Flash Mob Page 5

  The upside was that the two of them were becoming friends. They'd spend time together. And, this cutie attracted attention, which meant, so long as he kept his wits about him, he'd get more attention. People would want to sleep with him because he knew the cute guy, was with the cute guy, or because the cute guy had gone home with someone else. He was fine with that. Hell, no one ever remembered his name, not at this point. They would. They'd learn who he was in time. For now he'd remain "the boy" or the "Piano Player." So long as the bills were paid and he got laid, what else mattered when you're twenty six and working on Broadway? His time would come and he'd keep treading water until then. The Piano Player knew he was paying dues, even if it was on someone else's tab.

  How had all this happened? Billy contemplated. Everyone was being so nice to him. He wondered, just for a moment, if the Piano Player wanted to sleep with him. Everyone did. He called him "lover." He gave him cigarettes and money. Was there an expectation? Billy pulled opened the pack of cigarettes.

  "Not in here!" shouted the bartender, pointing to the "No Smoking" sign.

  Billy stashed the smokes back in his pocket and surveyed the room. He focused in on a tall skinny man with shaggy hair at the opposite end of the bar. That was his type, at the moment. He established eye contact before strategically ignoring the man. The waiter returned.

  "Your daddies want you," he said with a snarl into the Piano Player's ear.

  "Thanks," he said back, his smile sweet as molasses. "Come on, lover," he said to Billy with a little tug on his chest hair. "We've been summoned."

  The two men returned to the patio so the foursome could leave for dinner. Billy's head whirled from the alcohol and activity. Jericho once again placed his hand on the lower curve of Billy's back and guided him through the crowded bar. The dancer felt his knees go a little weak, but managed to stay upright.

  Five

  Jericho clicked on his Google search links. The blogs talking about the Flash Mob were no longer just English. It seemed to Jericho that the whole world was blogging about him. It made him feel good. They were excited about what he'd created.

  Local media buzz about the Grand Central Flash Mob died off. People still talked about it in the bars, but the media moved on to other local events, as the media will. The YouTube video went viral. The hits were over a million and there was even a copycat Mob video from the UK.

  Jericho pulled out a file labeled "Flash Mob Two." He rang up Sara and got the ball rolling for the next event. It would take a few weeks to pull together, but he had Sara on his team now; he knew it would run smoothly.

  * * *

  Billy sat in the breakfast nook eating scrambled eggs and reading the New York Times. He felt like a king with Jericho's full refrigerator, home delivered newspapers, and a warm, comfortable bed to sleep in every night. Even the terrorist bombing headline didn't dampen his spirits. His mind wandered from the news story about the destroyed New Jersey oil and gas refinery that supplied the US Military and the three people killed and the dozens of injured. While just across the river from Manhattan, New Jersey seemed like a million miles away. Instead, his thoughts were of Jericho. Why he kept so much to himself. Why the director rarely made an appearance in the large, lovely apartment. It appeared to Billy that the living room was just for show. Instead, Jericho stayed in his bedroom or office most of the time, ignoring Billy. The boy felt lonely. He didn't feel like he could come and go as he pleased, although Jericho had never said he couldn't. Now that he had money in his pocket, he wanted to be out in the world, doing his thing, trolling the bars or bath houses for other young handsome men to have sex with.

  It might be different if Jericho put the moves on Billy; the boy certainly wouldn't feel as lonely if he was sharing someone’s bed every night; he definitely wouldn't feel as horny. Billy certainly wasn't looking this gift horse in the mouth, or rocking the boat, or any of the other clichés he could think of that might jeopardize his suddenly comfortable life. He did, however, wish that Jericho would give him a key to the apartment. He thought about asking, but that felt rude. “Take what’s given and ask for nothing.” That was the Piano Player’s advice. Billy knew he had to be happy with that.

  The boy finished the paper by rereading the brief Arts & Entertainment piece about the start of rehearsals for the revival of 42nd Street. Sure, he wasn't mentioned by name, but it gave him a thrill all the same to be part of a show that got a mention in the Times months before it actually opened. He decided to ask Jericho if he could have the paper after the director had read it so that he could start a scrapbook with clippings from the show.

