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paperback-writers-blog1 · 6 years

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Valentines Day

By: Mod McCartney

Rating: NC-17

Paring: John/Paul

Summery: One year ago John made the biggest mistake of his life. With Valentines Day approaching can he finally make it right?

Warning: Adult themes

John had always known he was a stupid man. He seemed to specialise in fucking himself over at every opportunity. Most of his successes were due to someone elses input. Usually he didn’t care. ‘Fuck it’ he’d say to himself and move on. However there was one mistake he could never move on from, no matter how hard he tried. It still haunted him a year later, the way he had lost Paul.

Really, getting Paul was not difficult. At least, it wasn’t as difficult as John imagined. He always saw Paul as this unobtainable, higher being. As much as John had pined for him, he would tell himself Paul would end up with someone as gorgeous and flawless as himself and they would be a sickeningly perfect couple in a perfect house with the perfect jobs. Ugh. Of course, Paul did have flaws. And he didn’t want the life John had imagined for him, basically dating a clone of himself. While John had been obsessing over this imaginary life for his crush while putting himself down, Paul had been noticing more and more similarities between them. At first they had seemed like total opposites but as they got to know each other more, Paul noticed a more… two sides of the same coin dynamic. They had very similar dreams and motivations, however would handle them in wildly opposing ways. But their extremes complimented each other. Paul, the sweet charmer could very easily smooth any damage or upset John caused. John, the wild spontaneous adventurer would encourage Paul out of his shell more, helped him be that little more daring and less under his father’s thumb. It was therefore much easier than he had imagined for him to get Paul. Paul was already smitten with John, cool, older and rebellious. One night of heavy drinking, John had simply turned up at Pauls home. Words failed him, but the booze made him bolder and he simply kissed the younger man. The next day he had woken up with Paul snuggled against his chest. After coffee and an explanation from Paul, they were boyfriends. Although nothing was officially said, it was more than obvious. They did everything together, went everywhere together and when they were apart were constantly talking or thinking about the other. When they finally found each other again their embraces and kisses were like they had been apart for years. Of course a candle burning that brightly wears out very quickly. John always cursed himself thinking about that night. What was worse, it was Valentines. John had planned a romantic surprise for Paul. With Mimi away for the week, he had planned a dinner and a little pamper session for Paul. He was excited but a little nervous. What if Paul didn’t like it? What if it was too much? So he did what he always did when he panicked. Drank. Just a beer for courage. That didn’t work as he hoped so maybe another. When the beers weren’t working, he dipped into whiskey. By the time Paul arrived (exactly on time as usual) John was roaring drunk. Paul wasn’t that bothered. He had seen it all. However because of his insecurities John was feeling particularly nasty. And with no one else to tease and snipe at, Paul was the only victim of his poisonous tongue. At first he had tried to ignore it, brush it off as John being drunk and stressed from the planning. But as the night wore on, with wine and Paul not reacting like John wanted, he got more vicious. Paul asked him to stop, why was he being like this? The tears in his doe eyes gave John that sick satisfaction that he was getting to his victim. John didn’t stop. He pushed and pushed until Paul just couldn’t take it. And as easily as the relationship had started, they had ended. John had woken up the next day on the couch. The only evidence of dinner was the neatly stacked dishes on the draining board, no doubt courtesy of Paul. Upstairs Johns room was untouched. The slightly cheesy romantic setting he had worked hard on was still there. Confused he had tried calling Paul and had been told in no uncertain terms by Mike to not call again. That only caused more confusion and John had to go to George for answers. George was Pauls best friend. John had no doubt he would tell him everything. It took a good few days but finally he got his answers. He immediately regretted it. He never meant to hurt Paul! He tried all sorts to get Paul back but to no avail. The damage had been done and was far too fresh. The problem was, George was dating John’s best friend. It made for some uncomfortable situations, mainly birthday celebrations.

Now a year later, and 2 days before Valentine’s Day, John was lying in his bed plagued by thoughts of Paul. He didn’t want to move on. He didn’t want to date others. He wanted Paul. He wanted to smother him in affection and hear that cute giggle, see those big eyes filled with adoration for him, kiss those soft lips again. Part of him thought Paul probably had someone new. He was too damn attractive and sweet to stay single for long. Still, John would curse himself forever if he didn’t at least try. He needed to know for certain he had completely ruined any chance. Tomorrow was the 13th and the day John would start this little plan. And despite the nerves creeping in, he wouldn’t touch a drop. He’d do this properly. After a little planning and preparation, John fell into an uneasy sleep.

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Paul woke up bright and early as usual. At first, it was just an ordinary day. He wandered downstairs for some breakfast, thinking he might call around Georges later, see if he was up to anything. His thoughts were interrupted when he cast a glance over his dads’ paper. Feb 13th. Paul felt sick. Was it already nearly Valentine’s day? Fuck. He had had offers, of course he had. Including a very sweet one from George to hang out and have a ‘friends date’. He said Richie didn’t mind celebrating on a different day. But Paul declined them all. Because it shouldn’t be like this! He should be celebrating properly with John! Even after all this time he couldn’t believe the things John had said to him that night. But the conviction he said them… and the way he seemed to enjoy Pauls hurt. Paul sighed and made himself some tea. He found he couldn’t face the world today. Give it a few days and all the shops would be focused on Easter. Valentine’s Day would be a long forgotten memory until next year. When he had finished his drink he intended to hide away in his bedroom for as long as possible. He had no doubt George would be around to check on him. Paul spent the morning making his room into a little blanket fort, stocked it with snacks and drinks and plenty of entertainment. It had worked very well. He felt better in his little world where this damn holiday didn’t exist. It must have been two or three in the afternoon when Paul heard the knock at the door. He paused confused. He had been expecting George, but he wouldn’t knock. He figured maybe his dad or Mike had ordered something, and forced himself downstairs to answer the door. When he opened the door he was greeted with a woman in a uniform holding a rather large and pretty bouquet. Paul accepted the delivery, taking the card that went with it and thanking the lady. He thought nothing of it, assuming it was for Mike. He had stuff like this all the time. He played the field quite a bit and seemed to be perpetually stuck in the honeymoon period of relationships. He should’ve guessed there would be gifts for him today and probably tomorrow too. Paul took them to the sink to let them sit in water until Mike got home. He felt a little pang of sadness looking at them. Among the romantic red and pink roses were some of Pauls favourite flowers, simple daisies and lilies. He sighed, a little part of him wishing he had someone to send him something so sweet and romantic. He couldn’t help it. Paul was the romantic sort, totally putty for the very cute and often a little cheesy romantic surprises that came around this time of year. He had, in a wild moment, thought of sending something to John. But he wasn’t as taken by the romance as Paul and would probably think it was dumb or too slushy for him. With a little wistful sigh Paul went to put the card on the kitchen table so Mike would find it when he got in. He went to leave then did a double take. That couldn’t be right…. Could it? He carefully picked up the envelope again and re read it over and over as if his wishful thinking was making him see things. He traced his fingers over the print, maybe he could wipe away the delusion and would see Mikes name underneath. But no matter what he did, it still said in plain black print, Mr J. P. McCartney. Only a few people used or even knew his first name was James. Maybe it was George and Richie trying to help him feel better. Cautiously he opened it. The card slipped out into Pauls hand. He expected some cutesy cartoon or a for a special friend on the front. That was something George would do. But there wasn’t. It was… confusing yet slightly familiar. There was no words on the front, just pictures. Black and white photo fragments of places and events that called to Paul. He recognised the birthday cake in one photo, but the head had been cut off the person standing over it, no doubt blowing the candles. There were shots clearly taken around Liverpool, some of his favourite places to go around the Docks and parks. Occasionally there was an arm or foot of someone just peeking into shot. But they were horribly blurred, like it had been zoomed into. He carefully opened it, not sure if he should be scared by this or not. Inside there wasn’t many clues either. And it still had an ominous feeling about it. “I need answers. I know you do too.” Under that was an address, time and date. Paul recognised the place. It was a little restaurant he had been to a few times with… no. It couldn’t be… could it? John? That brought both pain and excitement. He never thought John meant those things he had said! He thought John would come to his senses and come round to explain but he never did. Paul knew nothing about the phone calls. He assumed John had meant to break up with him, but he never understood why. So yes. He did need answers. But what answers would John need? Looking back at the front of the card, it started making sense. The snapshots could very easily be from his time with John. And the flowers containing his favourites…. Paul quickly got a vase and sorted the flowers before taking it all up to his room. He set the vase and card on his desk and sat staring at them. Maybe it was just a way to get Pauls attention, it didn’t mean it was a date. It probably wasn’t. Then again… to get dinner out on the 14th reservations must have been made. It would be a little more expensive than a regular night. And why a restaurant where they had had a few of their dates if it was just to talk? In fact their first official date was there. Paul groaned. This was too confusing. Still… his curiosity was piqued. And if John wanted to explain what happened Paul would let him. He might even put in a little effort in his appearance. He had to calm down and not get carried away. This did not mean they would be getting back together. This did not mean they were going on a date. It could all be a twisted mind game, John was good at those. Still there was a tiny, hopeful part of Paul that he just couldn’t calm down. He needed it to be tomorrow already. When he noticed the date this morning he never expected to be excited for the next day.

