Author's Note: This is my very first foray into Curt/Arthur-land after 2 lengthy and involved, unfinished and in fact never ending Brian and Curt stories. I always considered myself a B/C gal, but after reading some decent C/A stories, which took place after they met up as adults - ten years after they had sex on the rooftop as seen in the film - which is the timeframe in this story, I saw the potential those two had. They in fact have way more true potential as a couple than B/C - as they were written in the film - realistically ever could, and this intrigued me enough to give it a go.
This is also my first foray into a mainly third person narrative, instead of hearing from inside the heads of Curt, Brian, or both. I still consider first person to be much more difficult to write and therefore have a bit more respect for that way of writing, but anyway ... here goes nothin'.
I also want to mention that in the film the timeframe is, as best as I remember, something like 1984. Seeing as computers, or at least personal computers (desktop, laptop, tablet), did not exist then, please suspend your disbelief. While I have computers existing, I do not have cell phones, as I knew it would inevitably lead to texting and I didn't want to go there.
Hope you enjoy. Feedback, as always, is appreciated.
The Story of Curt and Arthur
Curt's head is propped against a pillow, elbow bent behind him, exhaling smoke through terse, tight lips, ignoring Arthur in the doorway.
So what's next, then, he wants to ask. Anal cavity search?
He wants to say it; it's right on the tip of his tongue. He wants to, only at the moment, Curt and Arthur aren't speaking.
It's the reminder, mostly, the rubbing it in thing, that he hates; that's gnawed at him forever.
Other people can have this, it says. You can't have this.
'This' being a "relationship". A healthy one, anyway. Successful, or at least, half way working. Real.
Define 'real'.
Okay, first, obviously you rule out anything smack-based. Second ... how 'bout one where the guy actually trusts when you tell him things? How 'bout, you move in together, and it doesn't disintegrate within a few weeks or months over stupid goddamn shit? Is that seriously too much to ask?
Apparently. But it's not like the odds were any good, nor that Curt didn't know this. Arthur is ... what's that old term? A "catch". Curt isn't used to "catches" because those types, well balanced, healthy, successful types, people with shit going on and bright futures, hang out with each other. They sure as hell never hang or even interact with dirtbag has-been losers, (except maybe when the latter clears their plates at a restaurant). Arthur's young - just turned 27, and with that thick head of dark chocolate brown hair and matching puppy dog eyes, looks younger. He's still asked to show ID when buying beer, for fuck's sake.
The fact that Arthur is clueless in this one area, having no knowledge of his own "catch-ness", makes him all the more so. Here's a kid who has reason to act like a yuppie shitbag, to have that entitled, annoyingly confident fratboy personality: advanced degrees in English and journalism; a great new flat in a cool part of central London, and an exciting job - career - that he loves, that he's good at, which, notwithstanding that one lame assignment of investigating the fall of Brian Slade, is definitely on the rise. The pay's decent, and, to boot, the work involves travel. Curt could easily see him as one of those foreign correspondent types, dapper in a flack jacket, heroically reporting from some war zone.
Curt, by contrast, is penniless, looking at 36, and fresh off his fourth methadone stint. By all accounts save a precious few, he has failed at his chosen 'career'.
Curt, in contrast to Arthur, to most people, for that matter, is pretty much going fucking nowhere.
It's the order of things, remember? Curt says to himself. Your half of the relationship, the addict, or ex-addict half (does it really matter either way?), you're the one with no rights. Certainly no privacy. The responsible half, the one with the regular income, the one whose place it is, mind you, who could, of course - everyone knows it, everyone tells him - have worlds better than you ... is entitled to rifle through your shit ... the worthless collection of secondhand trash you call your 'possessions' ... in order to search the old hiding places that you stupidly once told him about ... right?
And why is that?
Because 8 months clean - sparkling fucking squeaky total virginass clean ...
Is not enough.
It will never be enough.
Arthur's friends all warned him, Stef and Judy and Bob and his cousin Steven, even going so far as to stage a fucking intervention: Let him move in? What idiot trusts a junkie who's lapsed, what, 4, 5 times? Six months 'clean'? Eight months? Not good enough. Ask Curt to move in when he's been clean, verifiably clean, for five sold years. We're not kidding. Even then, check his arrest record - junkies lie, Arthur - check with the fucking cops, beforehand.
"Don't do this," Stef had warned him in an email. Because it wasn't enough to sit him down for a surprise/enforced meeting in a small windowless room. It had to be followed up on in writing. "I know you've been lonely, and running into him by accident after a decade - this guy you idolized, this guy who took your virginity and helped you accept your sexuality - feels all 'fate-y' and romantic. I know you think you might love him in real grown up life now, not a teen fantasy anymore, and now here he is on your doorstep. Of course it's tempting. Of course it seems irresistible. As someone who genuinely, actually loves and cares about you, Arthur, I'm telling you, I'm begging you, to resist."
