King Perry (43 page)

“When that Russian mother pleaded with Death to let her see her son, Death said, ‘None but I am qualified to serve as your guide. And I cannot leave.’ King Aabee turned to Death and said, ‘I guess I could go.’”

Perry barks out a laugh, but the bow does not falter as it slides across the strings. “You
asshole
. Tell it right.”

“Boy, you’re snippy without your morning caffeine. But you are correct, King Aabee actually said, ‘I will go. Send me!’ Death replied, ‘You are not permitted.’ But this made Aabee laugh. Death did not understand Aabee’s distinctive style of volunteering.”

The cello laughs. The music gets my cock harder, more engorged, more ready. The notes shimmer around us, and if I close my eyes, I might hang on longer. Luckily, I have years of experience telling stories while fucking my brains out. He’s right; this is definitely a fetish. I suppose I’ll have to confess that over breakfast.

“Death offered King Aabee a deal.”

I change my voice, making it raspier. “‘If you play your flute-like instrument for me, I will grant you passage.’ King Aabee smiled and said, ‘Death, I will play my songs for your entertainment whenever you wish, you only need ask. But I shall play when I return, because you must learn your place, my friend. You do not command kings, even as the gatekeeper to this special realm. I am King Aabee. I am needed and I will go.’”

Perry laughs.

“Back when he was alive, none of the Found Kings could stop Aabee. You laughed at the chess game, but King Detlof was a powerful man. King Aabee lived with all his love, and after he died, he kept it. Next, Aabee visited his three sons, and they stopped their mourning, loving each other once again as they had when their father was alive.”

Perry’s notes waver for that last part, and he cries out but channels this feeling into the music, rich and mournful. That counts as a hit: Perry has a sister named Cecilia. He has not mentioned her this weekend, but over pasta, he made a vague reference to another family member, plus it’s all right there in the music: he misses her, he has always missed her.

“Of course, Aabee became the king you called when you wanted to visit a deceased loved one. You invited him and then waited for the strange music, be it crickets chirping, mint, Barry Manilow, or yes, sometimes the color chartreuse.”

“Manilow?” he gasps. “Was that a request?”

I fuck him harder and harder, my fist works him faster. The music sings happier, lighter. A climax is not far off for any of us. I hurry the words to match our pace.

“Soon, more found passage from Death’s realm and some required no guide. Loving kings and wise queens found ways to communicate with the living, according to their skills and gifts. They just needed someone to go first.”

I swear Perry’s doing a Copacabana riff, but the notes run slurry, squirting into each other in tiny little bursts.

Crescendo.

I loosen my grip on his cock, which throws off his balance, allowing me to punch his ass from behind in a slightly new angle. I graze his balls and find them pulled up tight, embracing the inevitable. I feel his sweat all over me, my sweat leaping to him, my voice fucking his ear with tight little strokes, invisible tensions we create in each other.

“The Found Kings gifted Aabee a second king name, because while he was, and always would be, the Strange Musician, he came swiftly when men wished… ugh… to speak to their deceased fathers, bec… because after all, he had three sons of… his own.”

Perry’s music squeals erratically because he can’t keep this up, this pace, this deep fucking and long strokes with his arm.

“His new king name… had a certain poetry… about it. King Aabee… the… Father King. Which made sense, because the Somali word for father—”

Cumming.

“—is pronounced
Aaaaaabeeeeeeeeeeee
.”

Perry screams and I scream and the cello screams.

Of the three of us, the cello screams loudest, its elongated moan stretching far into the surrounding morning as it goes on, and on, and on. I keep pounding my cock into Perry’s ass, yelling and shooting, all of me spurting into him and all of him welcoming me deeper. His arm jerks heavily, but the cello barely reflects this, his brain compensates somehow, delighted to be invited to our concert. The brain’s not such a bad guy. He just needs to step aside sometimes.

A series of shorter musical bursts tell me that Perry shot his juice as well. That and now I feel warm liquid dripping down my clenched fist, and glancing down, I see a bunch spilled against the back of the cello.