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That was phrase one complete. John checked his watch. Paul must have received the flowers by now. He was a little shocked he remembered Pauls favourites, he usually forgot stuff like that. John dropped as many hints that it was him without explicitly saying so. Using his full initials, his favourite flowers, booking the place of their first date, the snapshots of him and Paul. Paul was smart, he would probably figure it out easily. John hated the waiting that happened now. He paced and went for a wander around the streets. He tried to draw or play his guitar but nothing kept his attention for more than half an hour. The day stretched on for a ridiculous amount of time. He felt like the universe was adding hours just to annoy him and keep him from seeing his Paulie again. Finally a chance to end this year long torment. When it was an acceptable time to go to bed he rushed to his room. The sooner he fell asleep the sooner it would be tomorrow. He would spend the day making himself look as good as possible. It was hard but eventually he managed to fall asleep.

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Paul had had an awful nights sleep. His mind had been racing with all kinds of possibilities. He had weird dreams that kept waking him up. So he rose a little later in the morning. When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw were the flowers. Fuck! He looked at his clock. Alright there were still 8 hours to get ready. Paul got up and started looking through his clothes, searching for the best outfit. He felt giddy like a girl who had been asked on her very first date. He had to look his absolute best for two reasons. If there was a chance for him and John to get back together, he needed to be absolutely irresistible, so John would have no doubts. However, if Johns plan was to humiliate him publicly, if he looked his best he’d show John exactly what he was missing. It took him the entire morning to come up with the right shirt and trousers combo. With that settled he had to shower. It’d take most of the day for his hair to dry. He used a body wash he saved for special occasions. Once showered, he then went about making sure every part of him looked good. He used a facemask to give himself that fresh glow, he made sure his fingernails were clean and neat, he kept making sure his hair was drying straight and neat, He used lotion to make his skin soft,. From top to bottom there wasn’t an inch of Paul he didn’t pamper, clean and neaten. He had never looked so good. He even shaved back some of the hair that had grown over his hands and gave his eyebrows a little going over with the tweezers. No he wasn’t one for plucking his eyebrows, they naturally grew like they did but today was special. He checked the clock. 2 hours to go. Good. That gave him plenty of time to get into town. He didn’t want to rush and mess himself up again. He needed to take his time not only to preserve all the work he had done, but to keep himself calm. His heart was beating almost too fast as he left to catch the bus into the centre of Liverpool. Today was not the day to be walking. Of course this meant he would be in town an hour and a half early, but there was plenty to occupy his time. He strolled around the docks, had a coffee and did a little window shopping to kill time. Finally he realised he had 10 minutes to get to the restaurant. Ignoring his heart and shaking, Paul quickly checked his appearance in a nearby public bathroom then went to stand outside the meeting place.

