Jazz Baby

  Jazz Baby

  by

  Roland Graeme

  Copyright © 2016 Roland Graeme

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for the use of brief excerpts in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published by Roland Graeme

  Cover design by Muzio Scaevola

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: The Wicked City

  Chapter Two: Sex—at Last!

  Chapter Three: A Night Out on the Town

  Chapter Four: The Boys in the Backroom

  Chapter Five: Roommates—and Lovers

  Chapter Six: Cum Join Us

  Chapter Seven: Jizz Session

  Chapter Eight: A Long, Hard Ride

  Chapter Nine: My Debut at the Baths

  Chapter Ten: Giving a Cop a Hand

  Chapter Eleven: Toilet Fuck

  Chapter Twelve: Caught After the Act

  Also by Roland Graeme

  Chapter One: The Wicked City

  It’s a little too soon for me to sit down and write my memoirs. Still, like most young gay men, I do have a story to tell. It’s a coming out story, of course—typical, in some ways, but unusual, in others.

  I suppose I was damned lucky, now that I look back on it. I was only twenty-one years of age, but already I was out of the closet, and for good. I had my first gay lover, and my first circle of gay friends.

  But none of this had happened when I first moved to New York City. I was completely new to big-city life, and I was still a virgin. That disgusted me—the virginity part of it, I mean. All of the rest was pretty exciting.

  I had come to Manhattan to study at Julliard, and to lose my unwanted virginity—not necessarily in that order of priority, of course. But at first my studies went a lot more smoothly than my attempts to begin any kind of a sex life which went beyond masturbation.

  I was supposed to be in New York to study composition, piano, saxophone, and clarinet. I especially liked the two wind instruments, which I’d played in the band all through high school and the two years I’d spent at a small college back home. But I enjoyed almost all types of music, and after I got settled, I began to attend opera performances and symphony concerts. And I also found myself making the rounds of all of the really hot jazz venues in town. To hear really great jazz, “live” as opposed to on records or over the radio, was a new and thrilling experience for me, and I glutted myself on it. I was so excited by some of the new sounds I was hearing that I almost forgot how horny, how frustrated, I was!

  I had a healthy sex drive—and a good-sized cock, if I do say so myself. But I still didn’t know what to do with it except whack it off, virtually every night. God, was I ever naïve!

  These jerk-off sessions at least drained away some of my erotic energy, allowing me to concentrate on other matters, such as my music. I soon made the acquaintance of a number of other musicians—not just my fellow students, but local amateurs and professionals, as well. The most noteworthy among them was a guy named Paul, who made quite an impression on me.

  I first saw him, and heard him play, at a rather upscale jazz club down in the Village. It wasn’t a gay nightspot, by any means, but it attracted a mixed and highly sophisticated crowd. To be in the midst of such a milieu was heady stuff for a kid my age, fresh from the boondocks.

  I went to the club with some of my fellow students. They knew the guys who would be playing there, in a limited engagement.

  I was attracted, right away, by the sounds Paul was able to coax out of his gleaming instrument. It was a tenor sax. Some sax players swore by the really great vintage Selmer Mark VIs, but one of those, in good shape, could cost a small fortune. Paul, like most professional musicians, owned several instruments, but his favorite tenor sax was one made by the French manufacturer Couesnon in the early Fifties. Silver-plated, the sax was unusually heavy, compared to newer instruments. The thing was built as strong as a tank.

  When he played it, Paul seemed to be making love to that saxophone, caressing the curved body of the instrument with his hands, barely touching the keys as he sucked on the reed with erotically puckered lips, breathing life into the bore and filling the air with magical sounds. The Couesnon had a comparatively narrow but extremely mellow timbre, characteristic of old French instruments. But one of its quirks was that Paul could coax some startlingly firm, dark pedal tones out of its lower register, almost as though he was playing a trombone.

  After enjoying the music for a few minutes, I finally got around to noticing just what a good-looking young guy the talented sax player was. He was sexy as hell.

  Paul, I soon learned, was openly gay, but nobody would have been able to pigeonhole him as a stereotypical big city homosexual from his appearance or behavior. He did wear a gold earring in one earlobe, but that was nothing unusual in New York City. He had fine-textured, silky chestnut-colored hair, a sexy little mustache, and a very muscular, gym-toned body, which looked deceptively chunky in the loose-fitting casual clothes he had on that night.

  He was sweating by the time he finished his set, and, when he put his sax down and then glanced up to acknowledge the applause, blinking against the bright stage lights, his eyes met mine—and he flashed me a special, secretive little smile.

  He came over to our table. One of my fellow students introduced me. Paul seemed to be well acquainted with the other members of our group. We all made small talk, and Paul announced to the group in general that he had just lost his roommate. His rent was reasonable by Manhattan standards, and if anybody knew a likely candidate who wanted to split it fifty-fifty, the guy could move in right away.

  “It’s too bad Keith, here, isn’t gay,” one of the girls at our table remarked, referring to me. “He’s looking for a cheaper place to live.”

