Rootin' Down The Highway - 7. New York City

“Hey, babe, are you upset about missing all the hot sex last night?” We were on the road to New York City. Brett was at the wheel; Wayne, Marcus, and Dave were sleeping in the back of the motorhome. Those three were sprawled out all over each other, arms and legs entwined, resembling a litter of puppies. They were hungover, their requests for silence making that clear, and obviously tired. Dave’s ass must have taken a serious pounding the previous evening; our keyboard player kept shifting around in his seat, until finally he shed his clothes and settled himself on the bed to sleep on his stomach. This was becoming a habit with him following the final evening we spent in any city.

“No, Buck, I’m not. It was hot seeing those guys naked, listening to Dave ask the big Hawaiian to fuck him harder, and seeing our mates have a good time. But I’m glad we left the play room and went to sleep in the guest bedroom.” Our tour manager was smiling; his voice had a warmth which made me feel funny inside, and he looked so bloody good in his shorts and sleeveless shirt I wanted to get naked with him right there.

“Well, I had a bloody good time being just with you. I hope that happens a few more times this coming week. Ya think autumn in New York is as awesome as people say?” We had a gig this coming weekend at Prime, a joint in Chelsea, but we planned on being tourists for the next few days. The bar owner had organized our stay by finding us a spot to park, seven day unlimited rides transit cards, and a complimentary membership for the week at a gym called WOOF, which had just opened near Prime. He even scored some free tickets to a show on Broadway.

“Chelsea’s full of hunky gay boys; our mates will probably be popular, so we may have our house on wheels to ourselves a lot.” His comment made me smile. Brett had been my bestie for a few years, but this trip had brought us closer together, and all of a sudden I wasn’t as interested in running around as the Furballs were. Sure I still looked, still got the hots for other blokes, but I wanted Brett to be involved in anything I did with those guys.

Our arrival went off without a hitch. Tony had arranged for us to park the motorhome somewhere under The Highline Park. Cool place built on an old rail line, about nine meters above street level. It started raining as we crossed into Manhattan and didn’t stop for the rest of the night. We had dinner at a pan Asian place near the bar―didn’t want to venture far in the nasty weather―drinks at Prime, and Brett and I called it an early night. Not sure how late our mates stayed at the bar; they were enjoying the attention of the Sunday night crowd and of two of the bartenders in the place. Every conversation started with a reference to how sexy our accents sounded.

●

“Damn, another rainy day in New York City: windy, wet, and gray.” Dave was cranky from the moment we woke up; we felt all he needed was a good fuck to improve his spirits.

“Mate, you need to chill. The weather guy on the telly said the sun would come out tomorrow. Why don’t you spend the afternoon at a sauna, get your pipes cleaned out, and we’ll meet you for dinner at the Stonewall Inn for happy hour?”

“Nah, Buck, I’ll be okay. But I better find some dick soon. Ya think Prime’s owner would be interested? I’d love to bend over for him.” Tony Martellini, a real hot hunk with dark Italian good looks, was the man who’d hired us to play his club.

“Ask him! When the fuck did you turn shy?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dave get turned down by a bloke he wanted to bed. His good looks were matched by a great disposition, and his ass was a thing of beauty.

“I think I will, tonight. Unless those two bartenders we met last night are available. So, what’s the plan for the day, and what’s the big deal about this Stonewall Inn? Why are we going to a guest house for happy hour?” Bloody brain in the man’s head turned off, once the thought of getting laid surfaced.

“Dave, you ignorant, Kiwi slut! Every gay man in the world has to know about what happened at Stonewall in June 1969.” Wayne spoke what we were thinking, making us all laugh. Calling our keyboard player ignorant was a stretch; he was young and lacked some experience, but the slut part was spot on.

“Fine, Professor Wayne, tell me all about it. I’m sure you were there yourself; I just hope your memory hasn’t forgotten that year!”

“Fuck you, piano boy. That was forty-four years ago. The Stonewall was a popular gay bar, which allowed men to dance together―illegal back then, believe it or not. It also attracted a large number of drag queens―female impersonations were also illegal. The police regularly raided the place, and other gay spots, even though the owners were paying the fuckers off. They beat up some customers, and arrested others with impunity. Then one night the cops tried to do it again, and all hell broke loose. A drag queen was picked up by a cop and thrown into the back of a paddy wagon; she looked at the crowd gathered outside the bar, told them to do something, and they did. For the first time in the city’s history, gays, lesbians and their friends stood up for themselves―the police had to back down. The standoff lasted for days, New York City officials eventually had to acknowledge the gay community, negotiations followed, and soon afterwards the laws were changed.”

