The Brotherhood of Music

“So, what’s with Vanilla Ice?” Simon asked, as he regarded the white guy setting up his speaker. It was obvious that the band’s new bass player was a white dude! With so many brothers needing work, why were they stuck with this white-ass, bushy-haired Afro-wannabe piece of white shit, anyway? He fondled his own dreadlocks in consolation, no white boy could imitate these, it took a real ‘Fro to make them right!

“Aw, man, don’t play that, he’s with it, he’s cool.” Brotha J-Man crooned at him. Simon didn't know Brotha J-Man's real name, any more than Brotha J-Man knew him as "Simon", he was called "Blak Koffy" by the band.

“What we want with a white fucker?” Simon insisted.

“Because we got a gig and need a good bass player and he’s the best one.” Brotha J-Man soothed at him.

"It ought to be a brother." Simon insisted.

"When it comes to music, he is a brother." Brotha J-Man insisted. It was a part of his on-stage persona.

“Man, don’t give me that shit.” Simon sneered. “Is he trying for reggae with that hair of his?" The hair in question was a rather bright shade of red, but not bright enough to be hair dye, it was semi-permed into a massive bulk that bunched out on all sides, then a string of the shit went into sideburns that crawled over his cheeks and made a dinky-ass mustache.

“Let him play, and then you decide if you want to keep arguing.” Brotha J-Man said.

Fair enough, Simon just nodded. “He’s setting up in my spot.”

“I want the bass to be on my right.” Brotha J-Man said. “You’re second guitar.”

“That white boy better not try to sing with us.”

“He’s just going to play bass.”

“All right then.” Simon said. “We here to march for integration, or we here to rehearse?”

“We’re here to rehearse.”

“Good.” Simon said. “Then let’s do it.”

An hour later, he was ready to give the ofay a little slack. The dude could play bass, and riff like he may have some blood in him after all. Damned good, this guy was. He could see why Brotha J-Man felt he had to let this bit of vanilla into the band, what with Jimmy in jail and all. Three months and Jimmy would be out, they could let the white boy go. Though as good as this whitey played, that may be tough shit for Jimmy, if their music could bring in the gigs.

Brotha J-Man had to go work a night shift as a security guard, he cut the rehearsal off at “Okay, we’re good but I want to do another one tomorrow morning. Everyone right with that?”

“I have to be there at two o’clock.” Whizz 8, their drummer, said. He worked at a Burger King, washing dishes and mopping floors.

“We’ll start at ten and send for a pizza, get in three hours.” Brotha J-Man promised. “Anyone else?”

That’s when White Boy spoke up. “Yeah, I need a place to crash until we get the money for our gig. Anybody put me up?”

And Brotha J-Man and Whizz 8 both looked at Simon.

“Aw, man, don’t lay that on me!” Simon whined.

“You got this place.” Brotha J-Man pointed out. Simon’s apartment was their rehearsal hall. It had started life as a social center for the Mad Tower, until those two girls got rap ed in it, now it was just another apartment, if you overlooked the concrete walls and the busted security mesh over the windows. Simon had had to take the entire windows, sash and all, out of the concrete, they wouldn’t open at all otherwise and this place was hot enough as it was. The thought of practicing in mid-day was daunting, Simon tried to avoid his own place in mid-day. It was hot enough now.

“Why can’t one of you take him?” Simon asked. But that was hopeless. Whizz 8 lived with his mother and father and slept on the floor in the living room along with two brothers and an 8-year-old sister. Brotha J-Man and his wife had a room which was large enough to let him throw a sleeping bag, but Brotha J-Man’s wife was a flirt and Brotha J-Man was jealous of her as all hell. White Boy would get his throat cut easy if he went there. And while Simon didn’t owe a white man any favors, he didn’t want Brotha J-Man in jail along with Jimmy, Brotha J-Man was their manager and songwriter and lead singer.

“You got that double-wide mattress.” Brotha J-Man pointed out the stained mess standing up in one corner. “We don’t even have a couch he could use.”

White Boy offered. “I don’t mind the floor.”

If this kept up, Brotha J-Man would be backed into a corner and offer, and then there’d be the police again. “All right, he can stay with me.” Simon said with a sigh.

