'Do your thing, thunderwing!' I nod.
The best Pop managers have always been Gay, from Brian Epstein, Larry Parnes to Joe Meek, Simon Napier-Bell and on. We know what little girls want, because we want the same. Pretty boys. Hot, too hot to handle, almost. I rescued Justin from a no-future zero-talent Boy-Band. He twirled into my arms, looking terminally cute. And into my bed. We broke him the traditional way, through Social Media fan-sites, YouTube and downloads. The 'Justin' part helps. There were two previous 'Justins' out there, so the name is bonded already. Just modify the logo typography. Thing is, I've been watching all the rubbish wasting my time, and there's a lot of Reality-TV trash emerging to compete with. Justin has just turned nineteen, there are younger Popstrels on the make. This second album is going to be a tipping point for him. It needs an extra push, a bonus ingredient, a magic bullet. He's under pressure. We got the writers round a month since. They spend time talking with him, although in truth talking's not his big scene. That way they personalise the songs around him, so the songs find their voice, to justify his writer's credit. But the song just provides the base-structure they'll assemble the audio-track around. Then the video-shoots are more important than the tracks. Those three-minute all-dancing multi-coloured dreams that really shove product. My creatives will set up conferencing with directors, lighting, design and make-up. Get storyboards drawn-up around some ideas.
'What do you mean about 'touch and go'?' presses Shadow, 'you got problems?'
'You know how it is. He's get identity issues, wants to upfront his sexuality. I don't want an auto-wreck car-crash meltdown on my hands. I can do without Britney or George Michael scenes.' There's some genuine concern there as well as career self-interest. He's a sweet kid.
'So why not let him come out? We're not doing a Liberace here.'
'Don't dis Liberace. Respect is due. You know what it was like back then. Gay was verboten. You go to jail for it. At best it was a career-killer. The public loved him. He sold records by the truck-load and played sell-out capacity concerts. What would he gain from coming out...?'
'We've moved on. It's not like that anymore. Who gives a shit who Elton John or Will Young sleep with? I tell you, no-one gives I shit. Every Boy-Band has a Gay member. It's obligatory. Know what I mean...? For Justin it could help up-switch his demographic, in a good way? Run with it.'
'Sure. Thanks Shadow. I'll get back to you.' I kill the line with a key-stroke. Sit back, squeezing my eyes tight shut. Sit in silence as minutes tick by, full of broken thoughts I cannot repair. All this, all this I got by manipulating tweenage disposable kiddie-cash. This house and pool on the hill, in the valley. The cars. The restaurants, stylish suits, lifestyle. Justin Thyme is the major cash-generator. He's also a sweet boy caught up in a big lie. I got to try to take it easy, put my dick back on a leash. But I see big trouble coming. It's hard to make that change when life turns strange, and this planet is a far far stranger place than I can ever fathom. My sweat leaves fingerprint-sized stains on the table-top.
I stroll back. I need a toot, but I'll settle for a drink. From back here by the bar I can see out through the glass-sliders again. Hear the hissing of summer lawns beneath the cloudless sky. Not a single ripple to slur the surface of the pool, it shimmers around the floating inflatable like a David Hockley print. The green sprays of border-shrubs stay moveless in the still air. The world has inhaled, and is holding its breath.
Where are they? Where are Justin and Zig? At first I can't see them. Then I catch a confusion of limbs on the close-cropped grass verge beyond the pool, beside the loungers. Intertwined bodies. A flesh-coloured blur of naked skin moving together in rhythmic undulations. Justin beneath, sprawled. Ziggy above, fully interlocked mouth-to-cock. Sixty-nine is the sweetest number. He's not considerately on knees and elbows poised above Justin either, with the tasty trinkets suspended so he can lift his head and sample what's there, as and when he chooses. No, Zig's lying his full weight on the body beneath him, his glistening rounded arse moving in liquid ripples, up and down, pumping his hard erection deep into Justin's deliciously receptive throat. Allowing him no escape, not as though escape is something it seems he wants. While Ziggy's head is bobbing enthusiastically between Justin's splayed legs, taking that cute little cockette all the way down to the root.
I ease the glass-slider back and step out onto the patio, my eyes narrowing in the thin dazzle of sunlight. I can hear them now. Their excited breathing, gasps and grunts. The squeak of their moist bodies moving together. I cross the short distance to where they're lying, pull up a lounger to get a better view. Sit there, the sun warm on my skin, and watch. Yes. I sit here thinking, enjoying the show. It's mindboggling. My mind has seldom been so boggled. Few things in life are as enchanting as the close-up spectacle of two lusty boys sixty-nining. Setting up an answering creepy-crawly commotion inside my pants. And they just carry on doing the do, enjoying my voyeuristic participation. Ziggy's legs are wide-splayed over Justin's face, the ascending/descending arc of his tasty buttocks targeted by a clean puckered orifice that I swear is winking at me invitingly, enticingly as the sphincter dilates and flexes with effort. His loose bollocks flop-flopping over Justin's button-nose as he humps up and down. Justin, beneath, breathing hard and fast through widening nostrils, as his lips consume every inch of a cock that's flushed with rising sap. His cheeks inflated, scrunching the perfect lines of his face delightfully out of shape.
For a long moment, his eyes meet mine, and I swear they're smiling. As if to say 'hey, I don't need only you to get my teenage kicks.' Which is fine and dandy by me. Clingy-problem sorted. Even though, just maybe, the little bimbo airhead doesn't realise Ziggy is on the payroll, bought and paid-for, so yes – his sex-life is still dependent on me. Then sense and logic goes all blissed-out squidgy, his eyes close in what looks like ecstasy as Zig's ass gives a determined shudder, and at its deepest downstroke stays lodged. There's a sweaty sex-pulsing slurpy-gulp gulpy-slurp sound as I guess copious spurts of spunk are being devoured. Not that orgasm distracts Zig from his reciprocal sucking in Justin's moist groin. It's not a long journey up and down the length of his stubby cock, although its excited state makes the shiny toy prouder than I've ever seen it, and he's carefully tongue-stroking and teasing around the rim of the faintly blush-violet dick-head at the up-stroke, lapping pearly ooze-drops from the hole, then slithering it in all the way to lick each dainty spit-moist egg in the tight ball-sack at the down-stroke. Justin's squirming hips coming up to meet his welcoming mouth. Then I see Ziggy's adam's apple working overtime too, like some determined swallowing is taking place. Awesome. Totally awesome.
What a video this would make. If only the fans could see this online. And – hey, maybe they can. Perhaps this is the unique selling point that will provide the tipping point for the vital second album, the extra push, the bonus ingredient, the magic bullet. Not this exactly. But the choreographed pool-side Gay coming-out romp. Go for attack mode 'How Dare You Assume I'm NOT Gay?!?' If you're going to do it, make it part of the promo campaign. There could even be an unexpurgated version to tantalise, for specialist sites only, with more nudity. Maybe not full frontal, not without some post-production CGI to enlarge his assets...!