His favorite part is the "genuinely, actually" bit. As if Curt was incapable of having "genuine, actual" feelings for someone.
But, stepping back, how does he even know about this stuff to begin with? The intervention, the email?
Their flat may be fancy, at least, compared with what Curt is used to, but they share a fucking computer. And no, he did not approach it that day intending to spy. He actually respects Arthur enough not to do that. Only problem being, Curt, ever between his menial sources of income, was home all day, and Arthur had dashed off to some last second assignment and left the fucking thing wide open. Not the email itself; the email account. Just wide fucking open. It was nine weeks in. Nine good goddamn weeks. The honeymoon.
He innocently shook the mouse intending to log into his own account, but there was Arthur's, all naked and inviting, with these small yellow folders on the left side. A few weeks previous, he and Arthur had beaten off together to the contents of one of the folders - Arthur's small but super hot porn stash. Seeing as he was preoccupied at the time, the other folders (Arthur was annoyingly organized), stuff relating to work or to friends, including one labelled "Stef", had gone unnoticed.
Curt clicked on the porn folder, telling himself he would not sit here in the middle of the day and masturbate - he merely wanted to see if there was any new content. There was. Curt ignored what he had told himself a minute before, and masturbated. Afterwards, feeling guilty, feeling like a loser, he compounded the situation by clicking on a private email folder meant for his boyfriend. Even though it was disrespectful. Even though it was an invasion.
Stef's barely concealed dislike for him was just that - barely concealed, and it made him upset. Not because he needed to be liked by Arthur's friends - he was used to the family and friends of his current flame, if he met them at all (rare), disliking him or looking unfavorably on the match. And, while he was admittedly paranoid, with Stef, he sensed a particularly intense, vehement disapproval, which would be shitty if it were true, if only because it would put Arthur in the cruel, impossibly difficult position of feeling like he had to choose between his closest, oldest friend, and his boyfriend.
He clicked on the folder because he wanted to know if Stef was doing this to the person he was genuinely, actually falling in love with.
Arthur and Stephanie grew up together. They were born on the same day in fact; best friends since their first week of school. She is, she even jokes about it, his fag hag. Arthur came out to her first, way early - age 10. She knew already of course, her gaydar had been screaming about him for years, despite how straight acting Arthur was (still is.) The two of them have the classic, super intense, irreducible bond that only a fag and his hag seem to share. Which sounds pretty sweet, maybe, such intimacy and trust, but Curt has seen it before - the near complete lack of any boundaries that can happen when you share a secret with one person from that young an age, a secret so dire, so explosive and potentially ruinous, that in some circles, such as the one Arthur grew up in, it can literally get you killed, or at least, beaten to a holy pulp.
It can certainly cause you to be disowned. Which is exactly what happened. Arthur's parents were old - nearly 50 when they had him; super straight, super strict, and definitely old world religious. Arthur was their first and only only child after two decades of trying, their golden miracle baby, gifted to them at the last possible moment; a handsome, smart, quiet, well behaved, perfect little angel of a boy, everyone agreed.
The only problem being, this one small thing; this one tiny, deadly secret. His father said he loved him but could not possibly forgive or respect him if he chose this sick, sinful path; if he did not 'repent'. He told him, and Arthur believed it, that he would have looked on him more favorably had he been a murderer.
It's been 7 years. They have neither spoken nor seen each other since. His parents hear about him, or at least, his mother does, he recently found out; just a rough outline, from time to time, via Arthur's nosy Aunt Ruth - his successes at university and at work; his new London flat. But no, nothing at all, please, about his "private life".
By virtue of the fact that Curt is lying here, in Arthur's bed, in a flat he has called home since September last year - that would be 6 months on Saturday - Arthur obviously chose to ignore the many dire warnings he received, and asked Curt to move in.
In truth, even Curt didn't know if it was a good idea. He really, really dug Arthur, and, y'know, why fuck with a good thing?
Move in, though, he did, for several reasons, not the least being that Curt had no place to live, having just been kicked out of his ex-girlfriend's brother's back room for "failure to contribute" i.e. an inability to hold steady enough employment to help pay something, anything, towards the fucking rent. He had pretty much exhausted the good will of any still remaining friends, and the only other option aside from sleeping on their couches for a few more weeks or months would be to move back in with people who were using; his former heroin buddies ... but he knew all too well where that would lead, so, no.
