Title: Flying Solo

Flying Solo
by Mom-Ra

Arthur pretended to be looking at the record albums ranged along the wall, but he'd come into the record store with one purpose, to buy one particular album. He'd seen it the moment he'd entered
the store. The Ballad of Maxwell Demon. Brian Slade's newest release.

He walked slowly towards the spot on the display rack where the album rested; it seemed as if it was waiting for him. He took it, almost reverently from the rack. The cover photo was shockingly
beautiful. Brian lay on his belly, on a pile of maroon velvet, absolutely nude. Arthur simply had to buy this album, he needed to have it, to own it. He realized he hadn't brought enough money,
though. He had some more money at home, but he wanted to buy the album right away, he didn't want to leave without it.

Some boys he knew were hanging around the counter. Not his mates, exactly. Not friends, really, just a couple of boys he knew from school. Maybe they would loan him a bit; he could pay it back, at school the next day. Summoning his courage, he asked one of them if he could borrow some money.

"You must be mental." the boy said, hardly bothering to look at him.

"Please." Arthur tried not to sound too desperate, "I swear I got it."

"Piss off."

"Thanks." Arthur was about to return the album to the rack. He would have to come back later and buy it, with his own money.

"What's it for, then?" the boy asked, relenting a little.

"Nothing."

"Give it here, then. Let's have a look." the boy snatched the album out of Arthur's hand.

"Bloody Nora!" the boy behind the counter exclaimed.

Arthur's schoolmate told the other boys, "Our kid's one of them pansy rockers."

The counter boy stabbed a finger at the alubum.

"He's a fucking poof, that one there."

"He is not." Arthur felt the need to defend his idol.

"You're disgusting, you know that?" the first boy said, but loaned Arthur the money, anyway.

Clutching the album, and the latest issue of Music Express, Arthur walked home. The hateful words chased each other through his mind, around and around, keeping time with his footsteps.

"You're disgusting, you know that?"

"He's a fucking poof."

"You're disgusting."

"Fucking poof."

"Disgusting."

Arthur felt a tightness in his chest; it wasn't ture, he told himself. It wasn't true. He'd heard the gossip, of course. But Brian Slade was a huge star. Thousands of people adored him. It couldn't be true. People hated queers. And that frightened Arthur. Because sometimes, he was afraid that he might be that way, too. He was afraid that maybe that was why he felt so different, so alone. He was afraid that maybe that was why he didn't get on so well with girls.

Arthur liked girls, he liked them a lot. Most of his friends were girls. They thought he was "terribly sweet", and "such a darling", but he'd never really gone out with one of them, not on a
proper date. He'd certainly never had a girl. He'd like to, though. He'd like to have a go at one of those girls who smoked, and peppered their conversation with swear words; but girls like that
would never have anything to do with the likes of him. He'd known that well enough even before he'd seen their distainful appraisal of him. Their sneers and snickers always made him feel as if something was wrong with him. Maybe his clothes were wrong, or his hair was wrong. Maybe everything about him was wrong.

"Disgusting." the ghost of the boy's voice echoed in Arthur's head, as he went into the house, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Arthur felt better once he was alone in his room. He'd decorated it with posters, and photos, and newspaper clippings of his favorite pop star. His bedroom was starting to look like a shrine to
Brian Slade. He tossed the copy of Music Express on the floor, then took the album out of the paper bag from the record store, and gazed at the cover for a long moment. He opened the album cover, and looked at the inside photo. Brian, naked again; elegant and pale, so smooth, so beautiful. Nothing but soft, maroon velvet draped about his waist, the swell of his bottom just visable.

Carefully, he took the record out of it's cover, and slipped his hand into the paper sleeve. Touching only the label area, he slowly withdrew the black vinyl disc, and set it on his turntable.
He turned his record player on, and wedged a chair underneath the knob of his bedroom door. His dad was always barging in without knocking.

When the music started, Arthur settled down on the rug, and unfolded the album. He brought his face very close to the image on the cover, and whispered the name.

"Brian."

He said it over and over again, the name was like a narcotic, soothing him.

Arthur reached for the music newspaper, and turned the pages slowly, scanning for any articles about Brian. He knew they were in there, with pictures, too, but he forced himself to wait, and not just rip through the paper until he found them. He saw it at last, a pull-out section, all about Brian Slade. He avidly read the articles and interviews, and stared hungrily at the photos. He turned another page and saw the most startling, frightening, most erotic thing he'd ever seen in his life.