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Fuck fuck FUCK! Of course he was late! John was never any good at keeping time however part of it was not his fault, but two old women in the flower shop who would not stop talking while John waited to make his purchase. Of all times he had to be late… John sighed as he finally got off the bus. He checked his watch. Okay, only a five minutes late. Fashionably late. But he knew Paul was punctual and had no doubt he would already be there. He couldn’t leave him waiting. He smoothed down the smart shirt he had put on and did a speed walk to the place. As predicted, John saw Paul standing there. He had to stop as he was completely taken aback. It had been a while since John had really taken in Pauls appearance. But he had quite clearly grown a little more. He was taller than John remembered, his jaw was more defined but he still had those adorably chubby cheeks. The slight podge Paul used to complain about had pretty much gone. He was no longer that awkward teen but becoming an extremely attractive young man. Johns eyes unashamedly raked Paul while he could, while Paul was clueless that he was. His eyes finally tore from that gorgeous face down. Paul had curves. On some men it would look ridiculous but Paul carried it off flawlessly. His arse was perfectly round, hugged nicely by his choice of trousers, his thighs… John had to stop before he started drooling. Besides he noticed Paul looking around and getting more nervous. He knew if he didn’t go to him soon, Paul would think John had messed with him and he’d have blown his chance. John gave himself a little shake and took a deep breath. Mustering all the confidence he could he approached Paul. “Hey.” He said softly. Pauls head turned to look over and he seemed to freeze. In his head Paul was going to turn and say hey back. But something caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to seeing John so groomed. He looked so good. Was that effort? Had John put in effort for Paul? He tried to not get too excited by what that meant. Paul swallowed. “H… Hey.” He smiled. John melted hearing that voice and seeing that smile again. He then remembered what he was holding in his hand. “Oh fuck…I mean… damn… I mean I got ya these!” John got flustered and held out the rose and small box of chocolates for Paul. Paul couldn’t help the little giggle. John looked far too adorable that flustered. Johns cheeks were getting pinker. God he felt dumb. Paul took the gifts. “Thank you. They’re lovely.” His face fell a bit. “Sorry I… I didn’t get you anything.” John didn’t like how upset Paul looked at that. “No no no it’s okay ya didn’t have to. No ya shouldn’t have! I invited you! And… I have a lot of apologising to do.” John looked down ashamed. Paul bit his lip then in a daring move, reached forward with his free hand and held Johns. Johns head shot up. Encouraged, he smiled and gave Pauls hand a little squeeze. Paul looked even happier at that. “Right… well now. I believe I promised you dinner.” John announced, getting that bit of confidence back. As John acted more like himself, Paul relaxed with him. “Lead on.” Paul stood next to him, but didn’t let go of Johns hand. John grinned and took Paul inside. Of course it had been a late reservation so they didn’t exactly get the best table. But they got in and that was all that mattered. When they were sat, John ordered wine much to Pauls surprise. There was a bit of silence as they scoured the menus, the only bits of conversation being talking about what they may order. Once the food had been ordered and the wine poured, John took a moment to just take in what was happening. He was sat at dinner with Paul, something he thought would never happen again. Hell, he wouldn’t have given anyone a second chance if he had been treated like Paul had. That was what made Paul so amazing, so much better to John. And in the dim candle light he looked more beautiful than ever. However as John stared Paul got a little self-conscious. “Wh…What?” “Huh? Oh… nothin… s’just… I don’t think ya ever been more gorgeous...” Paul blushed heavily at that and busied himself with taking a drink. John thought he looked too adorable. He loved making Paul blush with compliments. “So… flirting are we Lennon?” Paul teased. Johns smile widened. “Of course. Who wouldn’t?” John felt another flutter as he made Paul blush again. Talking to him was just so easy. He found he didn’t want to talk about anything heavy just yet. No, this dinner was to make up for last years failure and to give him the chance to treat Paul like a princess. It went so smoothly, better than John could have imagined. Paul was receptive, laughing at Johns silly jokes, blushing when he was complimented and accepting John feeding him a bit of his food to try. He even fed John a bit. By the time it was finished, John was on cloud 9 and Paul was almost certain this was a dream now. John paid the bill and got up and held Pauls coat out for him, being the perfect gentleman. With linked arms they headed out into the night. “Now… it’s up to you… I don’t wanna pressure you but… Would ya like to come back to mine?” John asked nervously. Paul seemed to think about it. Memories of last year resurfaced making him falter a bit. However tonight had been perfect. John was clearly not drunk and besides, he knew they had a lot to talk about. Slowly Paul nodded. “Yeah…. Yeah I’d like that.” John felt a bubble of excitement rise in his chest. He had this chance to get Paul back! Instead of taking Paul to get a bus, he paid for a taxi. During the ride, Paul even put his head on Johns shoulder. Johns eyes widened and he shakily put an arm around Pauls waist. Fuck that felt good… it felt right, holding Paul against him in that protective way. Once inside Johns house, John carried on being the perfect gentleman, taking Pauls coat to hang up for him and making him a drink. He put on some music and sat with Paul. They had a little light chat to relax the atmosphere. Eventually, John couldn’t hold back anymore. “Look… Paul… I owe you the biggest apology. I was a fuckin idiot. I didn’t mean any of what I said. It were my own insecurities comin out… nothing to do with you. Ya… Ya fuckin perfect Paul. Too perfect for someone like me. I understand if ya just wanna take this night as an apology an we never see each other again. But… If ya would wanna… Would ya give me a chance ta treat ya like ya should have been all that time?” John just went ahead and blurted it all out before he lost his nerve. Paul listened carefully. He knew John could get nasty when he was drunk and if something was upsetting him or making him uncomfortable in any way he would lash out like he did. “It hurt I ain’t gonna deny that John. I ain’t ever been hurt like that before.” Paul started, making it clear to John this wouldn’t be a ‘forgive and forget’ thing. When John looked at Paul sadly, Paul took his hand. “However… Ya seem genuine. I believe ya know ya were an idiot. Ya learned from it. An… I would like ta give ya a second chance.” John looked at Paul with wide eyes. He was certain Paul was going to reject him! Without thinking, John pulled Paul close. “I’ve been dyin to do this all fuckin night.” With that he crushed his lips against Pauls, wrapping his arms around him. He felt another jolt when he felt Paul hold onto him tightly, grasping fistfuls of his shirt. John didn’t want to break the kiss. When they needed to breathe, John moved to kiss Pauls jaw and neck. He felt a shudder as he heard Pauls soft gasps and moans. He remembered Paul lost in throes of passion and to John there was never a more beautiful sight. No, he had to do this right. Although he could feel himself getting aroused by Paul, he pulled back. “I… I’m so grateful… ya fuckin amazin y’know that?” Paul blushed again. Before he could say anything, John stood up. “An someone as amazin as you deserves ta be spoilt.” He held out his hand. Paul looked at John confused but took his hand. John was going to give Paul that pamper session even if it was a year late. John took Paul up to his bedroom, where he had covered it in rose petals and little LED candles. On the bed was a towel and fluffy pillows. On the bedside table, a selection of scented oils. “I understand if it’s a little much… but I’d really like ta show ya what I wanted to give ya last year.” Paul looked at John with wide eyes. He had gone to all this effort! With a little smile, Paul nodded. “I’d like that.” He needed to know John hadn’t meant to be cruel, that his intentions had been sweet and romantic. John looked so happy at that. “If you don’t mind then… I would need you to remove that lovely shirt.” Paul was a little uncertain however he had to trust John. He reached down to unbutton the shirt. John frowned. No, Paul shouldn’t have to do anything. “Here, allow me.” He carefully reached down and started unbuttoning Pauls shirt, exposing his soft, milky skin. His hands were shaking and his breath coming in gasps as he got to see Pauls body again. He couldn’t resist appreciating it a bit. He bit his lip, noticing Paul had a little trail of black hair going down towards his pants. John couldn’t resist brushing it with his fingertips. Paul always loved hair being brushed and played with. Paul gasped a bit and his eyes fluttered. John swallowed, no he had to carry on. He couldn’t get swept up in his overwhelming urge to rip Pauls clothes off and have him right up against the wall. He had to pamper Paul. He carefully finished unbuttoning the shirt. Paul had definitely grown into his body more. His muscles were more defined. Despite having that feminine charm, Paul had an equally intoxicating manliness and John was completely taken. He carefully slipped Pauls shirt off him. “Alright darlin… On the bed… lie on ya stomach.” Paul looked confused but did so. John sat next to him. There was a pause before Paul felt something cold on his back. He hissed but before he could say anything he felt Johns hands instantly get to work, massaging him. Fuck he had no idea John was so good at it. Paul was quickly relaxed, resting his head on his arm, his eyes half closed. John smiled seeing Pauls reaction. He made sure Paul was relaxed all over. When he was done with Pauls back he bit his lip. “Hey… Paulie… Can I do ya front?” Paul looked up then carefully rolled so he was on his back. John felt a flutter seeing Paul lying on his bed like that. Swallowing again he resumed his massage, shaking a bit as his hands glided over Pauls stomach and chest. Paul suddenly gasped as one of Johns hands ran over a nipple. Paul looked up at John with unsure eyes. Of course he felt that heat pooling in his lower stomach as John ran his hands all over him. John recognised that look. It was almost identical to the one Paul had given just before they had sex for the first time. John knew then this was affecting Paul as much as it was him. “Shhh Macca…” John cooed, to keep him calm. “It’ll be alright… I won’t push… but I just wanna make ya feel good…If I go too far…. Just say… I’ll stop okay?” He understood that Paul might need easing back into it. Paul gave a little nod. John thought his heart was going to explode as he carefully undid Pauls trousers. “I’m just gonna give ya legs a little massage, okay?” He reassured Paul. Paul helped get his trousers off. John could see the stirrings of an erection in Pauls boxers. He had to ignore it and the urges he had to go directly there. Instead he carefully massaged Pauls thighs. As Paul relaxed, John got a little braver and moved to Pauls inner thigh. Pauls breath hitched and he opened his legs a little more. Encouraged, John slowly worked up them, alternating between legs. He could see Paul was now fully erect. Paul had propped himself up on his elbows to watch John. His eyes kept fluttering shut, his lips parted as he gasped. When John got near his cock, Paul let out a tiny moan. Johns eyes flicked up and he drank in the sight of Paul like this. He loved seeing Paul needy. “Is this alright Macca? Is this what ya want?” He asked. Paul nodded without hesitation. “P…Please… fuck…. John…” He gasped, his voice heavier with need. At that, John wasted no time. He reached up and gently stroked Paul through his boxers. Paul cried out, a mix of pleasure and relief at finally being touched. John went as slowly as he could, despite feeling like he was going to break the zip on his trousers soon. He spent some time just palming Paul through the material. Eventually he could hear a few little pleas in Pauls moaning. He needed more. And who was John to refuse? John slowly ran a hand down that trail of hair to Pauls boxers. Carefully, he pulled the waistband down, pulling the last piece of clothing from Paul. John couldn’t help the little moan as he exposed Paul completely. It felt like a lifetime since he had seen Paul naked and erect. He threw down Pauls boxers and took some time to just take it in. Paul moaned impatiently beneath him. John snapped back to reality. “Paul I… Fuck it!” John suddenly stood up and grabbed Pauls wrist. Paul was shocked and a little more turned on at Johns roughness and he yanked Paul up and pushed him against the wall. “I gotta have you Paul. An I can’t be sweet an slow. I gotta fuck ya till ya can’t see straight!” John held Pauls wrists against the wall as he kissed him roughly. Paul could do nothing but kiss back and moan. He had always loved it when John got like this. John paused briefly to feverishly yank off his own clothes. Paul bit his lip and watched as John got himself just as naked. Fuck he looked so good to Paul. Pauls eyes were drawn to Johns own erection and he felt a shiver of excitement. “John…. John please…” He moaned. John grinned hearing that. He’d never tire of it. “Alright love calm down. We gotta do this properly though.” John reached down and finally wrapped his hand around Pauls cock, stroking it roughly. “Ya not used ta bein fucked anymore are ya? I gotta make sure I don’t hurt ya… gotta make sure ya up ta goin all night.” Paul looked at John with wide eyes. All night? Though he had a feeling John would stop if he really asked him. Paul just let himself get lost in the feeling, moaning and gasping at what John was doing to him. John suddenly stopped. He went to a draw and got out a bottle of lube then knelt in front of Paul. “Alright ya needy boy… I got ya.” He grinned. While he was talking, John slicked up his fingers and reached up to tease Pauls hole. He groaned remembering the feelings of taking Paul. His desk still had scratches in it where he had fucked Paul mercilessly against it. Paul seemed to be having similar memories as he felt John tease. After a little teasing, John slowly pushed a finger in. Paul hissed and squirmed. John licked up Pauls cock, trying to distract him. It worked, as Paul was distracted long enough for John to slip in two fingers and properly prepare him. He suddenly stood up, lubing himself. “Alright Paul, I think ya ready.” John grabbed Pauls leg and lifted it to give himself an easier entrance. Paul was shaking with excitement as he felt John pressing his tip against his hole. Carefully he slipped into Paul. Both of the boys cried out in pleasure. Paul missed feeling so full and John missed feeling Paul around him. Paul wrapped his arms around John as he pushed all the way in. He ignored the tears welling up and helped John as he slowly moved inside him. “Fuck fuck fuck John…s…s’so good…yes!” Paul moaned right down Johns ear. John held Paul in place as he sped up. Unfortunately the position, while it helped push John into Paul deeper was tiring on both of them. When it got too much, John pulled out and spun Paul around, pushing him face first into the wall. He carefully lined himself up again then grabbed Pauls hips and slammed into him. Paul screamed out his pleasure, pushing back against John as he fucked him roughly. Sweat and tears poured yet they had no intention of slowing down. “Sh… Shit John…m…M’gonna cum! Gonna cum!” Paul cried as John slammed into him, hitting that oh so sweet spot inside him. At that John pulled out. Paul whined at the loss of feeling, the welling orgasm dying inside him. John turned Paul around again. “You’re not cumming just yet love.” Before Paul could answer John had gone to his desk. He swiped everything off then shoved Paul against it. Paul remembered the last time they had done this, how good it felt, how John could perfectly hit that sweet spot inside him. With Paul bent over his desk, John knelt down and licked up Pauls thigh. Paul gasped not expecting that. He moaned in frustration needing to feel John inside him again. He had been so close! John licked all the way up until he was at Pauls hole. It felt so exciting tasting himself there as he pushed his tongue inside Paul. Paul had never felt anything like it. His head was blank as John licked him and stroked his cock. John was a master at edging Paul. He knew how much to give and when to take it away. When Paul couldn’t take anymore teasing, John stood up and pushed into him again. “Yes! Yes John fuck yes yes yes!” Paul cried as John began fucking him mercilessly into the desk, scraping it along the floor a bit. Paul was sure he’d have a bruise on his stomach from this. He didn’t care. It wasn’t long before Paul was screaming that he wanted to cum. John listened and pulled away just at the last minute. “FUCK!” Paul screamed in frustration. “John please! Please let me cum! Need ta cum!” John pulled Paul up and kissed him. “I gotta watch ya cum though.” John explained before pushing Paul onto the bed. He’d let Paul cum now he would be able to see his face. He wrapped Pauls legs around his waist and pushed him again. This time no edging, no teasing. He wanted to see Paul lost in passion. Besides he couldn’t keep this up much longer himself. Paul threw his head back and cried loudly as John fucked him. He was a mess, his face red and tear streaked, sweat making his hair messy and John loved every damn second. He could feel Paul getting close again. “A… Alright Paulie…. Gonna… Gonna make ya cum…a…all over yaself…. Messy boy…” John groaned, reaching down to stroke Paul as he assaulted his sweet spot. “Yes! Yes John please please gonna cum gonna… gonna-” Paul came very suddenly. Loud and violently after all the teasing. John dragged out the orgasm as long as he could. The problem was seeing that, hearing that and feeling Paul around him he couldn’t hold back any longer. John came, filling Paul up. He collapsed on top of Paul. They took a moment, catching their breath and to come down. “Wow…” Paul gasped softly. John smiled at Paul and kissed him sweetly. He carefully pulled out of Paul. “C’mon lets get ya cleaned up.” John muttered. He pulled Paul to the bathroom where they had a quick shower. Paul just wanted to snuggle with John after that so was rushing a bit. Finally, John took him back to his bedroom where he threw the towel onto the floor to deal with in the morning. He wrapped Paul up in his arms and the covers. Neither cared about the mess around them of clothes and candles. All they cared about was each other. Paul buried his face in the crook of Johns neck. “I love you.” He muttered making Johns heart soar. “I love you too, so much Macca.” He replied kissing Pauls head. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