“Thanks.” White Boy said. “And I got money enough for food and stuff for a few weeks, so I won’t need anything but a place to throw my bags and a place to crash.

“Just don’t bring no tail back here.” Simon said. “Take it to her place or take it on the road.”

“Great.” White Boy said. “How about I order in a pizza?"

Simon and Brotha J-Man and Whizz 8 looked at him and laughed. Dumb Whitey didn’t know that nobody delivered in this neighborhood after dark and to the Mad Tower, too...? Shit! How dumb could he be?

But the offer made him like the guy. “You can go with me to Wong Foo’s across the street.” Simon said. “We’ll leave the pizza for tomorrow.”

“Okay.” White Boy said. “But I can go get it.”

“Boy.” Simon said. “If you’re going to be living in the projects for a few weeks, you better learn that a whitey don’t go no place alone after dark.”

It took him a moment and then he said, with comprehension. “Oh.”

“Yeah, right.” Simon said. “Better just spot me a ten and I’ll bring it back.”

Wong Foo wasn’t his favorite place to pick up food, even though it was right across from the projects. A bulletproof take-out window with a shallow groove in the middle to let you slide your money under, like at a bank, and a bullet-proof box with a door that wouldn’t let both sides be open at once. You couldn’t even see how they were cooking your food. Probably cooked some dog meat in there. And the thick glass meant the women behind the counter gave him attitude. “And give me a receipt.” Simon said when he finished ordering, the total was twelve seventeen and he didn’t want Whitey to think he was keeping back any change. “And some plates and forks and none of those chopstick shit.”

He got back to his apartment and found that Whitey had stripped down to only a pair of rather short, ragged, dark-blue sweat shorts and was standing right in front of his stand-up fan. He was sweating heavily, not surprising because he’d been sopping wet with sweat when they’d finished practice. Brotha J-Man had put the fan up next to him, rank has its privileges. The fan couldn’t be fit into any of the windows, and all it was doing was moving the hot air inside the apartment around and around, an unsatisfying experience, but right in front of the fan was better than any other place in the apartment. Whitey had rigged out the mattress and sheet and laid it out for sleeping two, too. Simon used both pillows and usually put them one on top of the other.

Whitey saw him come in with the plastic grocery sack Wong Foo used to put his carry-out in, smiled, stood up. Damn, this white boy worked out! Big fucker, bigger than Simon had thought when he saw the dude. And hairy, too, that red hair was all over that chest, which was gleaming with semi-dried sweat. Red hair was bunched under the armpits, grew thickly over the thighs and calves. The muscles spoke of either hard work at a construction job or, more likely, some hard time in prison. That tattoo was something more like a convict would get.

“Hey, dude!” Whitey smiled at him. “Hope you got some chopsticks to eat that with.”

Simon just sighed. White boys!

They ate, sharing out the food in the two pints of meat, and half of the quart of chow mein noodles. Simon said and Whitey agreed that it could be their breakfast. Simon had no place to cook anything in this apartment and lived on potato chips and such.

Finished, White Boy got over in front of the fan again and Simon said, “Hey, man, don’t block the thing. I’m hot, too.”

“Okay, sorry.” Whitey said and moved away. One way white men were different, a black man would have fussed with him a while, to prolong the time he got to stay in front of the fan cooling off at Simon’s expense.

“You got a sleeping bag?” Simon asked.

“Well, yeah, but....” Whitey’s eyes slid over to the mattress. It was a double-wide mattress, easily big enough for two.

“You figuring to sleep with me?”

“If you don’t mind.” Whitey said. “I mean, the bed’s big enough and that sleeping bag isn’t too comfortable on a concrete floor. And the bag’s meant for colder weather, I crawl inside that thing and I’ll sweat clear through it by morning.”

“So sleep on top of it.” Simon said.

“Still not as comfortable as a mattress.” Whitey argued with him. Simon smiled, he liked it when guys argued with him.

“I sleep on top of the covers myself.” Simon said. “And I sleep nekkid, too.”

“Well.” Whitey shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that, it’s going to be a hot night. I think I’ll sleep naked, too.”