A close-up shot of Brian and Curt Wild kissing. Full on the mouth, lips parted, tongues touching. It was true. Not a rumor, not gossip, it was true, because here was the proof, right in front of
him. An odd sense of relief swept through Arthur as he examined the photo. In the space of a heartbeat, his fear turned into a sense of wonder. Suddenly he felt as if he had a fantastic secret; a secret that, perhaps some day, he could share with someone else. He scooted up onto his knees, and planted his hands on the floor. He studied the details of the black and white image; the curve of Brian's lips, the tilt of Curt's head, the gleam of moisture on their tongues.

Arthur wished the photo had been a full-length shot, he wondered if Brian and Curt had been embracing one another while they kissed. Had Brian's arms been around Curt's waist, or wrapped around his back? Arthur's heart was racing as he reconstructed the kiss in his imagination again and again.

With trembling fingers, he slowly turned the page, and nearly choked when he saw the next set of photos. Evidently, they'd been taken during a concert, because Curt was holding his guitar. In one
photo, Brian was on his knees, in front of him, with his hands clutched onto the waitband of Curt's tight pants. Brian's face was pressed against Curt, or rather, against his guitar. In the other,
Brian was on the floor, between Curt's legs, looking up at him. His back was arched, his beautiful mouth was wide open, to show his wet tongue.

Arthur had begun to rock back and forth on his knees, as that lovely, terrifying, squirmy feeling crept through his body. It was like the feeling he used to get from swinging; the rush in his tummy as the swing would seem to pause at the highest point of it's arc, then plummet back towards the ground. It was like that, only scarier ... only better. His breath was coming in great shaking sobs, and he couldn't keep still. He turned back to the photo of Curt and Brian kissing, and slowly undid his zip.

He had learned, without ever having been told, that what he was doing was wrong. It was dirty and wicked and disgraceful. But, sometimes, when he couldn't stand it anymore, when strange longings would keep him awake, he would comfort himself with clumsy, adolescent caresses, always careful not to make a sound, careful not to mess the sheets. Always sick with shame afterward.

None of that mattered to Arthur at the moment, for everything had ceased to exist, and there was nothing, except his hands moving over his body, and the pictures, and the music, and Brian's voice. He turned back to the concert pictures, and tugged his pants down, just past his hips. Arthur leaned closer to the newspaper, bent nearly double, resting his forearm against his knees. He rubbed his arm, and pushed up his shirt sleeve to feel the bare skin of his shoulder. His face was damp with sweat; he wiped his hand over his cheek, then his mouth.

Arthur had recently discovered that the longer he waited, the better it would be. But, he didn't think he could wait much longer; he had never, ever been this excited before. He touched his
wet lips, and moved his hand down over his throat, down his chest, over his belly, then reached around to caress his side, his waist, his ribcage, and hugged himself tight.

The mingled pain and pleasure of anticipation mounted steadily, tension and desire built up, until Arthur could stand no more, and he reached down between his damp, warm thighs, and closed
his fingers around his cock. He gave it a gentle squeeze, then stroked it very slowly, from the base to the flange of it's head; he moved his hand back and forth along its length, and found a rhythm.

Arthur wasn't conscious of the music anymore; it had receded into the the background of his fanasy. The constant staccato base, and heavy, measured drumbeats under the frantic guitar became a counterpoint to the slow, steady movement of Arthur's hand, and the wild tension spiraling inside him.

He was about to come, he could feel the first little tingles of his approaching orgasm deep inside his body, and he was so hard ... hard and hot, and ready. He wanted it so bad, he began thrusting into his hand. His heart was pounding, the blood was
roaring in his ears.

He went numb with terror when he heard his dad banging on the door, shouting at him. For one awful moment, Arthur couldn't move, he couldn't even breathe. Trembling, he came back to life and was able to yank his pants up, just as his dad broke the door open.

He was so shocked and humiliated, he couldn't really understand the words his dad was hurling at him, he only heard the anger in his voice, anger and disgust.

Then he began to cry.

"Do you hear me?" he heard his dad shout, "Stand up!"

Slowly, Arthur stood up, his shoulders drooped, his head hung down. He'd never felt so utterly crushed, had never felt so ashamed, so worthless. He tensed, waiting for his dad to shout at him some more, or maybe even to hit him. Nothing happened, his dad turned his back on him and left the room. And for a long time after his dad had gone, Arthur stood in front of his bureau and cried as though his heart was breaking.

But in the back of his mind, something tiny, and sharp, and sweet began to crystallize, and he clung to it; heard it whispering to him, felt it calming him.

He wasn't the only one.

And he no longer felt so alone.


The End