#McLennon #mclennon fic #paul mccartney #John Lennon #valentines #valentines day #ModMcCartney

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crapfutures · 7 years

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Et in Orcadia ego

In a recent post (‘scrap futures’) we mentioned a project we’re doing with Laura Watts from ITU Copenhagen and partners in Scotland that involves building a gravity battery on the small island of Eday in Orkney.

We’ve just returned from that island-to-island journey. It was quite a trip, a proper eye opener. We arrived on Sunday evening with nothing - no tools or materials of any kind - and by Thursday we were running a public demo of a gravity-powered Casio keyboard playing Ode to Joy. Here is a brief (and highly subjective) travelogue and technical account of the process, which was not unlike a 72-hour Scrapheap Challenge, but involving the whole community.

The northward trek

Three of us left Madeira early on the Friday, bidding farewell to sunshine and flower blossoms. The fourth in our party, Mohammed, coming from rural Sweden, met us that night in Inverness. By Saturday morning we had reached Kirkwall, on the Orkney Mainland. Laura arrived on the next flight, and over a lunch of fish and chips we shared our thoughts about the gravity battery, including what sort of scrap we might use to make it - an old motorcycle, a car or tractor, even a crashed Vespa someone had mentioned. There was also the question of what we should do with the energy it released. Previously we had powered a record player; this time we had in mind a lamp, or an old radio playing The Shipping Forecast. None of us had ever been to Eday, an island of ten square miles with a population of just 130 people.

The wind picked up and the afternoon ferry was cancelled, so we headed over to Stromness on the other side of the Mainland to spend the night in the atmospheric Stromness Hotel. Enrique waxed poetic on the irony of Silicon Valley’s dreams of colonising Mars, when we were stranded ten miles from our destination by a bit of wind. But we made the best of it, and after a full Scottish breakfast with haggis on Sunday morning we drove back to Kirkwall and caught the afternoon ferry. We arrived after dark, windswept and seasalted, and followed the island’s only road to the only year-round accommodation, the hostel, where we met our documentary filmmaker, Aaron Watson. The trip north had taken three days, leaving only three days to build for the demonstration.