“Black man and white man naked on a mattress.” Simon said. “People peek in those windows sometimes, kids mostly, in hot weather. I did it last summer when I had a girlfriend, she would wake up and scream at them every morning until she moved out. They see you and me sleeping naked together and they’re going to think the obvious.” To accentuate his point, Simon peeled off his t-shirt. He was more acclimated to the hot apartment than Whitey, but the shirt stuck to his body anyhow, and he got a good whiff of himself when he did it, all funky and strong.

“I don’t care what some kids think.” Whitey said.

“Of course, me sleeping with her for that long, I been known to forget she’s gone.” Simon said as he slipped off his canvas shoes and then peeled off his blue jeans. Now only a jockstrap kept him from total nudity, and the jock was worn and yellowed. White boy’s eyes got wide as he saw what a thick sausage Simon was packing there.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Whitey said.

“I mean, I snuggle up to a warm body in my bed, and I’m not wide awake, and I think it’s her and I sort of figure on getting a little early morning action.” Simon said, reaching down and adjusting his jock. “I might shove this in your mouth or up your butt before I realize what I’m doing.” And he peeled off his jock and let the dark banana dangle for White Boy.

White Boy surprised him. “I been known to do the same thing.” He said softly and stood up and tugged down his sweat shorts.

Shit, this white boy looked to be as big as Simon, maybe bigger! He didn’t think white boys came in these sizes, they’re supposed to have tiny little dicks. All his girlfriends what had had white boys had said that about them, that they all had tiny little dicks on them. Well, none of them had ever met this white boy!

“Shit, that’s a big mother.” Simon said, impressed despite himself. Both he and the white boy were doing the same thing, fondling their manhoods, not pumping it, just laying it down longer so it could show off best, pushing it down towards their legs. Neither of them were hard, they weren’t doing anything men didn’t do in locker rooms and shit.

“Mine gets even bigger when it’s hard.” White Boy announced proudly.

“Mine, too.”

“I sure wouldn’t mind seeing that.” White Boy said. “I don’t usually meet someone with one as big as I have.”

Simon smiled. “Anybody wants to see this one hard, they have to work for it.”

White Boy licked his lips, and Simon saw White Boy’s whanger crawl upwards, rising up slow, long and fat. Damn, it was getting bigger.

“Looks like you might not mind working for it.” Simon said.

White Boy licked his lips again. “I been known to trade favors with my friends.” he conceded.

“I could use a real big favor.” Simon said.

“So could I.” White Boy said, and now he grabbed his cock the right way, pumped at it a few times and a thick dribble of clear fluid oozed out of it, reached a lazy tendril toward the floor.

“You think you can handle my black salami?” Simon said.

“I can if you can handle my foot-long.” White Boy returned.

He was going to have to suck to get sucked, Simon mused. Well, that didn’t sound so bad right now. If White Boy was going to be staying with him for a few weeks, he could at least get to ease his nut juices while he was there. If that meant swallowing some jizz, well, jizz tasted the same from white nuts or black, he’d noticed.

And sucking this white schlong promised to be like sucking himself.

“Well, get over here and we’ll find out who can handle what.” Simon said. And he stepped out of and kicked off his pants and jock.

White Boy got out of those sweats so fast he nearly tripped over his own two feet. Then he was padding toward the mattress as Simon lay down and long on the mattress. When White Boy knelt on the bed, Simon scooted to lay diagonally across the mattress, and White Boy got the idea, lifted one leg so Simon could sidle between them, and then leaned over and grabbed Simon’s prick.

Simon found that pink sausage flopping in his face. Damn, this white boy was hung! Simon hadn’t had one this big before. He wondered if he’d choke on it and... “Oooh!” he sighed, because those rosy white lips had just slid over his dong! “Ooh, yeah!” he gasped out.

White Boy was no virgin, not that Simon was used to meeting virgins of any kind, man or woman. You lost your cherries young in the projects, usually in your early teens, and were expert by eighteen. Assuming you wanted to be, that is, Simon had met plenty of guys who were lousy in bed. No excuse for that, you wanted to keep somebody with you, you had to be able to make them happy in bed. Of course, Simon’s own score on keeping girls was pretty rotten. Plenty of one-night stands, any musician gets those, but the ones who would stay in and cook for you and wash your clothes for you...those were few with big gaps between them.