“Bloody hell! So that’s how the gay right’s movement started―”

“Sorry to interrupt the history lesson, guys. Take a look out the window.” We had been having a very late breakfast, at a diner near where we had parked the motorhome. “Rain stopped, still cloudy, but that will just keep it from getting too hot. Let’s finish here and head down to see the Statue of Liberty. It’s our first day in the world’s most famous city; bloody hell if I’m going to spend it inside eating and yakking.”

●

We visited the famous statue out in the middle of the harbor. We all had our phones out during the ferry ride, filming our approach to Lady Liberty. We walked through the memorial to the terrorist attack which brought down the World Trade Center buildings, killed thousands, and led to a war. While visiting the museum on Ground Zero, we nodded our heads in agreement, when some woman cursed the ‘fucking, evil, camel jockeys, so ignorant they had to kill innocent people to satisfy their god.’ Aussies died in Afghanistan because of what those assholes did in America.

After experiencing the strong emotions of our Ground Zero visit we all needed a drink. We rode the subway to Greenwich Village, walked to Christopher Street, and discovered Ty’s. Nice pub. The sparse crowd was a bit older and included a couple of DILFs, the bartender was friendly, and Dave was ready to bend over for him in sight of anyone and everyone. Our boy was horny; he needed to get fucked soon. We dragged our mate out of the bar, crossed the street, and walked into The Leather Man.

The shop was full of sex toys, porn videos, and all sorts of clothing. Dave wanted to try on a handful of things, so we walked downstairs and browsed through the inventory. Our keyboard player got naked, put on a studded harness and a matching jockstrap, and asked the big daddy watching over us for help finding a better fitting one. Marcel, who we eventually discovered was originally from Montreal, whispered into Dave’s ear while fitting him. He ran his hands over our mate’s furry ass cheeks, slipped a finger between them, and Dave automatically bent over.

The shopkeeper wasted no time in unzipping his pants, taking out his cock, and slipping it inside the hole he’d just fingered. We watched Dave get fucked where any customer may have walked in; based on his moaning and comments, he could have cared less who saw him getting shafted. When the Canadian daddy pulled out, we were treated to a view of him peeling off a condom, filled with a nice sized load of spunk. We left the shop with a smiling Dave carrying a bag with his new jockstrap in it.

●

The remainder of the week flew by. One day we visited the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. We spent time in Central Park, visited a couple of museums, and walked to The Dakota to pay homage to John Lennon. Times Square was a blast. Bloody place was crowded day and night. We walked into a gazillion stores; M&M’s World was Brett’s favorite, so I bought him a heart-shaped dispenser and a bag of pink and red candy. I was pashed in the middle of the store.

Nights on Broadway are magical. The theatre crowds provided a never ending parade of fashion, from ripped jeans to high couture, and everything in between. The cacophony of languages, provided an indication of the large number of tourists from overseas. The Book of Mormon was everything we’d heard it would be and more; I’d be seeing that show again for sure. The guys who wrote it are musical geniuses.

Friday, we were at Prime early in the day, setting up the equipment, and doing a bit of rehearsing; we’d not played, since our stint at Rogo’s, at all. Brett wasn’t sure about our opening number, Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind”, but I was certain it would go over well. Did it ever…

“Thank you for the warm welcome, mates. My name’s Buck, the guys behind me are the Furballs, and the curly haired blonde stud standing by the side of the stage is our manager. He didn’t think our number was good enough to get you going when we rehearsed it earlier today. Wadda you say about it? Did it get you excited to hear more from us?” The noise from the crowd let us know we’d hit the right button with them. We went through our playlist without a hitch, took a break after forty-five minutes, and opened up the second half with “Love Lost” by The Tender Trap. I went through my usual introduction of the Furballs and then played Truly, Madly, Deeply by Savage Gardens, and Chains by Tina Arena. We’d been including numbers by fellow Aussie musos trying to introduce Americans to great music from down under. Our own material made up the remainder of the set until the final song. It was then I put the guitar down, grabbed the mike, and asked the crowd for a few minutes of silence.

