There he is again.

He's always there, every night. In every dirty livehouse we play in, there he is, wearing more or less the same clothes. I've memorized his wardrobe: a ragged black shirt that probably used to have sleeves, white-splotched black jeans, faded blue jeans, a black turtleneck, a thin dark green shirt, a crisp white wing-collared button-down and a leather vest with metal rings that he wears when he wants someone to take him home. (It almost always works.)

He's Japanese. No other race has eyes that wanton or lips that sweet...narrow, black-black eyes and lovely reddish lips with a saucy notch in the middle and a sexy curl up at both ends. His lashes are the longest I've ever seen, his skin always white and clean-looking no matter how sweaty he gets from dancing. Sometimes when we play he closes his eyes and sticks the tip of his tongue out against that tiny notch in his lower lip and dances like someone's fucking him standing up.

What'd it be like to fuck him standing up?

Is that even possible?

Off the dance floor he's kinda clumsy. Bumps into people, trips over stray wires, always bobs his fluffy black head and apologizes with this cute wide-eyed look on his face.

Kinda obvious I've been keeping my eye on him, huh?

I don't know his name.

I'm scared to ask him.

So I call him Tripper.

* * *

I know what his day job is, if you could call it that. He's a whore. Yep, boy-slut. I see him around: on street curbs in the really stinky parts of the neighborhood, under bridges, the usual places. I know he knows I see him, because he always looks away and blushes. He's ashamed of what he does. He hates to know I watch him. So I act like he's not there and find somewhere else to park.

He's really pretty, isn't he? Makes me so hot to see him, dolled up in his dancing vest and tight black jeans, or in the slut-wear I see him in on the streets, his pretty little Jappy ass swaying hesitantly in invitation. I really want him.

Wanna fuck him till we're both ready to pass out. Wanna snuggle in the afterglow till the sun comes up, then cook him breakfast and read corny old jokebooks aloud to him over my plate, till he falls off his chair laughing. Then wanna take him again on the kitchen floor.

He loves being fucked, I can tell. But I can also tell he hates his job. He never meets my eye when he's in street gear. I think if I tried to sleep with him, if any of our band did, he'd die of shame.

* * *

Tripper adores us. Well, collectively, I mean the band. Our name is September First. Anyway, we play mostly fast heavy stuff, bordering on Goth, and the only thing that saves us from being just another noise band is our lead singer Gabriel. He sings like his namesake, I swear. Amazing voice: deepish tenor, moving toward baritone, just a teeny bit raspy but he can smooth it out till it sounds like alcoholic honey, makes you dizzy and buzzed just listening to it. We're all convinced that someday some big-name guy is gonna discover him, make him dump us and go mainstream. But Gabe swears that'll never happen.

Anyway, like I said, Tripper adores us. When he's not dancing he's staring at us, especially Gabe, with this totally enraptured look on his face. I love going guitar solo because then he turns that intense stare on me and it's as if he's begging me with those eyes, begging me to love him or fuck him or take him to heaven. And God, do I want to.

I think I kinda overdo the solos sometimes, actually. The only thing that keeps the band from strangling me after the show for ego-tripping, is the fact that they all know about this little thing I have for Tripper.

You know, this little thing.

Okay, not so little.

Tripper...well, I...I kind of.. .really, really...like Tripper. I mean like like him. I mean, he's so...and I, I get kind of...really...um, fizzy and high whenever I see him, unless it's a bad day and seeing him makes me wanna cry, or scream, or bang my head on the wall or something...it's like...

Our bassist, Julian, says "Max, you're a lovesick drooling puppy. Get over it."

Like that, I guess.

* * *

I can't even talk to him. I always tell myself I'll go up and talk to him after the show, but I'm always scared shitless. What the hell am I gonna say to him?

"Oh, hey, you're here again." Duh.

"So, you really like our songs, huh?" Lame, not to mention I sound like I'm bragging.

"Say, you're wearing that cute turtleneck; I really like seeing you in that. In fact, I like seeing you in any of your outfits, even the slutty ones. In fact, I'd love to see you in nothing at all..." Oh, Max, you moron; you're hopeless.

Shit, someone's just come up to him at the bar again. He usually drinks there before we play. If he's drinking a lot, it means someone else is buying; if he's chugging a lot of water or Mountain Dew to wash down his alcohol, it means he's on his own budget.

