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Behind that Locked Door
by Polythene Sadie
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-- February 1961 --

The reason I'm responsible for making sure John gets home without passing out in a gutter somewhere is unknown to me -- especially since I'm not in much better shape. Which makes me wonder who's going to help me home.

All right, maybe the reason I'm stuck with the job isn't all that unknown. Cynthia left the party early since she needs to wake up at some crazy hour to pick up a relative at the train station. Paul left with a girl I used to see, and he's in for a surprise unless she's recently decided to not save herself until there's a ring on her finger. And Pete -- well, I have no idea what happened to Pete. He was there during our set, of course, but afterwards he drifted off into the crowd. Knowing him, he's probably off with some bird having a much better time than the rest of us. So I suppose I was elected John's escort by default.

And to top it all off, it's my birthday -- my eighteenth. I'm a man now. I should be celebrating the dawn of my manhood with some buxom, honey-skinned blonde who's definitely not saving herself for anything. Instead, I'm walking a drunken John Lennon home.

But of course, John isn't so drunk that he's incapable of reciting the same stupid nursery rhyme over and over and over and....

"Georgie Porgie, pudding an' pie, kissed the girls and made 'em cry. But when the boys came out to play, poor Georgie Porgie ran away," John says, millimeters from my ear. "You ever wonder why that was, George?"

"No," I say, wishing for the twenty-seventh time in ten minutes that my parents had named me something like 'William' or 'Joseph.'

"I do. He must've been doing something more to the girls than just kiss them. Something seedy-like. Come to think of it, they never mention where the girls were getting kissed." He smiles lecherously at me, and I just have to laugh.

When we make it to John's flat, he invites me in. We take off our leather jackets and go into the small kitchen. Since this (unfortunately) isn't the first time I've had John-duty, I know the routine well and put a kettle on the stove for tea. John hops up onto the counter, pulling out a ciggy for himself and offering another to me. I take it, and we're silent for a few minutes, just smoking.

And then --

"Georgie Porgie, pudding an' pie--"

I exhale a puff of smoke, shaking my head. "Jesus Christ."

"--kissed the girls and made 'em cry."

I snuff out my cigarette in the astray. "I'm not going to have the chance to kiss anyone or make anyone cry tonight, thanks to you."

John tilts his head to the side. "You could kiss me."

I laugh shortly and turn towards the cupboard to get the tea. "I'd rather not."

"Why?"

I turn back around and look at John like he's gone mad -- well, more so than usual. "I'm not a queer."

He smiles, extinguishes his cigarette on the tile next to him, and slides off the counter. "I've seen you checking out Paul's arse on stage," he says matter-of-factly, walking over to me.

"I have not!" It comes out sounding a little louder and a lot more defensive than planned. He steps closer.

"You were tonight. During 'Long Tall Sally.'" Closer.

"We didn't even play that," I say, and he's here, and I can feel his breath on my face, smell the scotch, and --

He takes my mouth roughly, pushing me against the kitchen cabinets. At first, I do nothing, stunned this is even happening. When his hand slides between us, I begin to push him away, but then he's cupping the front of my jeans, squeezing, rubbing. My hips begin to move almost -- almost -- involuntarily, and I moan into his mouth, even welcoming his tongue inside. His other arm wraps around my waist. I'm hard now, and so is he, as I can feel against my hip when he pulls me more tightly against him.

After what seems like both an hour and a second, John breaks the kiss and watches me as he firmly strokes through the material. I avert my eyes, feeling embarrassed, confused, a little angry, horny as hell. "Not a queer, eh?" he says quietly, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.

"I'm not," I say, looking back at him, knowing all too well that allowing, hell, urging another guy to grope me, slightly pissed or not, isn't going to qualify me for heterosexual of the month.

"All right," John says, hands now working on my belt. "I'm not either, so we're on the same field." The top button's unfastened, the zipper lowered, and with a tug from John, my jeans fall to my feet. His hand slips inside my boxers and grasps my cock.

It's perfect: rhythm, grip, speed, everything. I wonder how he knows what I like, and I've chalked it up to being a bloke a second before he drops to his knees and takes me in.

I've never had this done before. The girl in Hamburg had only been a shag, and a quick one at that, as a result of both my inexperience and our 'audience.' Upon returning home, I found myself thrown back into the world of steel corsets and chastity, so I haven't had anyone else.

I now know why some guys prefer this.

Jesus.

I have to focus on something else or I'll last 10 more seconds, tops. I look up

(fuck, his tongue)

at the ceiling and the light

(warm, so warm, wet)

fixture. There's a moth flying around

(God, he has all of me)

and around.

(ah, John, that's good, good, good)

I look down and through green-purple spots, I see how John's cheeks are hollowed, his eyes closed, his head moving up and down.