Breathe.

Gamba let me know that this wasn’t the first time he’d rented a musical instrument for sexual role play. He emphasized “bring it back clean” but otherwise seemed cool with it. Good shop.

Breathe.

I sweat over Perry’s back, my cock falls out of him, and he groans in relief. Holy fuck. All my concentration remains fixated on keeping us upright, holding him against me, as we feel each other’s ragged breaths.

Through my hands on his pecs, I feel our heartbeats, drumming brothers.

He staggers away, sideways, and lays down the jizz-splattered cello.

He stands again and lurches at me drunkenly. Though neither of us has the air capacity, we lock in a mouth-sucking kiss as he shows me all his breathless love, wrapping himself around me.

We gasp as we pull apart. I really should lose some weight.

I say, “You… call him… anytime.”

Perry tugs my hand to join him on the ground. The earth is cold, but there are little patches of tickly green under us, softening the hard rock and dirt. We lie in silence and soak up the morning. The voyeur sun now peeks over our private rock circle, and the wind also expresses its curiosity, racing over us, touching every exposed, naked plane. Mr. Quackers paces back and forth, silent as soon as the cello grew silent.

“Oh man,” Perry says at last. “I love King Aabee.”

Perry knows when it’s time to get up; the song lives inside him now. After we stretch and peer at the blue sky in every direction, Perry announces his intention to play a song about kings. Still early at this point: maybe 6:45? 7:00? Hard to tell. Perry picks up the cello and sits once again, perhaps a little gingerly. I dance to keep warm, shake off the dirt stuck to my ass, and watch my flab bounce around. I decide that Mr. Quackers deserves a morning stroll.

He jumps out of my hands immediately, determined to free verse along with Perry’s latest tune. He quacks louder as he ditches me, lurching erratically through the maze of shining alarm clocks, seeking freedom from this bigger cage of rock. Over and over, I lunge and miss him because every time Mr. Quackers escapes my clutches, his scuttling makes Perry laugh, and when he laughs, the notes soar.

I think I am in heaven.

Twenty-Two

“H
I
,
NAKED
guys.”

The two female hikers seem comfortable with our nudity. Not really bothering to hide my cock, I nod toward them, holding our duck.

Perry stops and nods in their direction. “Hey there, early hikers.”

“You guys the ones who laid out the big buffet on the picnic tables down there?”

Perry says, “I bet we are. Vin?”

I say, “I hope you tried the cherry crepes.”

“Yes, thank you. Good lobster bake,” says the dark-haired woman.

Her friend adds, “The cherry crepes were delicious.”

This is one of those California moments, and these two women now have their own dose of surrealism to share with their friends: the mostly naked, mountaintop cello player and his even more naked, duck-holding friend. Everyone here grooves on those stories, where the line between locals and tourists blur, and for a moment we’re all Californians because we share the same love.

“A man wearing a sparkly purple shirt served us breakfast. He said he made the crepes himself.”

Perry laughs at me, eyes full of joyful demand.

Toward them, I say, “That’s Liam, the Dolphin King.”

The raven-haired woman says, “Yeah, he said. Very beautiful music by the way. Just so you know, more people are down there, about ten or twelve. Probably hiking up here soon.”

“Thank you. We’ll get dressed.”

They wave and move away.

Perry didn’t bother to notice his own nudity. Or he didn’t care. Yup, Perry got kinged.

“He’s real?” Perry says, leaning across the cello. “The Dolphin King is
real
?”

I feel my face blush red. “I like to vacation in San Francisco.”

Perry announces his intention to play a jaunty little “Let’s-Go-Have-Lobster-Bake” song, and I dance to the deep belly laugh from his cello. Mr. Quackers gets a last-dance reprieve while I dress and go retrieve Perry’s campsite and my abandoned backpack.

By the time I return from my second trip, Perry has dressed himself in his jeans but not the warmer shirts. He remains in his short-sleeved king shirt, gold spangles shimmering. Or spangling, I guess.

The duck runs straight to Perry.