There was one other option, but it was dead last on the list, even beyond smack houses, to be used only in the most dire circumstances, and even then, to be very carefully weighed: contacting his brother. It was something he had done a few of times over the years, when absolutely desperate for cash. Curt figured the bastard sure as fuck owed him, and he tried not to be bothered when he had readily handed over the money, knowing full well that Curt wasn't using it for food or rent, as he claimed, but for 'H'.
And so, amongst all of these pitiful and depressing options, here was Arthur; soft spoken, introverted, earnest young Arthur with that shy smile and innocent, geek boy charm, not even a cigarette having passed his pretty lips, asking Curt to please, please move in. He'd never had such a big place before, he said. It'd be a shame to waste it.
They'd met up again by weird accident, via the piece on Slade. Arthur had just interviewed the bar's owner, who used to know Brian, but was not exactly forthcoming with information, and then headed to the quieter, far end of the place with his beer, only to happen upon, without warning, holy fucking shit, Curt Wild, in the flesh - yes, it was actually him - huddled in a corner, looking amazing in long, loose ponytail and worn leather jacket.
Arthur nearly shat himself.
Did the man have any idea the impact - the seismic impact - he had had on a young Arthur Stuart? On a boy who had grown up with the deepest possible shame over his own desires? Who believed he was - as society and the entire medical establishment said at the time - "intrinsically disordered"? A boy who felt extraordinarily isolated and alone, who, when he had tried, over and over, and failed, to 'fix' himself, had seriously contemplated suicide?
Only to discover, one day ... that the sky had opened up, that the world had gone from stark, hostile black and white, to glorious, free flowing technicolor. The images, the news reports, were suddenly everywhere. It could be argued they had saved his life.
Brian and Curt, leaning in close for a kiss. Brian and Curt, toying with sexual innuendo at a press conferences. The two photographed, topless, alone together on a private beach ... arriving, arm in arm, at the red carpet ... on some stately veranda, eating breakfast in their loosely tied silk robes.
Most incredible, most extraordinary of all, and the thing that caused Arthur - who never, ever missed school - to feign illness two days running in order to stay home and furiously masturbate ... the notorious on stage, mid-song, in fact, mid guitar solo simulation of fellatio ...
There is no way to adequately convey the impact it had on him; how truly ground breaking and taboo-obliterating a thing it was. Back before there was such a thing as gay porn - well before computers, well before the existence of a single gay dirty magazine (not that Arthur could possibly have taken the risk of buying one), the grainy black and white image of his idols, this pair of staggeringly beautiful rock and roll superstars whom absolutely everyone wanted to be, and fuck ... purposely, and with style, artful choreography and yes, glamour ... aping man on man oral sex ... essentially set Arthur's whole being on fire, to the point where it was weeks before anyone could reach him.
Yes. The world changed. Briefly, though no one knew that at the time, but still. It was to the point where, at his private, conservative school, overnight, his type went from outcast/untouchable, from being shunned, bullied and beaten, to envied, desired, and emulated. Even the straight boys, for the first time in maybe ever, wanted to be queer.
And then, somehow, on a magical winter evening, there was Curt Wild, on a rooftop, beckoning a star struck, painfully insecure boy. For the first time, making him feel beautiful; for the first time, making him feel whole.
Pretty much, Arthur was never the same.
"You're Curt Wild," he blurted dumbly to the man at the table, wondering if there was any chance Curt would recognize him.
Curt, looking displeased, snapped, "Ya, who the hell are you?"
Guess not.
Mortified, Arthur slowly shook his head. "Nobody. Nobody. I'm just a reporter. Interviewed the owner, tonite. Didn't mean to disturb you."
Curt grunted, taking a swig of his beer.
"I'll leave you alone," Arthur said, tail between his legs, turning to go,
"What were you interviewing him about?"
Knowing perhaps a little more than the average reporter about the bitter personal history between Brian Slade and Curt Wild, and figuring that the former would be the last person the latter would want to hear about, Arthur lied.
"Just," he shrugged, "a local ordinance. Dull."
"Well, more interesting than how I spent my evening," he said glumly, flicking ashes at the small, crumpled up piece of paper in the ashtray before him.
Arthur peered in at it, and noticed an oversized "T" - Tommy Stone's logo.
"You saw the show tonite?"
"Ya," Curt said, with disgust.
Arthur laughed. "No good?"
"Sucked." He half grinned and pointed to Arthur's tape recorder. "And you can print that."
Arthur smiled. The man might not recognize him - I mean, how many fans did he sleep with per week, per night, back then? - but it didn't mean they couldn't have a conversation.
"Ya, you know, I hate to sound old and out of it, but his stuff seems so bloody ... corporate."
Curt nodded. "Right. Manufactured. Artists used to create beautiful things. That was our job."