Build Day 1

We woke Monday morning to the sound of a large wind turbine spinning fast outside the hostel, telling us the weather conditions. In fact the island grid is powered entirely by renewable energy - Eday’s experimental and community-driven use of renewables, including wind, tidal, and solar, as well as storage in hydrogen fuel cells, is the main reason we were keen to visit. Even the electric heaters in the hostel are powered at certain times by energy overflow from the wind turbine outside. Everyone we met on Eday was extremely well versed in energy generation and storage, including the seven children of the local primary school who spoke knowledgeably about electrolysers and curtailment.

We met Clive, our local fixer and project partner with Eday Renewable Energy Ltd., after a solid breakfast of porridge and bacon butties. Before we set out to gather scrap materials and tools, he gave us a pep talk of sorts: ‘This may look like chaos. But I assure you the machine will be built, it will be demonstrated, and you will leave happy on the ferry Friday morning.’ In the car he pointed out the island’s landmarks and mentioned some of the people we would likely meet that day. As far as we could tell you were not allowed to have the same name as anyone else on the island - when a second Kate arrived she was renamed Katie, and the second Mike became Mick. This we decided was as good a definition of a small island as any we’d heard. Clive warned us that the community would need some convincing before they got involved. We should expect questions like: What’s in it for Eday?

The first stop of the morning was the Old Church, which had been bought by a woman from London with big plans in the 1980s and has sat derelict ever since. Here we found an old motorcycle, a red Kawasaki, parked in the middle of the church amongst other scrap (a Super 8 camera, a record player, a typewriter). The bike had only 12,000 miles on the odometer, but it was buried under a thick blanket of corrosive pigeon shit, and all of its insides were seized beyond reasonable use. We took a lot of photographs. At the second stop, the New Church a minute down the road, we found a large brass bell salvaged from a sunken steamship. We thought we might use it as a weight for the gravity battery. Permission would have to be sought, Clive said. The third stop was an old mechanic’s back garden, full of rusted cars and a jumble of engine parts. ‘Did he die?’ someone asked. ‘No, just left the island’, Clive replied. James opened the hood of an old BMW and found a live rabbit inside.

We checked out the building site next, a shed by the pier used mostly for deliveries. It had a forklift and plenty of room - the first real success of the day. We would have to clear out twice a day when the ferry docked, but aside from that it was ours. We agreed it would do very nicely. Our other Eday contact, Andy, who works with Clive, met us at the shed. From there we drove to an old quarry on the far side of the island, a five-minute journey. As we walked around the site, staring up at the sheer sides from the quarry base, someone had an epiphany about making a gravity-powered keyboard. Andy, it turned out, not only knew how to play (he was currently the church organist), he had also been the keyboardist in an eighties band called Freeez, who had a number one single in the US dance charts (‘IOU’). We all agreed that if we could get hold of a scrap keyboard the issue of what to do with the energy released by the gravity battery was solved.

After lunch at the hostel we met some people from the community in a building next to the island shop. The key moment in this meeting was the suggestion that Mick, who was spotted leaving the shop outside, had an old motorcycle in his barn; someone ran out to talk to Mick and he kindly agreed to let us follow him home. He was a large man in a CCCP shirt, who told us in a Liverpool accent to mind the ducks and sheep. He opened the barn and dragged out an old dirt bike, its wheels clogged with hay; he used an axe to free up the front wheel, and four of us rolled it up the driveway in the rain and waited as someone found a van to bring it back to the pier shed. We were cold and wet, and the light was fading on our first day, but we had a motorcycle and a rough plan. We ate a hearty dinner at Roadside, the island’s former pub turned occasional restaurant (actually just a dining room in a private house), and then returned to the hostel to drink whisky and sleep.

Build Day 2

We arrived at the shed Tuesday morning at 9.05am to find several islanders already waiting in boilersuits, ready to work. We introduced ourselves, made some tea, and set up to start cutting into the bike, while Clive got on the phone to order a new chain from the Mainland - the only part the bike was missing. We quickly sourced some necessary tools from generous community members, including an angle grinder (Aaron the filmmaker’s favourite, because it made a photogenic shower of sparks), a lathe, and a socket set, and got to work. By lunch the bike was stripped, leaving only the parts necessary for the gravity battery - the frame, engine, and rear axle. In the afternoon two of us went to the school to give a workshop while the others stayed back at the shed. The wind blew and the rain poured down. Countless cups of tea were consumed. Soon the day was over, the children went home, the shed was locked up, and at the hostel Mohammed made his special dhal. It was Halloween night on a remote Scottish island, so obviously we watched The Wicker Man. More whisky was consumed.

Build Day 3

The challenge now was how to get the gravity battery over the fence and down into the quarry, our chosen site for Thursday’s demo. We noticed a large tractor - who did it belong to? Could somebody drive it there? Health and safety was still a headache that Andy was dealing with, negotiating with the property owners in England and the insurance company. It was blowing a gale all the previous night and all morning; the rain beat down on the corrugated iron roof of the shed, making it hard to hear anyone speak.

On the positive side, people from the community were beginning to get excited about working together on this strange and unexpected project. Old habits were shifting as people from different parts of the island who rarely spoke to each other met and pitched in as a team. Hamish and Mel, native Orcadians, came to join in and brought their son Robbie, an apprentice engineer. An old Casio keyboard was found, and after some minor tinkering was brought back to life. The chain arrived by afternoon ferry. Calculations were underway for rigging a pulley over the quarry edge. More people showed up, to work or to watch. Clive told us stories of moving to London in the late sixties, working in Carnaby Street, seeing the Stones in Hyde Park. ‘What brought you up to Eday?’ we asked. ‘Cheap innit’, he said with a smile. We met other southerners who said the same thing. But their attachment to the place had obviously gone very deep.

On Wednesday afternoon we went to use the lathe in the shed of a friendly guy named Mike, another Englishman and ex-submariner who lived in the old schoolhouse. Mike left a note in the shed telling us what to do if a blackbird showed up at the door - he had trained the bird to come in and ask for food when it was hungry. Sure enough the bird showed up, looking at us expectantly until we passed it some raisins and a biscuit. When we finished our machining Mike invited us into the main house. In what turned out to be one of the highlights of our week in Eday, Mike showed us not only a display he’d made on the history of the school, but also - leading us through a hole in the wall - no less than a full-sized model of the inside of a submarine, complete with salvaged periscope, control panels, and torpedo launchers. We walked through room after room, through sleeping quarters with life-sized mannequin sailors, until we reached the end and emerged back into the schoolhouse. We shook hands with Mike, somewhat unsettled by what we’d just seen, and returned to the pier shed.

That night at dinner we discussed our visit to Eday as a three-act play. The first two acts, we decided, had established the principal characters and their relationship to the world they lived in. The inciting incident of Act One was our arrival on the island, with a mad plan to build a gravity battery from scrap. The rising action of Act Two was the first three days of building, where we pitched in with the community to make the thing we’d set out to make - the spectre of public humiliation creating tension and driving us forward. The character arcs of ourselves and everyone in the community developed under this pressure; Andy and Clive even told us that relationships between community members had been altered - for the good - by our presence. People who hadn’t spoken to each other in years exchanged words; old feuds were put to rest or laid aside. For our part we gained insights about ourselves, our roles, and the nature of our work.

Every story needs a climax, and it usually involves collectively overcoming a crisis. So it was not unexpected that we should receive a phone call at dinner that night, the night before the public demo, telling us that the absentee landowner would not allow access to our chosen site, the quarry, without insurance - and negotiations with the insurance company had reached an impasse. Andy was trying his best to provide evidence of due diligence to both parties; but insurance is about predictability, and is naturally risk-averse. Testing a gravity battery made from scrap in an abandoned quarry with children present is not an ideal scenario from the insurer’s perspective. How could we bridge the gap between health and safety, on one hand, and daring innovation and experimentation, on the other? How could we achieve a satisfying resolution and leave happy, as Clive promised, on Friday morning?