I look away again, but this time it doesn't help.

Afterwards, he stands up, a serious expression on his face, and kisses me. He tastes salty-bitter, and after a moment, I realize that it's me. He pushes me against the counter again and removes my shirt while I fumble with the buttons on his.

The kettle whistles, and John reaches over and turns off the stove. He heads toward the bedroom, pulling me with him. I nearly topple over due to the jeans around my ankles, but he catches me, chuckling. I kiss him, almost bringing both of us down on the floor this time, but for an entirely different reason. John draws back and gives me a second to shed my pants and shoes and socks before basically dragging me to the bedroom.

When we get inside, he lets go of me and locks the door, which strikes me as odd. Who would walk in on us? To my knowledge, no one else has a key to the flat.

Except Cynthia.

And that's when the guilt hits.

I really like Cyn; she's always been good to me, to all of the group really. And she loves John, and John loves her, even if he won't admit it (to us anyway -- who knows what he says to her when we're not around).

I often wonder if Cynthia knows about the girls John sleeps with when he's away from her. I don't think she does, but she might. Not that I think John would actually tell her, but she's a smart lady and may have figured it out on her own.

For the first time I wonder what exactly this is, what John and I are doing, and what's going to happen tomorrow when both us are completely sober and have to work together. I'll eventually have to face Cynthia and that thought almost makes me unlock the door and run out of the apartment as I am, nearly naked, let a February night in Liverpool be damned.

But when John takes off the rest of his clothes, reason's the thing damned.

I've seen him naked before -- when he was shagging the random bird in our shared room in Hamburg, and that time we used the public baths once before deciding it was easier just to not bathe. But this is different, as my body is certainly telling me.

He sits on the bed and lies back against the pillows. I stand in the middle of the room, just staring at him, until I finally get a clue, take off my boxers, and walk over to the bed. I sit on the side and face him. I reach out, touch his face, his chest, and then tentatively run my fingertips along the underside of his cock. He groans and wraps a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me on top of him. His lips move across my cheek, down my neck, and back up to my mouth. He flips us over and thrusts against me, his cock hard against mine. We get a rhythm down and I'm close, so close when he begins to pull back. I try to wrap my arms around him to keep us together, but he rolls away.

I lie there and fight the urge to take things into my own hands while John noisily searches for something in the nightstand's drawer. He turns back with a bounce and places something cold in my hand. I look at it -- it's a small, glass container of Vaseline -- and then at John, who grins before lying on his stomach.

Oh.

Well. This is unexpected. Not entirely unwelcome, but definitely unexpected.

John pillows his head on his crossed arms. "C'mon, Harrison. Get to it."

So I do.

I unscrew the top, and not knowing how much to use, I dip three fingers into the stuff and rub my hands together to warm it up a bit. John spreads his legs, and when I slip a finger into him, he makes this delightful groan that causes me to wonder how long I'm going to last this time.

I continue to, well, I guess 'prepare him' is the most appropriate phrase. I add more and more Vaseline to my fingers, stretching him while he makes those lovely sounds until he says, "Go ahead." I take a glob of Vaseline and coat myself with it; the coldness is a little shocking, but it probably stops me from coming as soon as I start to enter him.

I'm unsure about how fast to go, but luckily John, being John, tells me.

"A little bit more -- no, wait -- okay, some more, that's good, yes, some more, fuck, that's great, that's..." I'm all the way inside now, biting my lip, trying to hold on and not let this end before it really starts, but it's so tight and hot and tight, and I don't know how it's not hurting John, 'cos he's so goddamn fucking tight and --

I have to move, have to do something. I begin to thrust with short strokes that soon become faster and longer. John's making even lovelier sounds now, saying my name like a litany, his right hand under his body, left clasping my hand. I kiss the back of his neck, tasting sweat, and he cries out and shudders beneath me. I don't want to stop, I want to stay like this forever, it feels so right, it's like music, just like music.

I close my eyes and let go.

I don't move at first, just lay my head on his back. After I soften and pull out of him, I lie down on my side. I don't want to say what I'm about to ask, but I need to.

I need to know.

"John?"

"Mmmm?"

"What happens now?"

"We fall asleep," he says into his pillow. A beat later he rolls onto his side, facing me. "Nothing happens. You're not a queer; I'm not a queer. There's no big, marvelously tragic queer romance. Just a nice, good fuck."

Something in my chest clenches and it only gets worse when John holds me against him and kisses me in a way that conflicts with his words. It's soft, gentle, almost sweet.

Damn it. I don't want to cry. I don't.

Fuck, what's happening to me?

John pulls the sheets over us and winds an arm around my waist before closing his eyes and leaving me to wonder what will really happen when we come out from behind this locked door.

Finis.

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