“Mates, you’ve been a fantastic audience. After five weeks performing in different American cities, this is our last show before we fly back home to Oz. You’re the best crowd we’ve played in front of during our stay in the United States. Thank you!” Someone began clapping and soon the entire place was doing the same. The compliment may have been so much offal to begin, but their enthusiastic response proved I was not far from the mark.

“We started the show tonight with “New York State of Mind”; we’d like to end it with another song about this great city―our version of something Jay Z and Alicia Keyes had some success with.”

No rapping in our performance of “Empire State of Mind”. We stole the idea from Alicia Keyes concerts, where she does the song by herself. The opening with just piano keys is haunting, and the Furballs sang most of what Jay Z did in the original; I took the other parts which worked well with my higher voice. Afterwards, over the crowd’s loud cheering, we stood together in front, took a bow together, and walked behind the curtain―the roar of the crowd asking for more in our ears. We wiped ourselves down, gulped a bottle of water each, and walked back on stage with me carrying an acoustic guitar this time.

“Can someone lend me a bar stool? Kinda tired after all that work.” Three of them appeared on stage in no time at all. “Marcus, you’ve been standing up here all night also, grab a seat. Brett? Come on up mate, you’re part of this. Ladies and gentlemen, Brett Harrison―our manager and my bestie.” Brett looked surprised but came up anyway and sat on the stool I offered him between Marcus’ and mine.

“This is a song that’s been bouncing around in my head a lot lately, not entirely sure why. It’s also one we’ve never played as a group before.” With a nod to Marcus, and turning towards Dave and Wayne, I added, “I’ll start it off, and you guys can join in whenever you want.” They all smiled and nodded their heads in acknowledgement; they had no inkling of what I was about to do. I gave Brett a quick peck on the cheek, strummed a few chords on my guitar, and looked at the crowd once again. “We started you off with Billy Joel, let’s close this up with him again; “You’re My Home” by Mr. Joel.”

●

On Saturday, we delivered our equipment and most of our clothes to the cargo terminal, returned the motor home, and then made our way down to Prime. We stored our carry on pieces in the office and went out for some last minute shopping. We all dropped a few dollars at Nasty Pig; great clothes―some of which I’d be wearing on stage.

Tony had invited us for dinner at his apartment in Brooklyn that evening, but Brett and I were the only ones who accepted. The Furballs agreed to meet us at the airport early on Sunday, to catch our flight home. They hung around Manhattan until the two bartenders they’d been flirting with before got off work. We eventually heard all about Dyal from Israel and Dimitri from Russia. The two men had met during Friday night services at a synagogue two years before and had become a couple soon after. The Jewish boys supposedly couldn’t stop playing with our bandmates’ foreskins.

“Welcome to Brooklyn, guys.” We’d ridden the subway from Manhattan to a station within walking distance of the Tony’s flat. He’d ushered us upstairs, we’d removed our shoes and coats and were now in the kitchen sipping on beers.

“I hope you like lasagna. My mom made it last Sunday, and I brought a pan home with me. It’s been frozen since then, but I swear it’ll be great. Mama’s a great cook.”

“We’ve not had many home-cooked meals during our trip, mate. I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.” Damn Brett and his not-so-innocent comments. Tony’s head snapped up, and his lips curled into a leering smile.

“Anything?” he asked as he turned up an eyebrow.

“You got it, mate. And that goes for both of us.” It was time for me to jump in and join the game.

“Maybe we can wait a bit for dinner; how about we relax with another drink? Maybe we can get a bit more comfortable?” He pulled three bottles of beer out of the refrigerator and started unbuttoning his shirt as soon as he handed each of us one.

“Bloody hell, Tony, how’d you get that fucking body? I know you work long hours; no way have you had a lot of time for the gym.” I’m pretty sure I was drooling as I spoke. When he removed his shirt, the man unwrapped what I thought was the most beautiful, furry torso I’d ever seen.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bodybuilder, but neither you nor Brett are too shabby. Not sure what you’re into. I can pitch and catch, and I’d love to come in between the two of you.” He did, several times during the evening. We kept flipping him over, so we both could enjoy his two sides.