Demo Day

Andy, as we mentioned above, was a professional musician in his previous life - he had played on Top of the Pops and The Old Grey Whistle Test. So when he sat down to rehearse for the demo on Thursday morning, perched on a wooden crate in shorts and hiking boots and a down jacket, tapping at the keys of a salvaged Casio, the other islanders laughed and jibed goodnaturedly: ‘You’ve come a long way, Andy!’ The crisis at the quarry had been overcome, or rather bypassed completely, by ten o’clock: just as the insurance problem was solved, we decided it would be easier to stage the demo at the pier near the shed, so that no major moving of equipment would be involved. Now momentum was gathering towards the final event and resolution.

The demo was scheduled for after lunch. Word spread and by late morning a small crowd started to gather. We were busy with small jobs: like untangling rope for the pulley to suspend the mass, a 25-litre water container, from a long metal pole extending off the fork of a tractor Hamish had driven over from his farm. The motorcycle chassis that formed the heart of the machine was strapped to a wooden pallet. We only had to figure out how to lift the weight into the air - in Madeira we had used a solar panel, but that was not an option in Orkney. Various attempts were made, including hooking up the battery from Mike’s car, but with no success.

The school bus pulled into the parking lot in front of the pier shed and the children got out. They lined up in front of the crowd and showed drawings of the gravity batteries they had designed earlier in the week. One child broke down under the pressure and sobbed loudly, but eventually held up his drawing between shaking hands. The weather was calm and dry. We handed out Madeiran sweets to the kids, who wore reflective vests for safety. Everyone stood facing us in a semicircle and waited for the show to begin. At the last moment a solution was found: James improvised an attachment to a rechargeable electric drill and used it to drive a super low-gear winch, slowly raising the water container. It seemed a bit of a cheat - though in fact it wasn’t, since the island’s grid is powered by renewables - but the mass was now suspended, the energy was stored until needed, and that was the main point. We called for everyone’s attention; released the mass; wires were connected and the keyboard came to life. Andy played ‘Ode to Joy’, followed by ‘The Flintstones’ for the children. The performance lasted several minutes, then the keyboard fell silent at the instant the water container touched the ground. The crowd went wild. We did it again, and then again - the last time letting the kids take turns banging out some noise. It was a success. We cleaned up as dusk fell.

That evening there was a gathering at the community centre. Andy led a discussion with ourselves and some of the islanders, including Hamish and Mel and their children, ‘Submarine’ Mike, Ivan and his son Jordan, and many others, that felt productive. It verged at times on emotional, as people discussed past achievements like the installation of the massive community-owned wind turbine, along with possible futures of the community and the island itself. We tried to impress the point that, given enough time and ideal conditions, their energy storage solution (or ‘Newton Machine’) would not be a gravity battery - which was something we had created out of the particular materials and terrain of Madeira - but rather a bespoke solution for Eday, built not from Madeiran sucata but from Orcadian bruck, taking advantage of local conditions, like a flow battery made with seawater. But we had three days to produce something spectacular with the community, so we decided to make an Eday version of a gravity battery - and according to those terms, we succeeded. As we sat around talking into the night, surrounded by absolute darkness except for the lights of neighbouring islands and the hostel in the distance, we also agreed that the machine we built was, in some real sense, a social machine.

We hoped that our strange event on Eday, our intervention of sorts, had made an impact on the community. We received a positive sign from Andy the day after we returned, in the form of a message that read: ‘I'm about to order my very first angle grinder, just so I can make my own sparks, just for the sheer fun of it.’ He said he’d been inspired to ‘have a go’. Between Andy’s words (and music), Clive’s stories, Mike’s submarine, Mick’s motorcycle, Ivan’s joyful exclamations of ‘happy days!’, the schoolchildren’s imaginative designs, and Hamish’s son Robbie melting aluminium in a kitchen pot with a blowtorch to cast parts for the gravity battery, we concluded that some good had come of the trip. Still ahead, Laura will write up our experiences on Eday from an ethnographer’s perspective, and Aaron will make a short film to present at our exhibition in Barcelona early next year. The gravity battery itself, meanwhile, remains on the island - being too heavy to transport - and will hopefully power Andy’s reconfigured Casio keyboard through the winter months.

Images:

Julian Hanna and James Auger.

#gravity battery #Orkney #Eday #renewable energy #design #Freeez

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trilliumfloristcanada-blog · 5 years

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getlostintothewords-blog · 7 years

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Be my girl Part 6

Friday couldn’t have approached any faster. I kept to busying myself with work. All the while wondering what Hector was doing. No, I wasn’t a lovesick puppy, but for once I finally decided to give someone a chance. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was the right time to try and commit a little. I hardly went on two dates with anyone, so it was one of those rare moments.

“Senorita”, I heard Hector’s voice on the phone.

“Hola Hector”, I replied.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Good. Just playing some Fifa”, I said.

“Hoping you are playing as Arsenal senorita”, he said cheerfully. Too bad, I was just going to bring his hopes down a little bit.

“Nope”, I told him, “I am playing as Liverpool”, I told him.

“Why?” I could hear the change in his voice.

“Is someone jealous again?” I asked smiling.

“And don’t lie again Mr”, I said.

“Just a tad. Let me come over and we’ll play some proper game”, he said.

“Let me guess COD?” I told him.

“Yep. I’ll help you with the basics too”, he said enthusiastically.

“No thank you”, I told him.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I have a date to prepare for”, I said switching off my tv.

“Oh, a date? With who? Do I know him? He is worthy of my approval? Will I like him when you introduce him to me?” he questioned.

“Why so many questions?” I asked.

“Why are you answering my questions with a question”, he questioned and I started to laugh.

“Yes, I am going on a date. With a certain someone. Yep, you do know him. Well considering he plays for Arsenal, I think he is worthy of your approval and lastly you would like him”, I said laughing and we both heard the doorbell.

“Speaking of him”, I said teasingly.

“Penny…” Hector started but I cut the line.

“Yes?” I said and saw the same delivery guy from last week.

“Good afternoon ma’am. Delivery for you again”, he smiled.

“Thank you. Let me guess no name?” and he nodded to my question.

“Have a lovely day ma’am”, he said before leaving.

Once again, another bunch of orchids, but this time they were mixed with forget-me-not flowers.

*knock knock*

“I’m coming”, I shouted.

“Senorita you know it’s nice to cut the line like that”, he said.

“You got here very fast”, I noticed.

“I was on my way here, whilst we were talking”, he told me.

“Nice flowers”, he said, eyeing my bunch of flowers.

“I know right and thank you”, I said.

“What’s in the bag”, I asked.

“Just mine and my dates food prep”, he said smiling.

“Ohhhh. So, you have a date too”, I said continuing on with his little joke.

“Yep. We are going to cook together”, he said, moving closer to me.

“Well good for you two,” I told him.

“What are you looking at huh?” I asked amused.

“Just waiting for my date to allow me to come in”, he said smiling.

“What if, she doesn’t want to let you in?” I said smirking.

“She doesn’t have much choice”, he retorted. Dropping the shopping backs and picking me up and running towards the kitchen, as we kept laughing.

“Hector!” I called out his name in fits of giggles.

“Si”, he said hugging me from behind.

“I think you broke something”, I said still giggling.

“Did I? What?” he said taking a glance back to the door, whilst still hugging my waist.

“Your nose”, I said, trying to quickly turn around and pull his nose. But being fast as he was, he held on to my wrist before I could do anything.

“Senorita, you’re going to have to try harder”, he said sticking out his tongue.

“Watch next time”, I said, relieving myself from his hold and making my way back to collect the shopping bags.

As he suggested, he had bought all the ingredients necessary for spaghetti Bolognese. I had decided to make one large pot, as I knew a certain someone would be round my house to finish off the rest.

