notes: nellie: used to denote campy gayness. church key: slang term for bottle opener. Fairmount: Chicago race track. The first Fairmount Derby was run in 1926. chopped liver, matzoh, and kosher wine: Orthodox Jewish food. Oscar Wilde: famous gay writer and genius of the Edwardian era. Yeah, I figured you probably knew this,but I like talking about Oscar. And Tony Curtis' real name is Bernard Schwartz.

Part 1

The nineteen twenties. Ah, a colorful era. Flappers, the Charleston, jazz, hip flasks, Stutz Bearcats, Joe College (sigh), bathtub gin, speakeasies...

Yeah, speakeasies. Ya know, they aren't so glamorous when you haveto be in 'em. When they're your bread-and-butter. Of course, with the kind of living me and Joe pulled down, there wasn?t any butter, and precious little bread.

Joe played saxophone, I slapped the bass fiddle. Neither one of us was ever gonna play with the Philharmonic. Oh, we weren?t so bad. But I think it was that English guy, Oscar Wilde, who said there is nothing quite so bad as not so bad. I always liked old Oscar. He spoke to me.

I guess I'd better introduce myself. My name's Jerry. Never mind the last name, it was different when this story starts anyway. Why? You'll find out later on. It's too complicated to go into right now.

Anyway, maybe I should give you some background before I leap into the story. It'll help if you know a little bit about me and Joe, and our history together.

God bless, Ma. She passed away believing that the call was gonna come from Pablo Cassals at any moment. She just knew her baby boy was gonna solo on stage at Carnegie Hall some day.

Instead said baby boy ended up haunting agents' offices and playing in smokey speakeasies for peanuts and, well, peanuts. In other words, whatever free food I could swipe. They were never big on feeding the band. Actually, that?s how I had my first gay experience. I was nineteen, and I told Ma I was playing at a college party. Instead, I had a gig at some place so low that it didn't even have a name. It was just 'the rathole where you can get booze'.

It was 1921, and Prohibition had been in nationwide effect for a little over a year. Mr. and Mrs. America had a powerful thirst, and the underworld, good capitalists that they have always been, leaped to fill the need. The speakeasies weren't as rampant as they would be later on, but there were enough of them for there to be class levels, and this one was bottom of the barrel.

The band consisted of a piano player with nine fingers (I'm not kidding you, nine. Said it got bitten off in a dispute over a cute blonde), a drummer who was generally either a half beat ahead or behind everyone else, a saxophonist, and me.

I'd had to leave the house before supper, and I'd skipped lunch, so my belly was sticking to my backbone. Mom had probably left me a little something, but we had another hour to play, and my stomach was starting to rumble like a bowling ball headed down an alley toward a strike. I was getting dirty looks from the drummer because the gurgling was keeping better time than he was.

Break time came, and I eased over to the bar and started snarfing peanuts. The saxophone player slouched over and watched me gobbling. He was a tall, slender blonde guy named Al, more than twice my age. "Yo, kid. Ain't yer mama feedin' youse at home?"

"Yeah. But I?m hungry now."

"Well, shit, you need somethin' more than that. C'mon back to the break room an' I'll share wit' youse."

That sounded terrific to me. Never turn down free food, one of my ruling philosophies, even at that young age. I followed him back to the break room, and he handed me a thick ham sandwich. I sat on the ratty little love seat they had provided us, and started to devour it.

"Jeez-us, kid. Careful, or youse will bite off yer fingers."

I spoke with my mouth full. "I'm sorry. But I figured I'd better get this down before you came to your senses and changed your mind."

"Dat will not happen." He sat next to me, throwing his arm across the back of the seat behind me. "Kid, how old are youse?"

I eyed him warily. "Twenty one."

He snorted. "I ain't da cops, kid. Tell me da trut'."

I sighed. "All right. Nineteen."

He nodded. "Good. I wuz afraid youse wuz younger'n dat."

I finished the sandwich, sighing contentedly. "Why would that worry you?"

"Cause den I might notta had da noive ta do dis." He reached into my lap and started to unbutton my pants.