The guy's smooth-talking Tripper, and he smiles his polite little Japanese smile and nods, but I know he's not going to go off before we finish our set. Gives me a nice glowy feeling inside, knowing Tripper likes us that much, to sacrifice a little of his work time just to listen to us play.

Guy is in a leather getup worn by most newbies in this livehouse. He's sweating like a pig. Looks like a complete asshole, but that could just be my bias. Not bad-looking--nice brownish-red hair in a floppy mess, broad across the shoulders, and pretty tall--but I don't like the way he's draping himself all over Tripper.

Not at all.

* * *

When I found out what Tripper did for a living, I didn't know what I wanted to do. Did I want to buy him off? Did I want to rescue the poor boy from his enslavement? Did I just want to leave him alone?

I saw him on a street corner, dressed in a very slutty little velvet scrap of a shirt and jeans so torn they were just a bunch of threads and rags that barely suggested the shape of jeans. You could see his legs through them: slender and white. The skin looked creamy enough to eat.

A car slowed to a halt next to him, and he leaned over and gave the sexiest little smile. The corners of that delicious mouth curved slowly upwards and then I saw his lips frame the words "blowjob, mister?"

I was shocked. He'd seemed so shy when he was dancing in the livehouse. Even when he was getting guys to pick him up, it just seemed as if he did it out of ordinary loneliness, or more probably horniness. I never thought he did it for money.

Okay, now I sound like a self-righteous asshole. The fact is, I think Tripper is too damn good for that job. Too good for the filthy streets he has to work every day, too good for the kidfucker sleaze who usually swallow his cute pouty little-boy act. Too good even for the livehouses and bars where we play.

Far too good for me. But at least I'd be better than those customers of his. Than that life. I just haven't gotten round to talking to him about it yet.

I've never talked to him about anything. I just watch him, and play, and hope he can somehow sense I'm playing to him. I've never had the nerve to just go up to him and say hi. Kinda funny, really; he's the one supposed to be in awe of us.

* * *

Look at him dancing. He's really hot when he's dancing.

That other guy knows it too; he's trying to get in close, maybe cop a feel. Tripper doesn't seem to care, or even notice; he's in a world of his own when he dances. I think it's his only escape.

Leather Guy's hands are sliding down his hips now, and he moans and does a little snaky kind of wiggle. I hope nobody notices I'm playing with a boner.

After the song, however, Tripper abruptly comes up to the stage, leaving Leather Guy standing alone in a thinning crowd.

"Excuse me. Excuse me."

Is he talking to...? Yes! He's talking to me!

"Can you...uh..." I've never seen him blush before. He looks so cute. He blushes all the way down to his collar. I kneel down on the stage to get a little closer; if I put out my hand I could feel his heat, find out if his skin's as soft as it looks. The rest of my band's watching us. They better not be grinning, or anything stupid like that.

"Can you play 'Salvation/Damnation', please. Um..."

His voice is beautiful. Trembly and maple-syrup-golden sweet. I want to kiss that throat. Want to slide my tongue between those beautiful lips. He has a tiny accent that makes his l's sound almost like r's, and that's beautiful too.

"It's my favorite. Thank you." As if he were making a speech. He withdraws into the noisy crowd again, looking away before I can answer him, or even smile at him. There goes my chance.

Well, fuck it. "Salvation/Damnation" he wants, "Salvation/Damnation" he's going to get. Never mind what the rest of the crowd wants. I signal the band, and for once Julian doesn't even grin stupidly at me before laying the first stroke on his bass. Tobey, our drummer, follows it up with the beat, and Gabe puts his lips to the mike.

Who needs heaven
When your lips are this close to mine
It's fucking boring up there anyway
Who needs immortality
When we can freeze this moment in time
Take me down to forever...

Tripper dances. Leather Guy forgotten, the whole restaurant dissolving, all the other sweaty bodies fading into the background...he dances. Forgets his usual klutziness and dances like a ballerina in freefall. I play to him even though he can't see me. He's lost. And so am I.

* * *

I knew I loved him the first time we played that song.

It was a brand new song, original; Gabe and Tobey had just finished ironing out the wrinkles in the tune that morning. By this time Tripper was already a regular at our performances. This particular night we were playing for a set of rich kids that wanted some proper "Gothy" music at their Halloween party. I know, it was demeaning, but we always need money. We like money. Money is our friend. So we took the job.