We had made all the sauce and it tasted just like how my mum would make it. Hector tried to half bake the spaghetti, something Alex had taught him when they cooked together. But I wasn’t buying this half-cook method and told him to stick to the traditional way. We had let the sauce to simmer a while longer and Hector thought it would be fun to throw some cheese at me. Once there is throwing of food in a kitchen, it can only lead to one conclusion; food fight!

We had practically thrown around most ingredients on the counter top. Cheese, basil, tomatoes, some hard spaghetti pieces, flour, sugar, salt, ketchup. Pretty much my whole kitchen was empty and the food was either on us, the wall or all over the floor. What I hadn’t anticipated was the water. My kitchen sink was installed with a pull-out spray and Hector used that to his advantage and ended up drenching me with it. But I had managed to take the spray off Hector and it was my turn to get some revenge by spraying him. Not only was my kitchen covered with food, it had then ended up being sprayed with water.

Fortunately, the sauce wasn’t ruined and tasted even more delicious once it had rendered down to a more thicker consistency. But I had to make the spaghetti again, as some of the food me and Hector had been throwing, had been mixed into the hot boiling water.

Even though, the food was done, we cleaned up the colourful kitchen and then cleaned up ourselves. I had laid out some extra clothes for Hector. I had assumed he was about the same build as Alex, he was taller but these clothes had to do.

“I like the shirt, but I think you should get a different name on the back”, Hector said showing me the back of the shirt, which had Sergio’s Ramos printed on.

“He’s the yellow card king and he is a handsome man. How could I resist?” I said smirking.

“You’ll have to resist now”, he said coming up behind me and hugging me once again.

“I think you enjoy the hugs”, I said smiling, whist plating our food.

“You smell of roses”, he said closer to my ear.

“Thank you. You smell of roses too”, I said laughing.

“What’s funny, huh?”, he said tightening his hug.

“You smell very feminine right now, that’s all”, I said.

“This is your plate and mine”, I said handing him the plates, “I’ll get our glasses”, I said collecting them from the cupboard.

We had spoken about most things. Well I let him speak mostly, I just preferred to listen. I was always good at that. When I was younger, I hardly spoke and my teachers always assumed I had some attention or mental problem. But, that was never the case. I preferred to listen more and talk less. The things I noticed when I wasn’t talking was far greater than the things that I did speak about.

Just like the way Hector would scratch the back of his head when he was telling me an embarrassing story or something that he did was funny. He would always smile whenever he mentioned his mum and all the cute things she did for him. He would look to the left, when he was trying to tell a little lie but all these little mannerisms made him.

“Senorita, I hope I am not boring”, he said smiling.

“Nope. It has just been an eventful day”, I said.

“It has”, he said putting away our dishes into the sink.

“Shall we go and sleep. You have training tomorrow, if I remember correctly”, I said trying to remember he plans.

“On one condition”, he said.

“Which would be?” I asked confused.

“You join the beds again”, he said smiling and looking down a bit. A little redness creeping up to his cheeks. Never thought guys could blush.

“You really are getting comfortable in my house”, I replied laughing.

Again, the two single beds were joined into one and again he had spooned me into himself.

“Guess what”, he mumbled into my hair.

“What?”

“You smell of roses senorita”, which just made me laugh again.

#Be my girl #Hector Bellerin #Hector Bellerin Fanfiction #Hector Bellerin Fanfic

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auskultu · 8 years

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San Francisco: The Flourishing Underground

Richard Goldstein, The Village Voice, 2 March 1967

SAN FRANCISCO — Forget the cable cars; skip Chinatown and the Golden Gate; don't bother about the topless mother of eight.

The Bay Shore area is the Liverpool of the West. Newsweek says so. Ramparts says so. Crawdaddy says so. And thousands of scenieboppers all over the nation are craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the newest pop acropolis. The most fragile thing to maintain in our culture is an underground. No sooner does a new tribe of rebels skip out, flip out, trip out, and take its stand, than photographers from Life magazine are on the scene doing cover layout No sooner is a low-rent low-harassment quarter discovered than it appears in eight-color spreads on America's breakfast table. The need for the farther-out permeates our artistic involvement. American culture is a store window which must be periodically spruced and re-dressed. The new bohemians needn't worry about opposition these days; just exploitation. The handwriting on the wall says: preserve your thing.

The new music from San Francisco, most of it unrecorded at this writing, is the most potentially vital in the pop world. It shoots a cleansing wave over the rigid studiousness of folk-rock. It brings driving spontaneity to a music that is becoming increasingly classical, conscious of form and influence rather than effect. It is a resurgence which could smother the Monkees, drown the casual castrati who make easy listening, and devour all those one-shot wonders that float above stagnant water.

Most important, if the sound succeeds, it will establish a new brand of culture hero with a new message: pop mysticism.

Talent scouts from a dozen major record companies are now perusing the scene, and grooving with the gathered tribes at the Fillmore and the Avalon. Hip San Francisco is being carved into bits of business territory. The Jefferson Airplane belong to RCA. The Sopwith Camel did so well for Kama Sutra the label has invested in a second local group, the Charlatans. The Grateful Dead have signed with Warner Brothers in an extraordinary deal which gives them complete control over material and production. Moby Grape is tinkering with Columbia and Elektra. And a bulging fistful of local talent is being wined and dined like the last available shikse in the promised land.

All because San Francisco is the Liverpool of the West. Not many bread-men understand the electronic rumblings from beneath the Golden Gate, but they are aware of two crucial factors: the demise of Merseybeat created a doldrums which resulted in the rise of rhythm-and blues and milquetoast music, but left the white teenage audience swooning over an acknowledged fraud: the Monkees. Youth power still makes the pop industry move, and record executives know a fad sometimes needs no justification for success except its presence in a sympathetic time. There is the feeling now, as pop shepherds watch the stars over their grazing flock, that if the San Francisco sound isn't the next Messiah, it will at least give the profits a run for their money.

"The Important thing about San Francisco rock 'n' roll," says Ralph Gleason, "is that the bands here all sing and play live, and not for recordings. You get a different sound at a dance, it's harder and more direct."

Gleason, influential Jazz and pop music critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, writes with all the excitement of a participant. But he maintains the detachment of 20 years' experience. It is as though Bosley Crowther had set up headquarters at The Factory. Gleason's thorough comprehension of the new sound is no small factor in its growth and acceptance by the city at large. He is a virtual tastemaker in the Haight and even when the hippies put him down they talk to him, and he listens.

That Ralph Gleason writes from San Francisco is no coincidence. This city's rapport with the source of its ferment is unique. Traveling up the coast from the ruins of the Sunset Strip to the Haight is a Dantesque ascent. It is no accident that 400 miles makes the difference between a neon wasteland and the most important underground in the nation. San Francisco has the vanguard because it works hard to keep it. Native culture is cherished as though the city's consuming passion were to produce a statement that could not possibly be duplicated in New York. Chauvinism in Southern California runs to rhetoric about the grandeur of nature, but up north it is all have-you-seen-the-Mime-Troupe? and Haight-Street-makes-the-Village-look-like-a-city-dump.

Ten years ago, San Franciscans frowned on North Beach, but let it happen. Now, the city is prepared to support the rock underground by ignoring it. The theory of tacit neglect means a de-facto tolerance of psychedelic drugs. San Francisco is far and away the most turned-on city in the Western world. "The cops are aware of the number of heads here," says Bill Graham who owns the Fillmore and manages the Jefferson Airplane. "The law thinks it will fade out like North Beach. What can they do? To see a cop in the Haight... it's like the English invading China. Once they own it, how are they going to police it?"