"I guess he's maybe ... not much of an artist."
"Nope. More like a product. And I'm proud by the way," Curt smiled, "to sound - to be - old and out of it."
Arthur took a breath, and screwed up his courage.
"You look great, actually," he said, meaning it. "Sorry," he said, extending his hand, "I'm a fan."
"No shit," Curt laughed, shaking Arthur's. "I didn't think I, or Brian, had any left."
Their hands froze. Arthur had not said a word about Brian.
Curt grinned.
"The owner of this place is sort of a friend of mine," he said quietly. "He told me some guy was coming by to ask him questions tonite, about Slade."
"Oh," Arthur said, a bit embarrassed at having lied.
"He's not gonna tell you anything, y'know."
"Ya. Wasted trip," he shrugged.
"What exactly were you hoping to find out?"
"Just ... what the hell happened. I was around, then. He was, y'know, a god."
Curt grinned. "He was."
"And then he completely fucking disappeared."
"Poof! Gone."
"Ya. It had meant a lot to me, the whole thing, I guess; to a lot of people, so ..."
"So your boss gave you the assignment instead of one of the other guys in your office."
"Ya."
"Because it was sort of ... personal, to you."
Arthur shrugged in mild embarrassment. "Maybe."
Curt took a drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, into the crumpled up ticket.
"Well, I'll tell you what," he said, with a small smile, raising his eyes from the ashtray, "in a way, I can relate. And I'm frankly bored as shit, tonite, and it just so happens that I haven't been interviewed in a fucking dog's age, so if you've got no better prospects, you can always interview me, if ya want. I mean, I won't be able to tell you much about Slade, either, but you can always try."
Arthur plugged in his machine.
Right there in the bar - it was all caught on tape - Curt and Arthur began their relationship. In a word, they simply clicked. There was certainly an unmistakable, almost palpable energy between them; Arthur felt it the moment he had walked in the room. The mutual attraction had already been established, years before, and apparently hadn't wavered, though neither man admitted at the time that he recalled the other from the rooftop a decade before.
True to his word, Curt was cagey, telling Arthur almost nothing he didn't already know about the mysterious disappearance of Brian Slade, but dropping enough hints and suggestion to keep it interesting.
Still, Arthur wasn't exactly complaining. Wait til I fucking tell Stef, he thought. I mean, not only had he stumbled out of the sheer bloody blue upon Curt fucking Wild, but the man had proceeded to ask him, almost immediately, for an interview!
Still, this is for work, he reminded himself. Research for the assignment he'd been charged with. He was a fan, yes, but he was also a professional.
He told himself these things, but as the interview continued, and became less interview than free flowing, animated discussion, it was difficult for Arthur to remain the detached reporter. He was enjoying himself, and was pleased to say he was enjoying Curt Wild's company, far too much. On two levels. First, as is well known, almost a cliche, meeting your idols is risky - they so often turn out to be egotistical arseholes. Curt certainly had the reputation as a grumpy curmudgeon who would sooner bite your head off than talk to you. And yet here he was, refreshingly unpretentious, funny, engaging; a natural raconteur.
As well as very easy, still, on Arthur's eyes.
The second reason he was enjoying this was more personal: here was his teenaged idol freely telling him inside stories about a period that was positively magical to him, critical, even, to his coming into his own and accepting himself. Let alone hearing of an era, a time, which so damned glamourous.
Curt didn't much see it that way, however. He described it in fact as "life in the crazy house, the super schizoid glam rock bubble", telling him, essentially, that it was, at once, suffocating and intoxicating, electrifying and withering. "No wonder I went back on smack," he joked.
The discussion started with the rise of the glam thing and life under the world's microscope, (and under the management of Jerry Devine), and spread to non-glam topics such as the current punk scene (both being very much in favor), London's alternative art and fashion scenes; the increasing dearth of good, cheap restaurants in the city and the ever rising cost of tube fare; their favorite London music venues, (for Curt, The Roundhouse -"fucking Doors played there!"); as well as Curt's childhood in Detroit, and his early bands. At some point the conversation circled back to glam: touring the States and Europe as Slade's opening act, the terror and pressure of playing before 25,000 instead of the 200 he and his band had been used to; the highly scripted, tightly controlled, stultifying machine that soon surrounded them - what Curt came to think of as "the 72 ring fucking circus."
Though not one without it's perks: private planes, first class hotels and 5 star restaurants as a matter of course; and then there were things like the honor - and terror - of meeting people like Lou Reed, as well as the surrealness of hanging backstage with the likes of Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol, and at another time, Ringo Star - an actual Beatle!