And he crashed it! The gorgeous little sneak crashed that fucking Halloween debutante parade. He just climbed over the wall, like a little alley cat, and came in and danced. In his leather vest with the rings, and his ratty black jeans. And nobody noticed. Except us, of course, and we never said anything.

When we'd played enough Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy covers we figured we might as well try the new song. The rich kids liked it okay, but Tripper's eyes got huge when he heard the first notes. He sort of sidled and bumbled his way to the foot of the stage, and then he just stood there, not moving, just staring up at us with shining eyes.

We all really like that song. It's a little story about an angel that falls for a demon. And we were really gratified when Tripper looked at us that way. But when Gabe sang the chorus, that boy gave us a real surprise.

Drag me down
I don't care what I lose
Let me stay with you
Take my wings, I won't need them anymore
Take me into the flames
And I'll feed you my soul
Make me a fallen angel...

Tripper began to cry. Tears started pouring from his pretty eyes like his heart was breaking. He began to sob, but he sank his teeth into his own wrist to stop himself, closed his eyes, and swayed, the tears still streaming down his face as we played.

I realized then that I didn't just want to fuck him. I didn't just want his body. I wanted him, his tears and his thoughts and his past and his future. His heart and soul. His real name.

The rich kids were all dancing, so no one noticed him standing by the stage crying his little heart out. After the song he just slipped away, looking really embarrassed. I think he went off to finish his crying somewhere. I still wish I'd followed him, even though it would've meant losing the money. But I didn't.

And now I never know what to say to him.

* * *

Turns out Leather Guy doesn't want to pay the price Tripper's asking. Makes a bit of a scene, and then leaves...not only Tripper, but the bill for the drinks they were both drinking. What an asshole.

So there's the poor boy, looking lost and betrayed, clutching the check helplessly. Obviously he doesn't have the money to pay.

I turn toward the rest of the band, who are beginning to pack up.

I've only opened my mouth when Tobey, dismantling his drum kit, says "No."

"But--"

"NO."

"Oh, c'mon," says Julian. He unplugs the bass. "We could at least put in a little to help Max. That kid's our biggest fan."

Tobey shakes his head. "I know. But we hardly have enough money as it is. Besides, he got himself into that mess. It's his problem."

Sometimes Tobey is a total prick.

"And I'm not just being a prick either, Lover Boy. You got a hard-on for that kid, you pay for him."

"I'll help," says Gabe, smiling. He gives me a ten.

"Thanks Gabe."

Julian passes me a five. Grumbling, Tobey finally hands me another, muttering "You owe me, jerk." I grin thanks at him.

The bartender's face is starting to darken when I come up. "Oh, hey, there you are."

Tripper turns wide, surprised eyes on me, as does the bartender. I give them both a big fake grin and clap a hand on Tripper's shoulder. It's still warm from dancing, although not sweat-damp anymore.

"You silly brat, drinking over your budget again. Just 'cause you're finally legal." The bill is thirty-four dollars. Along with the others' money, that's about all I have. I hand it over, still making up stuff. "Kids these days, huh?"

The guy takes my money. What does he care what the story is? It isn't even much of a story.

But Tripper looks mortified, his eyes like black holes in his white face. "I, I am so sorry--"he stammers. My heart stalls and starts up again at twice the pace, but I just shrug and assure him it's no problem. He reddens, not meeting my eye, mumbles his thanks, already backing away.

"Hey, don't go yet." God, I sound like a high school nerd. "You can hang out with us for a while," I add, trying not to sound hopeful. "We're going over to Gabe's place to smoke and watch videos. Wanna come?"

His eyes light up at Gabe's name, but then he ducks his head again and shakes it. "No. No thank you. Thank you very much--I am so very sorry. I will pay back your money."

"Please don't go yet." I reach out a hand to him. "What's your name?"

Tripper pauses. He looks up, into my eyes, for the first time. God, he's gorgeous; his hair all messed up, his skin still a little shiny with sweat, his eyes huge, his lips sweeter than ever. He looks so small...and soft...and kissable...

His gaze slides past me, to where the rest of the band is. Gabe and Julian are watching us. Gabe smiles a bit, and waves.

Tripper's pretty porcelain face suddenly crumples with pain and maybe shame. He turns and runs out the door, nearly falling on his face in his hurry to get out.

Everybody in the livehouse is staring. I ignore them all and make my way back to the others, my body buzzing, two thoughts spinning round and round in my head:

I finally talked to Tripper.

And I think he's in love with Gabe.

END PART 1