss one of them. So nice. I love the Castro passionately because I can be myself without worrying about who's going to come along and try to beat the shit out of me. The food is wonderful, and here, if I reach across the table, cut a piece of fish from Jason's plate, and pop it in my mouth, no one is surprised or mortified. How lovely.


We'd like to go dancing after dinner, but we have munchkins in tow. And then Jason remembers Hans-Peter, our friend who lives off of Van Ness. He calls him, and he's at home. "So, I'm a little embarrassed to ask this. Are you planning to stay at home tonight?"


"Ja ja," he says.


"We'd really like to go to The Café to dance. But we have...umm...children with us."


"Bring them over," he invites. "I have plenty of room. They can sleep on the couch, or, if they become nervous, they can sleep with me, as they have before. We are all good friends." And they are. They've stayed with Hans-Peter before, and, as they often do with us, they ended up in his bed more often than not, all cuddled up. "Kevin and Kai are always welcome," he says, "as are you."

We drive to Hans-Peter's and carry the boys up. They've long since checked out. We pull off their jeans and lay them on the couch, covering them with a throw. What fascinates me about Kevin and Kai is that when you lay them out, even when they're already asleep, the first thing they do is reach out, looking for each other. It seems to be instinct. And, when one finds the other, they hug, and that's how they sleep. They do this every night. It's not like they're twins. They're slightly more than a year apart. They just seem to...need each other. We watch them do this tonight. Within three minutes of laying them on the couch, Kevin is wrapped around his brother. Who knows why?

Hans-Peter gives us his entry card and key. "I do not know your plans, but feel free to crash on the floor."

"Ja ja," Jason says, with a broad smile, cuffing Hans-Peter affectionately. "We will," he says, kissing him. "And thank you for giving us somewhere safe to plant the little ones."

"No problem," he replies. "Enjoy."

Because we managed to find a parking spot, we decide to take the bus back to the Castro, and it takes us all of 15 minutes before we're at the door of The Café. The Café is a dance bar on Market near Castro. It used to have two distinctions: it had no cover charge, and it was the only dance bar in the Castro because the Castro residents had fought long and hard to prevent others from coming into existence. They were worried about the noise. Now there are other dance bars in the Castro, thankfully, and they all have covers. The Café's is still pretty cheap, though -- $3. Oh, yeah. The Café did have another distinction: it had the hunky-chunkiest bartenders in town, and that, it turns out, is still true. Of the three behind the bar, one is in a mesh tank top, and two are shirtless, and all are very...fit. I almost never drink at bars, so I guess the cover charge is justified. I just like to dance. Tonight, though, is very different from any time I've ever been here before, although, I have to admit, it's been a long time, so maybe it's not so different. First, the music is different. Usually The Café has great music. It's one of the only places that does, but tonight I have no idea what I'm listening to. It's odd, and sort of...spacey. Second, the place is full of women -- lots and lots of lesbian couples, which is fine by me, but there are almost no guys at all...to the point where I feel sort of...out of place, like maybe I'm not supposed to be here, like maybe this is "lady's night," which one of the bar tenders tells me isn't the case. It's just a very different vibe from what I'm used to, and the dance floor is nearly empty, which you might find creepy, but I find so, so luxurious. Nine times out of ten you go to one of these places and end up doing a bump-and-grind with seven other not-so-attractive-and-sweaty guys who you wished had kept their shirts on. Tonight, there's no one here. We just start to dance.

All three of us are pretty good dancers, but Kenny is the best. The boy has rhythm and a hefty dose of abandon. Jason is a little too inhibited to be really good, and I just don't move all that naturally. But, just the ability to move is liberating, and that's what we do, and why we're here. Dancing for me is in many ways like good sex. It's a way to lose yourself. If you think about how you look to others, you're missing the point. You can't think about it. You just have to do it. Gloria Estefan has this great line in one of her songs where she says "Don't you worry if you can't dance/Let the music move your feet." That's what you have to do. Get over yourself and get on with it and just have fun. I love to dance. We all do, although Jase and Kenny are much more thoroughly...attired than is usual for them at N'Touch. But, somehow...I don't think Kenny and Jason naked would quite fit into this vibe. Not with all these lesbians. So, we're just going to have to rough it and keep them clothed. Oh, well...