White Boy rolled his lips on Simon’s prick and he grunted as he took Simon down, and he waggled his hips and that hard red-headed dick slapped Simon’s face. Oh, yeah, he owed White Boy a suck. White men could be fussy about such things, some of them wanted absolute equality in bed. If he didn’t suck this cock but good, White Boy might just pull away and get into a snit about it.

So he fished that pud over, got it into his mouth with some difficulty (the thing went down to his ear, he had to kind of bend it to get it up to his lips and get it in), and that tangy-flavored glans shoved promptly over his tongue and into his gullet. Gag! Damn, it was big and fat! He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of breathing!

White Boy groaned and began to fuck at his mouth! Shit, he was not the Alaskan oilfields! Drilling was off limits! He choked, audibly more than actually, and White Boy got immediately contrite and rolled onto his side. Simon followed it on over, giving another gag sound or two just to be sure White Boy got the message, then he gripped that thick white prick at the base and began to nurse at it. White Boy did the same to him, the very same, and only a little effort meant that Simon and White Boy were sucking in synch with each other. God, it was like sucking himself. He could close his eyes, ignore that pale skin and forget the white-boy groans coming from around his dong, and this was like sucking himself! Even the hair, that stupid wannabe ‘Fro, that fell across his thigh and drap ed like silken tassels, it was like his own dreadlocks that hung upon White Boy’s inner thigh which he was using like a pillow, like his own thigh was used like a pillow, like the simple warmth of pleasure taken when the cold came in the broken windows and he had a warm partner in his bed, and he nestled against its comfort. This was stronger, sweatier of course, his ear was wet from the dampness of White Boy’s thigh, sweat was pouring from them as they suckled each other’s dongs.

The heat, the heat was cloying, it was soaking them down, God, the mattress was wet already! Guh, guh, guh! He stopped what he was doing and said, panting, to White Boy, “Man, you willing to do anything else?”

White Boy let go of his pud with a pop and gasped out, “Yeah, you can fuck me, but I get to fuck you, too.”

“Okay.” Simon let go and began to squirm around on the sheets, which clung to him in moist intimacy, and struggled to get to his hand and knees.

“I mean it.” White Boy said as he turned around to get his head aimed to the foot of the mattress. “I get to fuck you. Like you said, just slip it into you. You and me, anytime, that’s the deal.”

White boys and their deals. At least you knew what you were getting into ahead of time. Right now, Simon would have promised White Boy the right to his first-born son to get his cock into that ass. “Okay, you got a deal.” he heaved as he got White Boy onto his back and lifted those legs up. An open arrangement was called for, the heat wouldn’t permit close contact. He’d have to fuck White Boy at arm’s length.

White Boy didn’t make any more arguments, when he dealt and accepted, that was the end to it. Simon got his spit-slicked dong up to White Boy and said, “Okay, White Boy, here it comes, and I ain’t going to be gentle!”

“Yeah, come on, shove it in me, hard!” White Boy panted. “I can take it, I can take it all.”

“Like you took it in prison?” Simon ventured.

“Hell, yeah!” White Boy said. “But I wasn’t anyone’s pussy-boy, if they fucked me hard, then I fucked them hard, too.”

“Okay, White Dealer, you got your deal.” Simon said. “Hard as you want it.” And he shoved his pud into White Boy’s ass.

Illustration of Projects, Brotherhood of Music


White Boy didn’t yell, he didn’t scream, he didn’t moan. He just gritted his teeth and grunted and that white dong of his stood up slapping at his stomach as Simon crammed his pud into that soft interior. God, he was surrounded by heat, hot moist heat, it was hotter inside White Boy than it was outside, he was going to fucking faint from this heat, as much as the exertion and the pleasure of it all! To faint from heat prostration before he came, that would be just awful.