Finally, after a half dozen or so more tales, Curt came to Brian: Their first meeting at the legendary Max's Kansas City in New York, and what was immediately, glaringly obvious to Curt, to everyone: his extraordinary star quality, charisma, and sex appeal, and that cunning mind. Curt didn't say a whole lot about Brian, certainly going nowhere near their brief, apparently intense and highly volatile affair, not that Arthur would have expected him to, but it was still pretty damn thrilling to sit across a small table and hear - and see - Curt Wild talk about Brian Slade.
It was subtle, but as he did, it seemed to Arthur that his eyes, his whole demeanor, changed, seeming to betray several things at once: bitterness, admiration, resignation, awe. It occurred to Arthur that, despite their painful, largely public breakup, Curt Wild was still, in a sense, transfixed.
By the end of the interview, which stretched well past the second hour, Arthur was completely elated and blown away, but frankly exhausted.
Curt stood, and gathered his wallet and cigarettes. "Well. That enough material for ya?"
"Yes," Arthur smiled, taking a deep breath. "Definitely. Thank you so much."
"It's cool, man," Curt continued, "Always good to exercise a few of the old glam rock demons, y'know? Especially without spilling too many Slade beans, so his goons can't exactly hassle me," he said, grinning." And no," he laughed, pointing to the tape recorder, "you can't print that."
Arthur laughed. "I won't. Thank you, again, really. It was a total pleasure."
Curt smiled, and looked at him a beat.
"Likewise."
Curt patted his jacket pocket looking for his smokes, which is when Arthur noticed it - the bright green pin. "It supposedly belonged to Oscar Wilde," Curt explained, and tried to give it to Arthur, "for your image", but he refused.
Curt upended his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shook Arthur's, and then walked out the door, undoubtedly, Arthur figured, to head home to his lover - male, female, or perhaps both.
Arthur remained behind, reviewing his scribbled notes and buzzing head to toe over the evening's extraordinary turn of events. He felt good about it, of course, stunned, in truth, if a little wistful. What had happened ten years ago, and all of the pining and upheaval it had elicited in a young Arthur, had just come completely full circle in a single evening, tidily wrapped up in a neat, grown up bow.
What a shame, he thought.
Arthur finished off his beer, closed his notebook, shut down his tape recorder, and left.
There, a few feet down the sidewalk, puffing away, in a cloud of smoke, stood Curt.
Arthur, having precious little experience with men, for someone his age, and even less apparent ability to read them, was startled, and unsure what, if anything, this meant. Still, it was his chance, maybe, or perhaps an opening, at least, if this did, in fact, mean anything.
"You, I don't know, hungry?" Arthur blurted, stumblingly, having no idea in the world how you ask Curt Wild out on a date.
Curt, mid-drag, eyes locked on Arthur, slowly blew out the smoke, and said, with obvious intent, simply, "ya."
They had sex, twice, a block away, on Curt's bare, bony, twin mattress which sat on the floor of his tiny, grimy apartment. The first was rough, quick, and seconds in the door; exactly what the hours of pent up energy called for. The latter, slower, more intense, better.
Curt discovered right away that he liked how Arthur smelled.
Arthur, in a fog of disbelief that this, any of this, had even happened, could find no single thing he liked more than any other. It all felt like something out of the supernatural. A glowing meteor bursting across the sky, landing in his lap.
Following their first tryst, the men got up, dressed, and said their sleepy goodbyes. Arthur was so spent, yet so sky high, he could scarcely see straight, and struggled to contain himself, to not blurt or gush like a teenager.
He was relieved, too that the final moments before he was to leave were not awkward or hurried, as they had been the few times he had previously hooked up with men he'd met at bars. The conversation, in fact, even resumed, despite the fact that it was 3am, to the point where they each finally sat back down on the mattress, seeing as it was Curt's only piece of furniture. They discussed travel, and continued their discussion of London. Curt remarked that he had been here 6 years, yet still felt like an outsider.
Suddenly, the conversation turned to the rooftop.
"We've met before, right?" Curt asked, "fucked before? Like, way long ago?"
Arthur, not really sure he wanted to let on, or what impact it may have on the whole evening, hesitated ... and the pause betrayed him.
"Fuck," Curt laughed. "Knew it. You seemed familiar, and you have a really beautiful back - it's a thing with me. I wonder if I somehow remembered it."
Arthur about fell over.
There was then a loaded, energy filled pause as the two men considered each other.
"Let me see it again?" Curt asked, bringing his face close, and with a nod from Arthur, helping him out of his shirt ... and trousers.
"One for the road," Curt whispered as he turned him to face the mattress.