  I blushed furiously, while Paul smiled at me. I couldn’t get used to how casually these New Yorkers talked about all kinds of sexual matters.

  “Whoever said a guy has to be gay to be my roommate?” the jazz musician protested.

  “I thought it was a prerequisite,” the girl said, teasing Paul.

  “Or a more-or-less inevitable outcome. You don’t have a lover at the moment, do you?” one of the other guys, a cellist, challenged Paul.

  “No,” Paul admitted. “Not since I gave that last loser the boot, and kicked out his whorey ass. Now all I have for playmates is just a couple of fuck buddies … steady tricks,” he translated, obviously for my benefit. “Friends you fuck around with—you know?”

  I didn’t know, of course. But I was fascinated by his candor.

  He grinned at me. I knew I must still be blushing. But I could also tell that Paul liked me, and he was trying to get a rise out of me because something about me appealed to him.

  The upshot of all this was that Paul quite matter-of-factly invited me to come hear him play again next week. “One of my good buddies, a bass player, is going to join us then,” he said. “You might enjoy hea
ring him, Keith. Maybe we can go back to my place afterward, and if you like it, then we can talk about—the various possibilities,” he added, rather enigmatically.

  I showed up at the club again, of course, solo this time. After his first set Paul joined me at my table for a drink. He was sweating again—no doubt about it, being a good jazz man was hard work.

  “Enjoying the music?” he asked me, as he mopped his shining face with a folded-up handkerchief.

  “Sure.” I felt a little tongue-tied, now that I was one-on-one with him. To change the subject to something impersonal, I asked him, “Is that your friend you told me about—the black guy on the string bass?”

  “That’s Harold, yeah. What do you think of him?”

  “He plays real hot.”

  Paul laughed. “I agree. But what I meant is, what do you think of him as a dude?”

  “I guess he’s good-looking,” I said, cautiously.

  This was true enough. Harold was quite a stud. He was in his mid-twenties, with warm brown eyes, coal-black skin which seemed to gleam under the stage lights, and sleek, male-model good looks. His head was completely shaved, which made him look even more exotic.

  He acted so “masculine,” as far as I could tell, that I didn’t really give any thought to his possible sexual orientation. I simply assumed that the young black stud was straight.

  “He can be our chaperon,” Paul said, flippantly.

  After the show, he introduced me to Harold, who was very friendly. The three of us took a cab to Paul’s apartment.

  It was small, a one-bedroom with an extra mattress on the living room floor. The mattress was made up as a bed, with sheets, a blanket, pillows in pillowcases, and a bedspread. I sat on this bed, which looked as though it was at least as comfortable as the well-worn nearby couch, while Paul put a jazz record on his impressive stereo system. He had a couple of new compact discs recorded live by a Norwegian group, which he thought I’d like. And he was right.

  Harold produced a pre-rolled joint, lit it, and we passed it around while we listened to the music It was high-quality weed, and as we began to get pleasantly stoned, the conversation got increasingly frank, and even raunchy. Paul and Harold compared notes on guys they’d recently picked up and tricked with, describing how they’d performed in bed.

  This explicit gay talk didn’t bother me a bit. I thought I was now moving in quite a sophisticated social circle. I was also getting excited, in a dark, furtive kind of way which was new to me. Increasingly aroused, I enjoyed listening to the two older and sexually more experienced guys discussing their recent erotic adventures.

  My only problem was that I didn’t have any sex stories of my own to contribute to the discussion.

  We passed around a second joint, and then a third. By then, needless to say, we were all flying high.

  I was lying on my back on the mattress, sucking on the third joint, when Harold kicked off his shoes, got down on the floor on his hands and knees, and crawled over to me, smiling. He took the joint from my lips, stuck it in his own mouth, and inhaled deeply.

  “Why don’t you give him a torpedo?” Paul asked, languidly, as he sat watching us.

  “What’s a torpedo?” I wanted to know, once again betraying my lamentable innocence.

  “I’ll show you,” Harold promised.

  He took another drag on the joint, but he didn’t exhale. He pinched my nostrils shut, planted his soft lips on my mouth in a near-kiss, and gently blew the marijuana smoke down into my lungs. He pushed his tongue part of the way inside my mouth, and I felt my prick twitch in response down in my pants. I’d never been kissed by another guy before in my life, let alone by a handsome black stud.

  “Stop it,” I pleaded, with a breathless laugh, pushing him away. With my palm on his bald skull, I caressed the sleek, hairless skin of his scalp, marveling at its satiny texture. “God, you guys are getting me stoned,” I accused them.

  Paul shrugged. “So what, as long as you’re having a good time.”

  “I am,” I admitted.

  “Look at you. You are just about the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen,” Harold told me. “Are you white like that all over?”

  “Yeah. But you—are you smooth-shaven all over, man, or do you have any body hair?” I retorted.

  He grinned at me. “There’s one easy way to find out. Why don’t we all strip?”

  Chapter Two: Sex—at Last!

