9

Cigar smoke soaked his hair and clothes, but the vodka in his blood decided there would be no shower.

Andrew slipped naked between the sheets, fountain cola sweetness lingering on his tongue as Nikola’s smile invaded his thoughts. He thought of what Tadeshi said to Glass Eye and imagined the elegant man sucking the scarred one’s cock. 

A man’s need for sex was a stain no amount of bleach could destroy.

A nervous chuckle escaped him—idiots lusted for strangers—that’s what derailed his life in the first place. He threw back the covers and reached under the bed for the violin.

The splendid instrument felt good in his hands, but the bow bore a light brownish tint near the top hairs. Nothing was perfect, certainly not Andrew.

Bare ass pressed to the wooden chair, he wedged the instrument’s chinrest under his jaw. Mouth slightly ajar and the wood’s base pushed into his collarbone, he found his place on the fingerboard’s E-string.

He drew the bow, his fingers dropping to the second position on G and then to the third on A. He hummed an old Polish song called “My Life Is Very Sad.” The composer’s name escaped him, and the piece required two violins, but a single passionate hand would do the trick when alone.

The chair’s hard surface cradled his buttocks. Each bow draw erased the air conditioner’s white noise. His cockhead tapped the skin below his navel while the long potent legato aligned his breathing.

Every painful memory that came with his recent arousals began fading under the sheet music rolling in his head. Lines, dots, and curls spread sensually upon a mental page that never needed turning.

A pounding on the door ended his fever dream.

“Turn that shit down,” an angry voice demanded on the other side.

Andrew lowered his arms, panting.

Something wet on his stomach chilled in the air, and as he raked the bow over its pearly whiteness, elated tears found his lips.