Curt both wanted Arthur to stay over, and didn't, because this had been pretty perfect as it stood, and what if they hated each other in the morning? Alas, the two could not actually fit on the single small mattress, enough to sleep, anyway, and seeing as he had no other furniture to offer Arthur, he ended up walking him out of the building and several blocks to the nearest all night bus stop, Arthur pretending not to know his way around this part of the city, and Curt pretending to believe him.
They stood there a minute, awkwardly, on the sidewalk, before their quick kiss.
Curt turned to head back, finding himself unable to conjure up a valid excuse for waiting with Arthur til the bus arrived, that didn't make him sound iike a psycho or a stalker.
Arthur scarcely survived the bus ride home, and, despite his exhaustion, sprinted up the stairs to his flat, three at a time.
"Stef!" Arthur shouted into the phone when he arrived.
"What?" She croaked. "What the hell time is it?"
"4:30-"
"-Jesus Christ, what's happened? Are you alright? Did something happen?"
"No. Yes. I'm fine. I'm more than fine. Listen to me! Something just fucking ... otherworldly happened to me tonite! You will never believe it in a million years! I still don't believe it!"
"What? What is it? Are you hurt? Were you arrested or something?"
"No, I wasn't bloody arrested," he snapped, then took a deep breath and said it.
"I just had sex with Curt Wild."
There was a pause, after which, Stephanie groaned.
"Fuck's sake. Take you dick outta your hands and go to sleep. Are you seriously calling me in the middle of a wank?"
"I am not kidding, Stef! I met Curt Wild tonite! I went to that bar to interview the owner, remember? The guy who knew Brian? And Curt was there! And he agreed - fuck - he asked to be interviewed, and we talked for like two and a half hours! And then he took me home and fucked me! Twice! I just got back!"
There was a pause, after which she said, in a calm voice, "Are you sure you're not actually fucking with me, Arthur?"
"Christ! Do I sound like I am? I'm jumping out of my bloody skin, here! The most incredible night of my entire life! He was amazing! And he looked amazing, and he told me a million stories about back then and we talked about all kinds of other shit besides - London and him growing up in America and touring with Brian and it was just ... aaaggghhhhh! We totally got on from the first second! And then we fucked really hard and really slow in his flat! I can't believe I'm even saying this! He said I have a beautiful back!"
"You do have a beautiful back. You never believe me when i tell you how gorgeous you are."
"Fuck how gorgeous I am! I just had sex with Curt Wild!"
"Okay," she laughed softly. "Calm down, darling; you're yelling."
"How the fuck can I calm down?!" he shrieked.
"Arthur. Take it easy or you'll have a bloody coronary. This is amazing. This is nuts. I'm ecstatic for you. How long have you been in love with that guy?"
Arthur took a deep breath and laid himself back on the mattress.
"Like, forever. I'm telling you, I cannot believe this happened. I will never get past it."
She laughed. "You will. You have to - you've got a piece to write. And who knows? Maybe you'll see him again."
He shook his head. "No. Come on. It was nice, it was amazing, it was a total gift, but I seriously doubt this would lead to ... It was a one off. He's probably slept with loads of reporters.
"Well ... maybe."
"I'm sure as fuck not on his level, regardless."
"On what level? Arthur, Curt Wild hasn't exactly been hip and happening for a very long time."
"He's a bloody legend, Stef."
"He's a pioneer, he was a pioneer, not quite a legend. And you're gorgeous, and a total bloody catch."
"This guy has dated rock stars. Models."
"When? When was that? 10, 12 years ago? As I recall he also dated drag queens."
Arthur grinned. "Ya. 'Rachel'".
"Anyway, why are we bloody arguing? You've just had an absolutely incredible night, for the second time, with your idol. How many people can say that?"
Arthur turned his head and grinned into the phone. "Christ!"
"You deserve it, my love. I'm thrilled for you. Why shouldn't he sleep with you?"
He laughs. "I can think of about a million reasons."
"Well obviously he doesn't agree. You're lovely. You're beautiful, Arthur. Curt Wild's no dummy."
It hit Arthur all over again.
"Jesus Christ," he shrieked, "Curt Wild!"
She laughed. "Okay, now listen to me. I want you to get some sleep. Seriously. You have to be at work in a few hours. You can't show up with giant bags under your eyes, drooling and babbling about Curt Wild."
He laughed.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Good, then. Get some rest, right now. We'll have plenty of time to talk about it - I want to hear everything. But go to bed, now, Arthur, okay?"
"Okay. I will. G'nite."
Arthur, of course, could not sleep and did not sleep. He tried. He stood up and began to disrobe, but when removing his jacket, something pinged as it hit the floor. Arthur looked.
It was the green Oscar Wilde pin.
Somehow Curt had tucked it into his coat pocket.