Well, to say I was startled would be the understatement of the decade. "Hey! What are you doing?" He had me unbuttoned, and his hand was inside, moving around. All at once he found the slit in my boxers, and I went stiff. All of me. Everywhere, if you catch my drift. "Al... what's going on?"

He had pulled my prick out into the open. It was hard as a rock, and oozing clear fluid. He said calmly, "I gave youse my sammich. Youse owe me a hot meal." Then he bent down and swallowed me.

The only reason I didn't come up off the cushions was because he was sort of laying across my thighs. I didn't have a lot of time to reflect on the ramifications of what was happening. I was too busy going crazy. I was a virgin to everything except my own hand, and this was a mind numbing experience for me.

I watched, stunned, as that sleek blonde head bobbed up and down in my lap, listening to the thirsty slurps and smacks as he licked and sucked my turgid flesh. He pulled free for a second, my spit shiny dick slipping from between his lips with a muted pop, and said, "Youse taste pretty damn good, kid. Gotta real nice cock."

"Uh...thank... " he bent back and took me in his mouth again. "Yow! I mean you. Thankyou. Thankyouthankyouthankyou..." I yelped and shoved up into his mouth, having my first orgasm caused by another person. I was so green that I didn't even know to warn him, or pull out. Luckily, that wasn't what he wanted. He hadn't been kidding about the hot meal. He drank me dry, sucking greedily, then licked me clean before tucking me back in my pants.

He grinned and patted me on the cheek. "Tanks, kid. I allus did like sausage an' cream better'n ham." Then he walked out, whistling jauntily. I just laid there, panting, shell shocked. Talk about a revelation. That was it. From then on, my Mom's hopes for grandkids was a futile pipe dream.

1926. Eh, not my best year. I kept reading in the papers and magazines that the economy was booming. Wall Street was bullshit... Wait, that's bullish. No, on second thought, considering what happened three years later, the first term IS appropriate.

In any case, I hadn?t been invited to the prosperity party. You?d have thought I'd be doing better. I mean, I?m a musician, right? When people are rich and happy, they go to clubs, and throw parties. They need musicians, right? They did before Thomas Alva Edison and Guglielmo Marconi stuck their damn noses in it and invented the phonograph and wireless radio. Anyway, I figure they owe me for lost wages.

I was twenty-five, and had been making my way in the world alone since my ma had died about five years earlier. I was lonesome, I'll admit that. I would've still wanted to be with Joe if I hadn't been, but I guess the loneliness was my reason for latching on to him. I don't know what his reason was for latching on to me.

I was making my rounds of the musical agents. I didn't have a regular representative. It wasn't all that easy to get an agent, let alone a good one. Too many musicians , too few agents, too few gigs. The best I could manage was spot work, filling in for one, or two, or at best, three nights.

I made my way along my usual route, but there wasn't anything. It was beginning to look like I'd have to invest in a hat, so I'd have something to put down to catch change while I played out on the sidewalk. I finally ended up at Sig Pollakoff's. Sig was something of a musician pimp. He could get you gigs, but they were usually dogs, and you really kicked back to him. Still, beggars can't be choosers, and I was about ready to beg.

Nellie, the secretary wasn't in the outer office when I went in. What was in the office was Joe. And I found that I didn't really care about Nellie. He was sitting in one of the ricketty straight back chairs, reading a racing form. That should have tipped me off to avoid him right there, but...Well, you just had to see Joe.

He had thick, curly black hair, crystal blue eyes, and the darkest, thickest lashes I'd ever seen on man, woman, or beast. He also had a cupid's bow mouth that made my cock stir with interest. He looked up at me as I came in, eyes cool, but friendly.

I looked around, and inquired, "Nellie?"

He smiled at me, and my heart almost stopped. He said, in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Not so's you'd notice it."

I blushed. "No, I mean the secretary. Sig's receptionist?"

"I know whatcha mean. She stepped out for a minute. C'mon in, she should be back soon."