  He rinsed his dish, fork, and the pan from the eggs and placed them in the dishwasher, all the while thinking about how proud his grandparents would be if they were still alive. With a tear in his eye, Billy surveyed the kitchen and gave the counter and table a quick wipe with the sponge. It was the first full day of dance rehearsal and he had to be on time. There was just enough of that for a quick shower and a cab to the rehearsal hall. Jericho had already told him that he wasn't going in early, that the Dance Captain would be working on steps and stamina in the morning. He was on his own. A stronger twinge of loneliness crept over him. The current rules of his life didn't make sense. He wanted…what did he want?

  Billy knew what he wanted: Jericho to fuck him. Sure, making love would be okay, but it had been a week since he’d last had sex with anyone. As he pulled off his T-shirt and shorts and waited for the water in the shower to heat up, he faced the mirror. He circled his nipples, first the left, then the right; he ran his right hand over his abs and they rippled from the stimulation. Billy scratched his pubes and enjoyed the sensation as his dick hardened without his even touching it. Avoiding making contact, he took his balls into his hand and formed a ring with his fingers, giving the sac an easy tug. His cock was rock hard now. He tested the shower water, still holding tight to his balls, Billy stepped into the tub. Once he finally took his dick into his hand, it only took a few fast strokes to feel the rise of come. A few more jerks, the release of his balls, and he came all over the wall. He quickly wiped the jism off the tiles and showered. As he toweled off he realized he’d lost track of time. Billy quickly dressed and rushed out to rehearsal with damp hair.

  * * *

  "Marcus, I'm going to be late!" Tamara squealed in delight as her hunky boyfriend chased her around his small bedroom. "I've got dance rehearsal all morning and classes all afternoon. I've got to get in the shower."

  Marcus' wide brown eyes sparkled in the morning light. He caught Tamara and flung her on the bed. "Just a quickie, doll. I'll be done quick. Feel how hard I am?" He took her hand and shoved it on his crotch.

  Tamara gave in, suddenly wanting him inside her again. She reached her free hand to the nightstand. Before she got it there, he'd released her and grabbed a condom from the stand himself, ripping open the package and rolling the rubber over his hard dick in record time.

  Marcus pushed into her quickly and then paused. “Sorry, are you okay?”

  “Fine. Just fuck me,” Tamara said in a tight whisper.

  He knew he’d hurt her a little, but he pushed harder into her. When she finally moaned that mouse-like sound, he knew she was okay and began quick strokes in and out of her. As promised, he was done quickly. Too quick for Tamara to get anywhere near her own eye-rolling end.

  She held him on top of her with her strong, dancer’s legs. "That won't do. You'll have to go again. I want a little pleasure for my efforts," she said playfully in his sweaty ear. She reached up and rubbed his big nipples. Tamara was amazed by the size of them. She'd never seen a man, not that she'd dated very many, but she was a chorus dancer and saw lots of shirtless men, and she'd never seen a man with such large nipples. She loved to play with them and knew that her actions got results. Tamara could feel him growing hard inside her again. "Okay, Stud. Go to work."

  Marcus took a little more time, focused more on Tamara, rubbing her breasts, massaging her buttocks, raising h
er legs in front of him, and stroking gently in and out of the promised land. He watched her face, waiting, waiting for Tamara's eyes to roll back. When they did, he increased his speed. Faster, faster he pumped until she let out her little squeak. He knew that was the moment; he finished up quickly. This time, with her approval of increased little squeaks.

  The couple lay, sweaty and sated.

  "Now, that's what I'm talking about," Tamara said in a mimic of Marcus' favorite lines. He chuckled and rolled off and out of her.

  "Don't you have a job to get to?" he asked.

  "Shit!" Tamara jumped out of bed and dashed to the bathroom for a fast douche and shower. She'd never been late for a rehearsal in her life, until today.

  * * *

  Aamil read in the morning paper that Jericho Taylor was mounting a revival of 42nd Street that would be opening before summer. While it went against his religion, he did love musical theater.