Arthur picked it up, laid back on the bed, and held it tight in his hand.
At his desk at work, early that same afternoon, Arthur's boss approached to inquire about the prior evening's research.
"How did it go?"
"Um," Arthur stammered. "Good. Better than expected."
"So you got some leads on Slade?"
"Um, well, no. None. People are very tight lipped."
"Okay," his boss said, sounding confused. "so ...?"
Just then Arthur's phone rang. He picked it up, holding out his index finger to his boss, to stand by a minute.
"Arthur Stuart," he said into the phone in a professional voice.
"Arthur Stuart, this is Curt Wild."
Arthur shot up out of his seat, almost ripping out the phone cord. He then frantically pointed to the receiver to signify to his boss that he had to take the call.
His boss walked off.
Arthur turned around in place, facing away from his nearest coworker, slouched himself forward, and cupped his hand over the phone.
"Wow. Hi," he said, shakily.
"Hi. I hope it isn't a problem, calling you at work."
"No, no," Arthur said too quickly. "It's fine."
"I got the number from the bar owner. Anyway, I know you probably can't talk, but I just wanted to make sure you made it back okay. I live in a shithole neighborhood and I wouldn't want it on my conscience if a reporter got mugged on his way home from my shithole flat."
Arthur's mind kept flip flopping. Curt was just being cordial. Of course. Like anyone would. Though no interview subject had ever before followed up the next day to see how he was.
But then, Arthur had never before fucked an interview subject.
"No," he said, watching his coworkers to see if anyone was listening. "It was fine. Totally fine. Got back just fine."
Curt laughed. "Okay. I'm glad it was 'fine'. I had a 'fine' time hanging out last night, and in fact I was wondering if you maybe might want to do it again. Sometime. Only without the tape recorder."
Arthur straightened up, dropped his cupped hand from the phone, and froze.
No one could accuse Arthur, in any way, shape or form, of being in his right mind that day, but he knew without any possible doubt, in the entire world, what had just happened.
Curt Wild had asked him out on a date.
"Jesus Christ," said Stephanie when she heard. "He must really like you."
"I guess." He shrugged, smiling ear to ear. "Maybe."
"Well one thing's for sure. You're gonna have to put out. Front row tickets to your favorite singer at a private teeny tiny show at your favorite club in town? Um, ya."
Arthur's face soured.
"What is this, 1952? We're not frigging straight people! We don't follow old, outdated straight people rules! We're two horny men, and trust me; Curt Wild doesn't have to do anything to get me to fuck him!"
"Alright, alright. I was just sayin' ..."
"Well don't."
"Okay, whatever. I'll shut up."
Pause.
"But," she said under her breath, "you are gonna have to put out."
He sighed in exasperation and looked at his best friend.
A small, mischievous smile formed at the corners of her mouth.
Arthur tried to stop it, but a smile crept across his own face, as well.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Two days later Curt and Arthur met for pizza at a place across the road from Arthur's favorite bar. Curt wanted an excuse to see Arthur again, and so, because he knew the head bouncer and one of the bartenders, had scored them tickets to a private club show at the bar - a pre-album screening thing by an artist Arthur had mentioned as his absolute favorite, but whom he had never been able to see - Tom Waits. Arthur hadn't even known that Waits was playing in town, because the gig was, again, private, and so not advertised. It was something musicians did sometimes - try their new stuff out on a crowd of a hundred or so friends and fellow musicians. Waits was most of the way through recording an album, and felt he needed the feedback and a bit of airing out of his stuff, hence the gig.
Leading up to their date, Curt and Arthur were both nervous, and in fact Arthur had thrown up. "I'm so below him," he thought. "He'll see right away how straight and un-cool I am and he'll be embarrassed to be with me."
Curt meanwhile experienced his usual positive, life affirming inner dialogue: "He's young and normal and baggage-free and on the rise. He'll figure out quickly what a low down dirtbag I am and be mortified to be with me."
Over pizza and beer, however, the energy they had felt in each other's presence was there again, immediately and in droves, and the two picked up where they had left off - the conversation flowing pretty much from the get go. They discussed their beer and pizza preferences and Curt told him what it was like to eat pizza, and spaghetti, and also beer, for the first time in the countries that had invented them - Italy and Germany. He then privately admonished himself for sounding like a show off. ("Okay, quit with the world-travelled shit, asshole.")
They talked about various shows they had been to at the same bar, and other venues in town, and about the very first concerts they had been to as teenagers, their favorite bands and singers, and childhood celebrity crushes they had each had.
Arthur omitted any mention of a certain crush, if not obsession, he had had, and still did, on a certain glam rock singer.