With safety in numbers, the drug and rock undergrounds swim up the same stream. The psychedelic ethic—still germinating and still unspoken—runs through the musical mainstream like a current. When Bob Weir, rhythm guitarist of the Grateful Dead, says "the whole scene is like a contact high," he is not speaking in fanciful metaphor. Musical ideas are passed from group to group like a joint. There is an almost visible cohesion about San Francisco rock. With a scene that is small enough to navigate and big enough to make waves, with an establishment that all but provides the electric current, no wonder San Francisco is Athens. This acropolis has been carefully, sturdily built, and it is not going to crumble because nobody wants to see ruins messing up the skyline. • • • "I didn't have any musical revelation when I took acid. I'm a musician first. My drug experiences are separate." The speaker is a member of the Jefferson Airplane, the oldest and most established group in the Bay Area. With a cohesive, vibrant sound, they are the hip community's first product. Their initial album Jefferson Airplane Takes Off, was weak enough to make you wonder about all the noise, but the new release, Surrealistic Pillow, is a fine collection of original songs with a tight and powerful delivery. The hit single, 'My Best Friend', is a pleasant enough ballad, but much better to 'White Rabbit', which is Alice in Wonderland with a twist of psychedelic lemon. Grace Slick's vocal wobbles deliciously and the lyrics are concise and funny. Especially worth repeating is the song's advice: "Remember what the dormouse said: feed your head."

The mouse la sometimes employed to symbolize psychedelic "enlightenment". In Los Angeles, the same realization is expressed by the Flower. A concern with and an expression of turning on is an aspect of Bay Area rock, but it is by no means central to the music. The secretive reserve that characterizes every other hip community is unnecessary baggage here. There is open talk of drug experience. When references appear in the music they are direct and specific. While some groups seem impaled on a psychedelic spear ("How do we talk about drugs without getting banned from the radio?" is a key question of every Byrds album), San Francisco music says "pot" and goes on to other things. Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead insists: "We're not singing psychedelic drugs, we're singing music. We're musicians, not dope fiends."

He sits in the dining room of the three-story house he shares with the group, their women, and their community. The house is one of those masterpieces of creaking, curving spaciousness the Haight is filled with. Partially because of limited funds, but mostly because of the common consciousness which almost every group here adapts as its ethos, the Grateful Dead live and work together. They are acknowledged as the best group in the Bay Area. Leader Jerry Garcia is a patron saint of the scene. Ken Kesey calls him "Captain Trips." There is also Pigpen, the organist, and Reddy Kilowatt on bass.

Together, the Grateful Dead sound like live thunder. There are no recordings of their music, which is probably just as well because no album could produce the feeling they generate in a dance hall. I have never seen them live, but I spent an evening at the Fillmore listening to tapes. The music hits hard and stays hard, like early Rolling Stones, but distilled and concentrated. When their new album comes out, I will whip it onto my meagre record player and if they have left that boulder sound at some palatial LA studio and come out with a polished pebble. I will know they don't live together in the Haight anymore.

But, right now a group called the Grateful Dead are playing live and living for an audience of anybody's kids in San Francisco. Theirs is the Bay Area sound. Nothing convoluted in the lyrics, just rock 'n' roll lingua-franca. Not a trace of preciousness in the music; just raunchy, funky chords. The big surprise about the San Francisco sound has nothing to do with electronics or some zany new camp. Musicians in this city have knocked all that civility away. They are back in dark, grainy sounds that are roots.

"San Francisco is live," says Janis Joplin, singer for Big Brother and the Holding Company. "Recording in a studio is a completely different trip. No one makes a record like they sound live. Hard rock is the real nitty-gritty."

Ask an aspiring musician from New York who his idols are and he'll begin a long list with the Beatles or Bob Dylan, then branch off into Paul Simon literacy or the Butterfield Blues bag (which means sounding like you've got a Ph.D in spade music) or a dozen variations in harmonics and composition.

Not so in San Francisco. Bob Dylan is like Christianity here: they worship but they don't touch. The sound of the Grateful Dead, or Moby Grape, or Country Joe and the Fish, is jug band music scraping against jazz. This evolution excludes most of the names in modern pop music. A good band is a "heavy" band, a "hard" band.

Marty Balin, who writes for the Jefferson Airplane, declares: "The Beatles are too complex to influence anyone around here. They're a studio sound." Which is as close as a San Francisco musician comes to hissing. Their music, they insist, is a virgin forest, unchanneled and filled with wildlife. There is a fear, a dread, of the A&R man's ax. This refusal to add technological effect is close to the spirit of folk music before Dylan electrified it. "A rock song still has to have drive and soul," Balin maintains. "Jazz started out as dance music, and ended up dead as something to listen to. If you can't get your effects live, the music's not alive."

Gary Duncan, lead guitarist for the Quicksilver Messenger Service, adds: "Playing something in a studio means playing for two months. Playing live, a song changes in performance. In a studio, you attack things intellectually; onstage it's all emotion."

San Francisco musicians associate Los Angeles with the evils of studio music. This is probably because almost every group has made the trek south to record. And the music available on record is anything but hard rock (the Sopwith Camel, for instance, earned everyone's disfavor with a lilting good-timey rendition of 'Hello, Hello'. "They give us a bad name," says one musician. "They're a diversion," says another. "They smile nice.")

But resentment of Los Angeles goes much deeper than the recording studio. The rivalry between Northern and Southern California makes a cold war in pop inevitable. While musicians in Los Angeles deride the sound from up north as ''pretentious and self-conscious" and shudder at the way "people live like animals up there," the Northern attitude is best summed up by a member of the Quicksilver Messenger Service who quipped: "L.A. hurts our eyes."

Part of the Holding Company puts down the Byrds because: "they had to learn to perform after they recorded. Here, the aim is to get the crowd moving." A Jefferson Airplane says of the Beach Boys: "What Brian Wilson is doing is fine but in person there's no balls. Everything is prefabricated like the rest of that town. Bring them into the Fillmore, and it just wouldn't work."

The technology involved in putting on a lightshow doesn't seem to bother San Franciscans, however, because what they're really uptight about is not artificiality but Southern California. There is a sneaking suspicion in this city that the South rules and The Bay is determined to keep at least its cultural supremacy untarnished. Even Ralph Gleason has little sympathy for Los Angeles music. "The freaks are fostered and nurtured by L. A. music hype," he says. "The hippies are different. What's going on here is natural and real." The question of who is commercial and who is authentic is rhetorical. What really matters about San Francisco is what mattered about Liverpool three years ago. The underground occupies a pivotal place in the city's life. The Fillmore and the Avalon are jammed every weekend with beaded, painted faces and flowered shirts. The kids don't come from any mere bohemian quarter. Hip has passed the point where it signifies a commitment to rebellion, it has become the style of youth in the Bay Area, just as long hair and beat music were the Liverpool Look.

San Francisco is a lot like that grimy English seaport these days, in 1964. Liverpool rang with a sound that was authentically expressive and the city never tried to bury it. This is what is happening in San Francisco today. The establishment has achieved a much greater victory here than on the Strip: integration. The underground is open, unencumbered, and radiating. The rest of the country will get the vibrations, and they will probably pay for them.

Which everyone thinks is groovy. The Grateful Dead are willing to sing their 20-minute extravaganza, 'Midnight Hour', for anyone who will listen, and if people pay, so much the better. But Bob Weir insists: "If the industry is gonna want us, they're gonna take us the way we are. If the money comes in, it'll be a stone gas."

It will be interesting to visit the bay area when the breadmen have glutted every artery. It will be fascinating to watch the Fillmore become the Radio City Music Hall of pop music It will be a stone gas to take a greyhound sightseeing tour through the Haight.

But that's another story about another San Francisco. Right now, give or take a little corruption, it is new ideas, new faces, and new music.

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royallypsychotic · 3 years

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Dior Mens And Sacai Are Teaming Up For S

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