  He wanted to be there, up on the stage. He wanted to be an actor. But, that was out of the question. His religion, and those who now controlled his life, forbad it. Instead, he worked diligently all day putting electronic components together, as instructed, no questions asked, ever. Instead, he prayed over and over throughout the day, always facing Mecca. Living alone, he considered not even going through the motions of prayer, but he knew, in his soul, that if he didn't, at some point his actions would be discovered. He didn't know how, or by whom, but he felt, he knew, it would happen.

  The morning chimes sounded. Aamil rolled out his mat, dropped to his knees. He was embarrassed and would never admit it, but frequently, while he dropped his head over and over to the floor, his mind wandered. He pictured himself up on a stage, not the lead or anything like that, but in the chorus. He looked good in the tight costume. He was friends with everyone. He and the other chorus boys shared knowing looks and smiles while performing. In his prayer-time fantasies, Aamil was well liked, had lots of theater friends, and was happy.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, running her fingers through her long, curly red hair. There was a shoot in Central Park that morning, but she still had plenty of time. Scattered on her bed were a dozen different tops to choose from. The morning would be cool, but the day would quickly warm up. She needed to choose a top that would go with the changing spring temperatures of New York. The Redhead tried on first one blouse and then another.

  The ringtone of her cell, a horrible hip hop song her Blonde friend had insisted she download, shocked her from her blouse decision. "I've got to change that ringtone today, if only I knew how," she said to no one and answered the phone: "Ciao."

  The Redhead listened as Sara presented another Flash Mob opportunity. Before she'd gotten through the offer, the Redhead said, "Yes, of course. Count me in. Although, I've got a shoot in Milan that will take up the middle ten days of March." Sara assured her that would be fine. The Redhead thought about asking Sara if she knew how to change a ring tone, but decided it would be too difficult to follow the instructions while talking on the phone. She'd get one of the assistant boys on the shoot who always drooled over her to do it. They'd do anything she asked, just to be seen talking to her. Of course, they knew as well as her that they didn't have a chance in hell of getting her into bed. It just didn't happen, the help in bed with the talent.

  After they’d hung up, The Redhead remembered that her friend, The Blonde, had asked to be involved. But, as quickly as the thought entered her head, it departed. She’d already turned back to the heap of tops. Now, she was running late and had to make a decision. She chose a blouse and blazer combination with a print silk scarf. No bra today because she'd be changing over and over into those all day long for this shoot. And, if she arrived without one, she'd easily be able to wear her favorite one home. She'd have to be aware of assistant boys with cell phones today or her breasts would be all over the internet before dinner.

  * * *

  A small group of dancers gathered in front of the door of the rehearsal-hall building on Lexington Ave. Smoke formed a cloud around them. Billy got out of his cab and joined in. "Shit, I thought I'd be late," he said to the collective.

  "Right on time, baby," said the Piano Player.

  The two boys stood together, smoked.

  "So, did you get any off daddy last night," the rehearsal pianist asked.

  "Stop. It's not like that at all. He really is just giving me a room for a bit while I get on my feet," said Billy. He looked hard at the Piano Player before eyeing the others around them. Billy didn't want everyone to know, to be gossiping about his arrangement with Jericho. He didn't want to be ostracized from the beginning. Actors can be petty, but dancers are murderous in their jealousy.

  "Whatever you say, Boy. Whatever you say. I saw the way you reacted when he touched you last night."

  "What are you talking about?" Billy could feel the heat rising around his neck and ears. If this conversation didn't end, he'd be beet red in moments.

  "When you two were leaving and he put his hand on your back," said the Piano Player, placing his own hand on Billy's lower back for emphasis.

  Billy's knees went a little weak. "It doesn't matter what man puts his hand there," he said, embarrassed by the true statement. "It's a thing for me." Billy pushed the Piano Player's long-fingered hand away. The conversation ended.

  The smokers took drag after quick drag from their cigarettes; no one made eye contact. And, the nonsmokers pushed past them through the doors, taking wafts of smoke into the building with them.

  "Time," said one of the girls, stamping out a butt under her shoe. "We'll have to take the stairs up, no time to wait for the elevator," she said leading the way into the building.