When it was time, they filed into the bar, and Curt was immediately greeted by the bouncer and a guy in Waits' band that he knew, and the three stopped to chat. Arthur stood by feeling very out of place. "This is so 'inside'", he thought to himself. "Hip people, industry people. I so don't fit."
"This is my friend, Arthur," Curt said to the two men. "He's a big fan of Tom's."
"Oh, well you're gonna love this, then," the guy in Waits' band said to him. "And y'know, feel free to come by afterwards and tell him what you think. That's actually why he's doing this."
Arthur nearly choked. "Oh. Oh. I don't know," he stammered, looking at Curt. "Maybe."
Curt was torn. He really liked Arthur and wanted to do something special for him, but maybe the private gig and the meeting the act thing was too show-boaty. Arthur was nothing if not painfully shy and reserved, and plus, they'd just frigging met. Maybe it was a turnoff, maybe it was sad, a sign of desperation, Curt seeming to feel the need to pull out all the stops to try to impress him.
The place filled in, and Curt and Arthur took their seats down front. Waits came out to the cheers and whistles of the small crowd. He was about 5 feet directly in front of them, which Arthur found a tad unnerving.
Who was he kidding?, he thought to himself. He was sitting here with Curt Wild. That was the thing to be unnerved about!
Waits raised his glass, bowed in exaggerated fashion, and then peered into the faces before him, giving a nod to various people that he apparently knew, including Curt.
Arthur, once again, felt desperately square and out of place. He was a plebeian, a total commoner, amongst the super hip, super talented patricians.
The show proceeded, and Waits was especially boozy and scratchy-voiced and brilliant and told long, funny stories in between songs. Arthur wished he had his camera, and his tape recorder.
It was thrilling, but still strange for him as he had never before been to a gig where he knew the artist by heart, yet not one of the songs being performed. It was an incredible opportunity to hear songs by your favorite artist that were still under construction, though, and he found himself leaning forward and sitting literally on the edge of his seat.
At the close of the show, following his second encore, as Waits walked off, Curt looked at Arthur.
"So, do you wanna see if we can go back stage? I mean, it's not a big deal, if you don't want to, but it might be kinda cool."
Arthur said no, but thank you. He was too intimidated by the brilliant show he had just seen, brilliant even though the songs were largely unfinished, and was fearful of making an arse of himself in front of Tom Waits.
He also frankly didn't want to wait any longer to get into Curt Wild's trousers.
At Curt's flat, Arthur barely had time to notice that the place had been tidied up, and that Curt had put a fitted sheet over the previously bare mattress, before they were fucking on it. Their sex mirrored that of the session days before - an urgent and quick affair seconds in the door, followed by a slower, more intense and for Arthur more satisfying session a bit afterwards, with long, sleepy conversation in between.
"You really do have a beautiful back," Curt wheezed, kissing it, moments after coming. "And an absolutely incredible ass."
Arthur laughed into the pillow through his own wheezes, brain impossibly screwed up, thoroughly incapable of processing the notion that Curt Wild, among the very hottest men that had ever existed, somehow found him sexy.
Curt pulled himself to lay astride Arthur on the small mattress. They had now had sex twice and by rights, Curt should be fast asleep. It was that enzyme the body released immediately after male orgasm that made sleep virtually impossible to put off, but Curt was fighting it. He also by rights should not be horny - he'd come twice - and he wasn't exactly 15 anymore - yet somehow was.
He couldn't help himself. He found everything about Arthur, from his English accent, to the quiet way he carried himself, to his scent; to that thick, clean, dark head of hair and broad smooth back; not to mention perfect cock and backside; impossibly attractive. Was it any wonder he was ready for another go?
Arthur reached low between them, and Curt placed a hand over his and guided it along his erection. It didn't take long.
Curt realized too late that it was so much more intimate, being face to face with Arthur, than anything they'd done previous.
It struck Arthur in the same way. He'd imagined himself in such scenarios hundreds of times, but nothing could prepare him for looking directly into Curt Wild's eyes, into his face, just inches from his own, as Arthur stroked him to orgasm.
Curt woke up shortly thereafter to find Arthur getting dressed. Arthur pointed with his thumb towards the door, and spoke softly.
"Gotta go. Have be at work in a few hours."
Curt got up quickly. "Okay. Should I walk you to the bus stop?"
"No. S'fine. I called myself a cab."
"Okay."
They kissed at the door.
"Can't thank you enough for the show tonite."
"I think you just thanked me plenty," Curt joked.
Arthur smiled and kissed him again, and pointed to the kitchen counter.
"I left my number."
Curt watched at the window as Arthur slowly paced back and forth on the sidewalk, waiting for the taxi. He wondered what was going through Arthur's mind, and if it was anything like what was going through his own.