The bright orange ball sank slowly in the West. Earlier, He had beaten down on the sidewalks of the old warehouse district and made it a virtual steam bath. Even now the deserted concrete and asphalt held the heat he’d generated. The rainbow flags over the flamingo pink, stuccoed bar hung limp in the July twilight. When Night finally arrived and relative cool came to the streets, the crowds would come, the artificial lights would blaze, and the flags might even flutter in the breeze generated more by the cars cruising the streets than an actual wind.
Hyakinthus pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot. His white t-shirt had become see-through, and his blue jeans shown with dark water spots. His every move demonstrated a practiced sublimity–with his coronation walk to the entrance a finale for anyone who might be watching. He shuddered and his nipples tightened and hardened as the cool air from inside reached out and pulled him in. He pulled his soaked shirt over his head as he walked down the deep blue carpet to his dressing room. Every entertainer, bar tender, and waiter had a private room here. For the most part, they were little more than small walk in closets with hand sinks and a chair, but they afforded the privacy many of the employees needed as a refuge from the fevered exhibition. Some of the more enterprising staff used them for paid assignations–or so the (more-or-less unfounded) rumor went. He reached into his jeans and wrapped his hand around the target. Slowly, almost too patiently and deliberately, he pulled teasingly, and tossed the key into the air catching it in the other hand. He put the key into the lock, and entered his private domain.
Hyakinthus was, simply stated, the most popular waiter at the Alexandrite. He didn’t discriminate among the patrons. He loved them–gave him everything he had, and they loved him back. Twinks, bears, wolves, otters, daddies, size queens, drama whores, and even a couple of fag stags were caught in his charms. All races and ethnicities (and combinations thereof) were in his following. Yet every morning he went home on his motorcycle alone–with his pockets full of tips. Physically, he was pretty to look at, but his didn’t possess the drop dead body that made so many men salivate in the queer community . He kept his naturally blond hair cut short and his body permanently tanned. His pierced nipples were large strawberries. He was slightly muscled–enough to think he worked out regularly–a little more than a swimmer’s build but not quite a gym rat’s. When people looked into his lapis blue eyes, they saw into a crystal clear murky eternity. A smile often broke the perfect symmetry of his square set jaw to reveal his Zen flaw–a slight gap between his front teeth. One would have sworn the red of his lips was found only next to the Ganges and more than one man had sat waiting for them to cry “Cherry Ripe.” While I could give an age, at least, to every part, it’s best to move on with the story and let Hyakinthus change into his attire for the evening–too tight leather pants, jack boots, and matching studded cuffs and collar; all in all it goes well enough with his leather pride dog tags. As they say Mon Chere, we all tumesce when he approaches. But before we leave the dressing room completely, let’s look beyond the physical to his intellect, after all, he is working on his master’s in chemical engineering.
II
Lykegenes went through the preliminary sound check with more methodically than usual. As a rule he hated playing the bar scene, but this gig payed very well, and until their first CD came out next month, the band needed the money. Besides, the people who saw them play tonight were likely buyers once the CD hit the shelves. And gay men are, if nothing else, the most devoted fans on the planet. Done with the sound check, Lykegenes sent the rest of the band on break; he sat down on the stage and began playing with his guitar–composing a tune he would never again play. When he was in the zone, he could go on for hours. For him, playing was better than sleep, sex, and a dirty martini. It renewed his soul and refreshed his body and rejuvenated his mind. Playing the guitar did for him what drugs did for other people. In fact, this drug was more powerful than cocaine or a SoBe cocktail. It had the power to reach beyond the user and intoxicate others, draw them under his spell and his power–an aural roofie if you will. He became the music, and the music became him. They were the Persian mystic, the Buddhist sage, and the Hindu holy man intertwined.
Hyakinthus walked into the bar for his ritualistic, pre-opening lime juice and tonic water. He never drank alcohol at the club and rarely imbibed off the clock. He was his best clean and sober. This night something strange happened, for he found an intoxication from a liquor never brewed. Hearing the music from Lykegenes’ guitar he stood transfixed in the doorway. He was under Their spell and Lykegenes’ to command. Unfortunately, Lykegenes took no notice. He was lost in the chords that tripped from the Strat. How long Hyakinthus stood there is hard to say. The Sun halts his course when Lykegenes commands it.
Breaking the trance of both our musician and His audience, Cupido came through the door. Lykegenes looked for the first time as the man standing before him. It was as if an arrow had pierced him. Before a performance, his music meant all to him. But an alarming mixture of Love and Lust came over him now, and he wasn’t sure what he should do about it. He left the dias and walked over to Hyakinthus and embraced him–not in a sexual way. It was the hug of friendship – compassion. For he felt they were meeting again after a long absence. Hyakinthus returned the eagerly returned the embrace. This was greater than the Heaven of Lykegenes’ music. He wondered how the two might fit together.