  All the dancers followed her. They tossed and tamped their own cigarettes before they headed inside, down the hall, and up the staircase in double time. They arrived just as the Dance Captain began barking out orders and instructions.

  "You're late!" shouted the Dance Captain as a young male dancer rushed into the room. "Watch and follow," he said in a stern, but softer voice. The company watched and followed his steps and motions.

  Tamara rushed into the room, flushed.

  "You're late!" the Dance Captain shouted. The slim, taught, young man glared at Tamara's reflection in the mirror; he didn't break stride as he hollered at the embarrassed girl. "When I say nine, I mean nine."

  The rest of the dance company avoided the Dance Captain's eyes in the mirror. Most focused on his feet or hands, desperate to look and see who the latest late comer was.

  Without a word, Tamara dropped her bag along the wall and joined the company as they followed their stern leader.

  Six

  The sun shone bright as Jericho walked east across town toward the rehearsal hall. He liked to walk from the West Side of Manhattan to the East Side. Cab rides were always so hectic that he ended up back seat driving, his foot hitting the imaginary break. Traversing the city on foot gave him time to think, to plot, to scheme.

  As Jericho waited for the light at Eighteenth Street and Seventh Avenue, he couldn't help think of the similarities between Billy and himself. Jericho had lived in the New York his entire adult life. Like Billy, he'd escaped his small, Midwest hometown the day after he graduated from high school for the opportunities offered by the city. Aside from a few visits for milestone high school reunions Jericho never returned to his hometown. He skipped the wedding invitations that occasionally arrived from cousins and their offspring. They didn’t accept his being gay and knew all they really wanted anyway was a gift from Tiffany’s or a check. He saw no point in going to people’s funerals. They were dead, after all. That place wasn't home anymore; New York held that distinction for him. Here he could be himself; date who he wanted, and not be criticized.

  Years before high school, young, slim, and, handsome, he wanted to be a Broadway star. He knew he had it in him. Jericho had talent. He'd played the lead in every production at his prestigious, private high school to standing ovations and rave reviews i
n the school and local papers. So much like the boy he was now giving safe harbor to in his home.

  As he passed through the familiar Chelsea streets, Jericho enjoyed the memory of his early success in the city, landing chorus roles in several Broadway shows from his very first auditions. That first audition happened in the building that used to hold the spot that was a new shining hotel. He touched the new building's brick façade and mourned the loss of the old, turn of the century building that had stood for so long. He was stuck somewhere between a desire for progress and a return to those long-ago days of chorus line evenings and a different man in his bed for sex-filled nights. He walked a bit further, catching his reflection in the shiny glass. He still felt he looked good for his five decades plus timeline, yet back then, in his early NYC days, he was fit, trim, desired by young and old, male and female. Everyone wanted him. He was a welcome and necessary commodity on both the stages and streets of the Big Apple.

  After his third run on Broadway, he was chosen to understudy, even got to go on in the star role a few times. But, he hit some wall. He never advanced from the chorus and understudy gigs, no matter what he tried. Directors kept remarking, "great, but too young."

  As anyone who has lived for any period of time will know, "too young" isn't a phrase that lasts for long. When he reached thirty, it shifted to "too old." Not being a character actor either, the gigs just stopped. He'd had a good run: twelve years of working virtually nonstop on Broadway. But, it just stopped.

  A friend opened a small, storefront, off-off-Broadway theater, 199 seats. It had stood around the corner from where he now waited for the light to cross Sixth Avenue. He needed a choreographer for a new show and asked Jericho. With nothing else going on beyond temporary office work, Jericho took on the project. The show flopped, but the two reviews they did garner, while trashing the show over all, gave positive reviews of the dancing, mentioning Jericho Taylor by name. That choreography gig led to another and another. All at small, off-off-Broadway theaters. On the fourth show, at a different 199-seat storefront space, the director of a show Jericho was choreographing quit. Jericho took over. Jericho changed everything the original director had started. The show got great reviews and ran for a year, moving after six months to prestigious off-Broadway house in Greenwich Village, The Cherry Lane. He'd found his niche. Within another year, Jericho was directing and choreographing on Broadway. And, that's how it'd been for over twenty years.