Before putting our friend in his cage, Perry holds him up to eye level and says softly, “King Quackers.”

W
ITH
my hands free, our descent is easier, handing the uncovered duck cage back and forth over difficult rock passages. Later, we’ll make trips to gather all the props, but right now the goal is breakfast. Even King Quackers seems more relaxed this morning, as if he found his sea legs during our uneven mountain descent. Perry insists on carrying the cage whenever we’re not sharing the load.

Twenty minutes later, as we cross the wooden planks at the beginning of the summit trail, Perry says, “I can’t wait to meet this guy, Liam.”

“He’s gone by now.”

Perry bumps me with his shoulder. “Damn. I wanted to compare notes.”

“What is with you guys wanting to meet each other?” I say, growling. “Besides, our weekend isn’t over until noon,
pardner
.”

He pushes me again and says, “Pardner.”

I must admit, I’m glad Liam left. I never dreamed all the men I kinged would seek each other out, choose to be in each other’s lives. It’s getting a little weird.

As we continue to stroll toward the picnic area, he grins at the gathering. Two crisp, white tablecloths anchor the feast. Sunlight gleams off silver-domed pans, their contents warmed by Sterno, boasting a banquet for three or four dozen diners. This works out well, because already I can see roughly a dozen people grazing off blue china plates, piled high with lobster bake, rosemary-hickory sausages, and goopy-frosted cinnamon rolls as big as my head. There should also be minty halibut filets, french toast, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, three different juices, and two potato dishes, one tailored to my preference for cheesy potatoes, a lovely inside joke from the Dolphin King, a man whom I once loved with all my love. God, I miss Liam.

Oh, and cherry crepes.

And a huge birthday cake, Hawaiian themed, which reads HAPPY 10
TH
BIRTHDAY, PERRY MANGIN. Sometimes you get a second chance at a shitty birthday.

I love saying the word
cake
. Cake. Cake!

The diners turn to greet us, because the only thing odder than a full service buffet in the woods is a golden man carrying a caged duck down a mountain trail.

“King Liam is a chef. He gave me the pouch thing with the rocks.”

Perry nods because it seems perfectly reasonable right now to share breakfast off white linen with Sunday morning strangers. They greet us with happy suspicion, wondering aloud if we are connected to the woodsy appearance of orange-flavored french toast.

Good lord, I am fucking hungry. Jesus.

A man says, “Are you the cellist?”

Perry nods. “Yes. I am.”

As the small gathering parts to make room for us, murmuring appreciation for the musical interlude, Perry sees the cake and stops. He sets down the duck king and squeezes my hand.

“Happy belated
birth-day,
” I sing into his ear.

While our fellow hikers express their appreciation for the food and the music, some are uncomfortable now, not sure what to make of Perry’s steady tears while he accepts their gratitude.

“Heard it a while ago….”

“We were meditating on the roof of our RV….”

Perry wipes his face repeatedly, and keeps saying, “Thank you.”

“Are you King Aabee?” says a gray-haired woman wearing a sturdy pack.

Perry’s jaw drops, and I worry about his heart, so I point to a folded card on the table which announces, ENJOY THIS COMPLIMENTARY BREAKFAST. WE APOLOGIZE IF WE DISTURBED YOUR PEACE THIS MORNING WITH OUR SUNRISE CONCERT.—KING AABEE

“No, that’s not me,” Perry says, shaking her hand. “I know him, though.”

I thought about writing “one-time-only concert,” but honestly, who knows? Perry may play here again next weekend. Or five times a year. I’ve met enough Found Kings now to know that Perry’s life will change. He is no longer a passive ripple; now he’s a duck in the ocean, creating his own wake. Gotta watch out for ducks. What other creature thrives on land, sea, and sky?

Hands shaking, he takes a Diet Coke from the silver ice bucket and scours the parking lot for a moment, his gaze resting on a white van. With a nod, he asks me if that’s ours, and with a nod, I confirm. He looks to the sky, and I can see him fighting more tears. It’s a lot to take in.