III
Somehow the concert happened and Hyakinthus made it through his night’s work. The men gyrated to the music. Hyakinthus had his riches increase more than usual, and the rainbow flags on the roof actually did flutter in the night’s breeze. The next morning Lykegenes awoke with the Sun streaming in the windows of a strange bedroom. He sat up trying to remember the events of the night before, but he could only remember the scent, the taste, and the touch of the boi he’d dubbed the Lily Prince. As if summoned, he came through the door carrying a tray that held a French press and a platter. “I wasn’t sure how you like it,” he said shyly.
“As long as it’s from your hand I don’t care,” Lykegenes responded. He’d had his share of lovers–men and women, but this time was different than the rest. This time he wanted it to last beyond the expanse of time itself. This might be the person to take home to meet his family. But for now, the coffee brought a warmth that was welcome even in the heat. “Are those biscuits?”
“Yes, I made them this morning. Of course, I bought the sausage at the store,” Hyakinthus chuckled as he sat the tray on the bed. Lykegenes poured himself a mug of black ambrosia and took a long drink. Almost before he knew it, Hyakinthus was in his arms and their mouths were locked in an embrace that threatened to shake the foundations of Western civilization.
IV
Over the next couple of months, they were inseparable. The heat and humidity gave way to the first signs that Fall would come. “I’m going to have to leave for a little while,” Lykegenes said one Sunday morning as he lay on the couch watching Hyakinthus work out a formula.
“Can I come with you?”
“It’s for a few months. Wouldn’t that interrupt your education?”
“Not any more than pining for the love of my life who’s gone away from me. I can actually put this on hold believe it or not.”
“Then pack your bags my boi-muse. We’re off on a little tour next weekend.”
It was a typical pre-fame music scene–a bunch of guys and equipment packed into two vans that were held together more with promises and prayers than anything physical. Some days tensions were high and other days their spirits were in some dark nether world. Then there were the concert days when it all came together. They performed with one body. Hyakinthus was always there in the back ground watching his Lord and Master.
It was on one of those tense days that things fell apart.
“Why is he with us? He’s not even a good roadie,” Zephrys.
“He’s not a roadie,” Lykegenes snarled.
“He’s your boyfriend.”
“Who’s put more than his fair share of money into this tour. Think of him as a stock holder if it helps.”
Zephrys knew better than to antagonize the Lykegenes. As the keyboard player, he was expendable from the band’s perspective. But he had a plan.
V
One night after the show, Zephrys made sure he packed the van that Lykegenes and Hyakinthus would be riding in. Having laid his plans Zephrys climbed behind the wheel of the other van and led the two vehicle caravan onto the interstate and into the dark, Kentucky night. Somewhere between Tennessee and Mississippi, Zephrys made his move. He hit the brakes suddenly and without warning. Following behind and driving in a near trance, Lykegenes slammed on his brakes as well.
While the act was a little startling but mostly benign in Zephryus’ van, things were far different in the one carrying out two lovers. One of the large speakers hadn’t been well battened. It flew forward and hit a startled Hyakinthus in the back of the head. Not just damagin his head, the force pushed him against the seat belt to give him fractured ribs to go with his subdural haematoma. Lykegenes rushed to pull his lover from the seat and tend him while the others called for an ambulance.
VI
Lykegenes sat in the hard plastic chair waiting for the doctor to come and tell him he could visit Hyakinthus. His jeans were soaked with drying blood. He rolled a cup of badly made and cold coffee in his hands. Hearing the doors in front of him open, he looked up. The doctor came out looking grave, but didn’t all surgeons look grave? He wondered if somehow it was a permanent mask put on them in medical school. “Sir,” the woman said sounding tired. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s no way he’ll make it. He has another hour or two at most. If you’d like to see him…”
Whatever else she said, Lykegenes didn’t hear, for he ran past her into the room. His lover lay before him with his head wrapped in white gauze. Lykegenes took his hand and held it. He whispered inaudibly to Hyakinthus. “I know you understand that,” was all any but the beloved could have understood. tears welled up in Lykegenes’ eyes and streamed down to fall in puddles on the sterile floor. He did the only thing he could do.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” the nurse said apologetically. “We really do need to move him. I know your pain. Honestly.”
Lykegenes stopped playing and lay the Stratocaster across his lap. “It’s okay. He’s not there. He hasn’t been there for an hour,” Lykegenes said as the tears began again.
“No, he’s not there, and I don’t know where he is.”
“Or if he is.”
VII
In the parking lot the others were devistated for they loved Hyakinthus as one of their own. One however cried tangent tears not for the loss but of regret. “I didn’t mean for him to die,” Zephrys thought. “I only wanted to hurt him and make him go home.” Though scarred for eternity, Lykegenes would mend from his grief. The band took the fleur de lys as it’s symbol in honour of the Lily Prince. Not the waters of Neptune’s oceans nor the sacred strands from the Stratocaster could wash the stains from Zephrys’ hands.