I came in, depositting my case near the desk. I noticed that he also had a battered musical instrument case near his feet. Well, it figured, didn't it? Considering where we were. His suit was almost as cheap and threadbare as my own, so I knew we had at least our poverty in common.

I sat beside him, he offered his hand, and we shook. "I'm Joe."

"Pleased to meet you, Joe. I'm Jerry."

Joe jerked his head toward the back office door. "You got a gig from Sig?"

I had to smile. "No, but hope springs eternal."

"Me neither. They said there wasn't anything, but I figured I'd stick around, just in case. It ain't like I got somewhere I gotta be."

"Same here."

"Man, I hope he comes up with something for me. There's a pony at Fairmount in the the new derby tomorrow that's a sure thing."

"There?s no such thing as a sure thing."

"Sure there is! I know the trainer's brother-in-law, and he says that this baby is wired. Look," he showed me the entry. It made slightly less sense than ancient Greek. "Phosphorus Dreams, at twenty to one. All I gotta do is lay down a few bucks, an' I'll be swimmin' in gravy."

"Yeah, well, make sure you save enough dough to get the stains out of your tie. If I get a gig, I'll be spending my loot on renting a place that has smaller rats."

"Rotten digs,huh?"

"I've seen haunted houses with better decoration."

He grunted. "You live alone?"

"Well, aside from the mice and cockroaches, yeah."

"You oughta get you a roomie. Then you could both kick in on rent, and get a better place, cheaper."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I still wouldn't be able to afford more than one room, and sharing one room with someone..." I trailed off.

"I done it before. You just gotta find the right person. You seem like you'd be easy to get along with."

*I'd like to try getting along with you.* But what I said was, "Yeah, well, no one's offered."

Nellie bustled back in, her plain face shining. "Here ya go, Joe. Nice and cold." She handed him a brown paper bag, and received a bone melting smile in return.

"That's my girl!" He twisted the bag down around a glass bottle, and I realized it was a beer. Nellie had gone out and gotten him a beer! Nellie wouldn't have crossed the room to pour a glass of water if her grandmother was on fire.

Joe pulled a church key out of his pocket, and flipped the cap off the beer. After taking a long pull at it, he offered it to me. "Have a belt."

I took the paper wrapped bottle and tipped it to my lips. The glass rim was faintly warm from where his lips had rested, and my hand trembled a little, so that I was worried I'd spill brew down my chin. I managed to swallow without dousing myself, and handed it back. "Thanks."

Nellie noticed me. Her smile dimmed. "Oh, it's you."

"Why, so it is! Anything for me today?"

"I think so. Lemme check."

My hopes soared.

"Hey, you told me there was nothing." Joe protested.

"There is nothing, for you. Besides, this is a crap gig, you don't want it."

"Sez who? What is it?"

Nellie picked up a note card off her desk. "It's a bar mitzvah. Five bucks, you kick back one, and you get all the chopped liver and matzoh you can eat."

"Kosher wine?"

"How should I know? Probably."

"That's for us, then." Nellie and I both stared at Joe. "Us?" I asked.

"Sure," He threw an arm around me, and I wondered if I could keep from swooning. "Jerry, buddy, you don't know how grateful I am that you said that you wouldn't work any gig unless I worked it, too."

"I did?' He gave my shoulder a squeeze. I looked at Nellie. "I did."

She looked suspicious. "Can you play the horah?"

"Nellie, baby, my mama's maiden name was Schwartz. Give us the address."

Nellie gave us the address and time, and we left together. "What was that all about?"

"I knew you wouldn't mind," Joe said confidently. "We'll make a great team, Jerry. Two can live as cheap as one, like they say. And when you kick in on the stakes for Phosphorus Dreams tomorrow..."

"Wait a minute, hold it." I stopped.

He walked a couple of paces, then turned back to me. "What's wrong?"

"Well, you're just assuming I'm going to let you move in. Or move in with you."

He looked genuinely puzzled. "You are, aren'tya?"

"I... you... but..." I stared at the beat up case dangling from his hand. "What do you play?"

"Saxophone."

I sighed. "Yeah, I am."