We have a blast, and end up staying until they close the club at 2am. We end up dancing most of the night with four Hispanic women who so outman us in terms of their dancing ability that I just can't describe it. They are good, really good, and blow us away. But, they think we're cute, I think. I mean we're so amateurish in the way we dance compared to them, and we're just giggling and laughing and having a great time. They sort of befriend us, which is good because after an hour or so, we end up being the only guys in the place. But it ends up being so much fun that by the end of the night we're exhausted because we never stopped dancing. We danced non-stop for five fucking hours. So, at 2am, we hug the women, grab the next bus back to Van Ness and Sutter, and walk to Hans-Peter's flat. And when we get there, low and behold, Kevin and Kai have disappeared from the couch, but their bathing suits and t-shirts have not. These boys, for whatever reason, refuse to sleep clothed, and manage to wriggle out of whatever they're wearing by morning. When we're at home, we dress them in pajamas every evening, and every morning when they get up, they're both naked. In this case, we left them in their bathing trunks and t-shirts, and here are two sets of both. Seeing the clothing, Jason has a serious case of the giggles, and then peeks into Hans-Peter's bedroom before closing the door so we don't wake him. "They're in there," he says, giggling furiously. "They're all snuggled together as if it's twenty below in here. Kai is latched onto Hans-Peter, and Kevin is latched onto Kai. I wish I had a camera."

This, of course, leaves the couch for us, and, because it's so big, we have plenty of room for all three of us, Kenny and I facing in one direction, hugging, and poor Jason facing in the other direction, our feet and legs intertwined. It has been a really nice day, and we are all spent, so it doesn't take us long to fall asleep. And when we awake, it's 10am and boys are whispering furiously with Hans-Peter about what they want for breakfast. "Shhhhh..." Hans-Peter says. "You'll wake them." And then Jason starts to giggle, and its all over.

"They're already awake, silly," Kevin screams, launching himself into the middle of us with not a stitch of clothing on his body, his brother right behind him. We wrestle for a couple of minutes, tickling them unmercifully, until we all finally come up for air.

"Good morning," says Hans-Peter with a big grin. "Shall we have some breakfast?"

"Yes," Jason says, "but you're not making it. There's a Korean-owned breakfast place around the corner that we found the last time we stayed here. Very good, and very spicy. Our treat."

"Ja ja," he says. "I know the place well. That will be good."


Jason's conducting debut with the Symphony is a huge success, as are the popularity of his thirteen songs. His lunchtime program, (and the Mahler program) are the standouts in the lunchtime repertoire, drawing packed house for every performance. They're so successful, in fact, that the Symphony adds three additional performances, which also fill the auditorium. The CD, too, sells like mad. The Symphony wasn't able to get it made before the performances began, but were able to sell "pre-orders," and by the latter three performances, had it in stock, and then out of stock. Sr. Muñoz is absolutely delighted, having secured several other symphonic commissions (two from San Francisco) as a result of the performances. He really is a gifted poet, and the commissions he's gotten from San Francisco, one for an opera, and one for a tone poem, will both have music and orchestration from Jason. They just work very well together. They have similar temperaments. All this will bring us some serious money and will help fund Kevin and Kai's college educations, but nothing like that one song on Cheryl Crowe's new album, the song that evolved from a game he worked on with Kenny. Bob Titus, my attorney of many years, a guy who had no experience in music negotiations, negotiated the deal for royalties on that one song. That one song will get both boys PhDs from anywhere they want to go. That one song will do it by itself. And Jason, who is opening up a bit, tells me that that song has catapulted him into the songwriting world. He has other commissions, he says, from some of the biggest pop names in the business. He's just waiting on some lyrics.

Well, this begs the question, doesn't it? And it's a question I never thought to ask. I mean, I just assumed that he'd written the thing himself, but that was a stupid assumption. Gregorio Muñoz wrote the lyrics for Jason's symphonic song cycle. Why did I just assume that Jason wrote the lyrics for the Cheryl Crowe song? While he's an exceptionally-gifted writer of music, he's not an exceptionally-good writer of language, and the Cheryl Crowe song is an exceptionally-good poem. "Umm...are you using the same lyricist for these other commissions that you used for the Cheryl Crowe song?"

"Yeah," he says, a little confused.

And...umm...who is that? Who wrote the lyrics for the Cheryl Crowe song? Who was the lyricist?"

He looks at me totally lost. "We told you that, didn't we?"

"No. I...assumed it was you."

"No," he says, looking surprised. "The lyricist was...umm...Kenny. Kenny wrote the words."

Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/