Read Plastic Jesus for Free Online Page B

a ruler; he'd certainly made that clear enough to Harold early on. But Peyton did not stop him.
    He wondered if Harold's ghost might be somewhere nearby, hovering in a corner of the room perhaps, pleased at least that his death had brought his boys to this room, this moment.

    * * * *

    It was all so slow, so easy. Languid; the word came lazily into Peyton's mind as they held each other, barely moving. He'd thought everything that happened between two men would be as hard and urgent as the cocks that drove them, but this was something else, something like moving into another, previously unknown level of friendship. He felt light-headed, not quite serious—this was, after all, Seth —but also very aroused, much more so than he had expected. He'd expected it to be a comfort for Seth, maybe a blowjob for himself—a man's mouth couldn't feel much different from a woman's. Nothing more.
    Instead it was like a brand-new passion finally given voice, a thing with no urgency and no awkwardness, just a need they both knew how to fill. Sometimes they laughed at the incredibility of it. Sometimes they cried. Toward dawn they fell into a long healing sleep, and woke hours later still intertwined, feeling reborn.
    Neither of them had previously been quick to commit to anything that might be called love, despite the number of women who'd been anxious to bag them—increasingly so as the fame and the money got bigger. Yet somehow, from that night on, Peyton and Seth knew they were together. It wasn't so different from before, really; for a long time theirs had been a marriage of sorts.

    * * * *

    At first, it was astonishing how little their lives changed. Already there was no need to manage money; it turned out that Harold had taken a bit more than his share of their early contracts, but he had willed that share, along with all his other worldly goods, to Seth. So they kept both houses, but usually stayed at Seth's because it was closer to the center of London. The house became a cocoon for them, a fantasy castle from which they emerged occasionally to buy food or fill social obligations. Those first few months were like nothing so much as a reprise of when they'd first met, their new intoxication with each other similar to that time, though it came from a different source.
    Mark and Dennis knew. There was no way anyone who had much contact with Peyton and Seth could fail to know. They didn't seem to mind, and what if they had? The fans, the press, and most of all the four musicians knew that Peyton and Seth were the heart and brain of the Kydds:
    Mark and Dennis weren't about to walk out on a gold mine just because their bandmates were sucking each other's cocks.
    But the news of their relationship hadn't hit the media yet. It was the first time in his career that Peyton was uncertain of his ability to charm his way through a potential mess. It was 1967, homosexuality had just been decriminalized in Britain, and gay relationships were better accepted than they had ever been before, but that still wasn't saying much. Certainly Harold Loomis had received little sympathy from any quarter. There had been no real police effort to catch the murderer, despite a 50,000 British pound sterling reward offered by the band. The public consensus seemed to be that Harold was a vile predator who had somehow taken advantage of the loveable Kydds, and in being beaten to death by a fellow pervert, he'd only gotten what he deserved.
    If the press got hold of this other thing, Peyton wasn't sure he and Seth would still have careers. But Seth would never keep quiet; Seth was all about not keeping quiet. In fact, Seth wanted to call a press conference.
    â€œThis is who we are, Peyt. This is us. Does it feel like something that ought to be hidden?"
    â€œNo, but—"
    â€œFuck it then. If people hate queers so much, let them hate us. We've made our money. Let the fame go."
    That wasn't so easy for Peyton to think about. He liked the fame