  I was excited, and I didn’t raise any objection, as Harold stood up quickly and shed all of his clothes. He stood there in Paul’s living room mother-naked, looking like a statue of an African fertility god carved out of ebony wood, polished to a dull gloss.

  His shoulders and chest were massive, but his torso tapered down to a surprisingly narrow waist. He had virtually no hips to speak of, but his black buttocks were two full, fleshy globes. His legs were sturdy, his cock a long, thick hose attached to his groin.

  Except for some tufts of crinkly black hair at his armpits and crotch, his magnificent body was practically hairless, as I had suspected.

  “Isn’t he hot? Why don’t you let us take a look at you, too, Keith?” Paul purred.

  I sat up on the mattress. “I’m not undressing unless you take it all off, too,” I insisted.

  “No problem.” Paul got up from his seat and peeled off his shirt.

  Keeping my eyes locked on his body, I let Harold help me take off all of my own clothes. Paul stripped naked with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Then he got down on his knees on the floor beside us to help Harold pull off my pants and jockey shorts. Within seconds, I was nude, too—and my cock was swollen into full, shameless erection, jutting up toward the ceiling from my groin like a phallic missile on its launching pad.

  “Fucking hell,” I blurted out. “I’m getting a hard-on!”

  “You sure are,” Paul said, appreciatively, staring at my whang. “Damn, you’ve got a big one, kid! Nice … really nice.”

  “It’s a shame to see something like that go to waste,” Harold declared. He took my prick in his warm hand, closed his charcoal-colored fingers around the shaft lightly, and he proceeded to give me a hand job. I moaned as my dick throbbed inside his grip and it seemed to swell even thicker.

  Even though Harold was the one who was massaging my cock at the moment, I caught myself staring at Paul’s naked body, trying to size him up. My new acquaintance was about six-one, with a husky build, and—at the moment—an erection which to my inexperienced eyes seemed of truly prodigious proportions. His balls were big, too, like a pair of carefully matched lemons. His ass was covered by a light down of auburn hair, a little paler than the hair on his head.

  Not that his buddy, Harold, was any slouch in the physique department! The black stud leaned over me, caressed my pecs, and began to strum both of my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, exactly as though he was plucking the heavy strings of his bass. I moaned as my tits stiffened in his grip, and each pinch he gave the hard, hot cones of nipple flesh seemed to pulsate empathetically through my cock and balls, as well as my tight-puckered asshole.

  “Suck him, man,” Paul advised Harold in a lewd whisper. “Suck the kid’s big, fat, virgin cock!”

  I moaned again, much louder, when I heard him say that. But that was nothing compared to the cries of ecstasy which burst from my lips when Harold’s warm, wet lips descended upon my aching prick.

  “Suck it,” Paul repeated, his voice raspy with excitement now, as he watched his well-hung black buddy going down on me.

  My thighs impacted against Harold’s face in a steady thumping rhythm of pure, mindless lust. I fucked his mouth with the full length of my dick. Inexperienced though I was, I could tell that Harold was one hell of a good cocksucker!

  He went down on my meat all the way, guiding the blunt head of my fuck tool down into his throat and using his tongue to rub up and down my pounding shaft in long, rapid swipes. His mouth drooled saliva around my cock, lubricating it as it pumped monotonously in and ou
t between his pursed lips.

  Although my thought processes were somewhat numbed by the pot I’d smoked, I suddenly realized that I was receiving a blow job—which meant that, technically, I’d lost my virginity. At last! I felt a hot thrill of accomplishment rush through me. Furthermore, the guy who was initiating me into sex wasn’t just any guy. Harold was exceptionally handsome, and he sure as hell seemed to know what he was doing, as he worked on my cock with his mouth.

  And, as though that wasn’t enough, there was Paul—also handsome, also sexy—naked and erect, observing Harold blowing me. Paul didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’s be content just to watch. There was every likelihood that my first sexual experience was going to be a threesome! The thought got me even hotter—and harder. I could feel my already swollen erection grow even more rigid inside Harold’s mouth, throbbing with extra urgency.

  I moaned.

  “Is he going to come?” Paul demanded. Harold, sucking away on me passionately, only grunted. “Are you going to come in his mouth, Keith?” Paul asked me excitedly, leaning over his friend’s shoulder to get a closer look at the way my prickshaft was pistoning in and out of the bass player’s hard-suctioning mouth. “Are you going to give my buddy a mouthful of your cum?”

  “Yes!” I gasped. I could feel my load gathering momentum deep inside my loins. For some reason, though, I suddenly felt bashful about ejaculating, so I held back and pushed Harold’s flushed, eager face away from my groin. “No, not yet, please,” I pleaded, staring up desperately first at Harold’s smiling face, then at Paul’s. “I don’t want to come yet. Fuck! This is all new to me, guys!”

  “You seem to learn fast, though,” Paul quipped. “Hey, baby … do you like to fuck?”

  “I don’t know,” I had to admit.

  “Want to find out?” Harold was staring down at my prick, which was bright red, and glistening wetly with his saliva. He licked his drooling lips.

  “I guess so,” I said. “You’re going to have to show me what to do, though!”