His blood was roaring in his ears as he plunge-fucked that white ass, he was so damned hot, so fucking, God-awful hot! Sweat was pouring from him, sweat rose up in heat waves from White Boy’s body beneath him, God, the summer was just starting and he was coated in heat already, what would he do in August and this White Boy still here, still beneath him and still fuckable, God, what would he do if White Boy lay on him and fucked his ass in this heat, in this stifling heat, they’d fucking pass out and paramedics would come to revive them and people would stand around and gawk as they were revived and wake up in a crowd of people, still stuck together, White Boy’s cock up his butt. The heat was a part of him, it merged with him and drove him, he was losing himself in the heat, heat and a bubble of joy that somehow surged up in the middle of the ocean of heat that was him and White Boy, right at their center where they contacted, there was this bubble of passion and it gurgled in his balls and it became an octopus that shot tentacles out in all directions of his body at once, turning his arms and legs into conduits of desire, and then it hit his brain and he was now buffeted by the heat, the heat surrounded him and desire was part of it now, like an oil slick on the ocean, so that the waves become waves of oil as they splash on the beach, the puddles are puddles of oil, the so that the sea is not the sea, but oil, all of it, so was all of his heat now all passion and he groaned, managed, “Oh, oh, here I come, I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“Yeah, shoot it, shoot it!” White Boy urged him onwards, a dim voice in the roar of pleasure, the white-noise of heat pounding in his veins, and with that pounding roar like the surf, he groaned as his climax struck him, he moaned and his jism flowed out of him like sweat that dribbled down from his body, splashed into White Boy’s bowels the way that his sweat fell from his forehead and splashed onto White Boy’s chest and stomach.

Simon fell down when his orgasm was done, fell onto White Boy and felt all the sweat and the heat, and he groaned from the sweat and he rolled off and onto a cool portion of the mattress and gasped there instead, on his side facing away from White Boy and only then did he realize that when he fell onto White Boy, he landed in a puddle of White Boy’s jizz, White Boy had shot his wad sometime during his own climax, he hadn’t noticed when, but now that sticky white-boy cream was on him.

His breath slowed to normal and he turned onto his back and looked over at White Boy, whose head was now irrevocably on that other pillow, lying there, panting and sweating the same as him, and White Boy had now a right to that spot on his mattress and he had lost his extra pillow, the one he really needed, lost it to this white stud he had agreed to share with for the next few weeks. Shit, he needed his pillow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d tell White Boy to pick up a pillow of his own. No reason to end a hot sex session with nastiness. He reached under and doubled up his pillow and pretended that was good enough.

“Damn, that was hot!” White Boy said. Another problem with white boys, once you fuck them, they natter on and on when all you want to do is fall asleep. Worse than women that way. Just hoped this white boy was too hot to cuddle.

“You’re a good fuck.” Simon murmured.

“You’ll find out in the morning.” White Boy said. “I’m going to wake you up with my cock up your ass. Or would you rather find it in your mouth and get it wet for me?”

“Surprise me.” Simon muttered.

“Okay. Good night.” White Boy said.

“Good night.” Simon took the reprieve gratefully and went on to sleep. He did, indeed, wake up with White Boy shoving his cock into his ass, but White Boy had greased it up with Vaseline or some such shit, it wasn’t that bad. Simon just lay there and pretended to still be asleep until White Boy buried that thick, fat dong in him and began to hunch at him. Then he rolled the rest of the way onto his stomach and spread his legs wide.

“Lots cooler this morning.” White Boy murmured in his ear, that big, muscled weight on Simon’s back. But this morning, that felt pretty good.

“Yeah.” Simon agreed.

“Going to fuck you but good.” White Boy said. “Nice and slow, really take my time and enjoy it.”

“Okay.” Simon said and was quiet for a time, enjoying the surprisingly gentle fuck he was getting from this white hunk. Then he thought of something, “Hey, White Boy?”

“Yeah?” White Boy gasped and humped at him a little harder.

“Later, you show me how you do those B-chord riffs, okay?”

“Sure.”

“White Boy?”

“What?”

“Long as we’re going to be fucking, what’s your name, anyway?”

"You're called Blak Koffy, right?" White Boy asked.

"Yeah."

"Then just call me White Sugar." White Boy said.

Some sugar in his coffee. Yeah, he got it. Simon sighed. All just a part of belonging to the brotherhood of musicians.

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