British muscled queers suck and fuck
JAZZ NIGHT
JAZZ NIGHT We’d lost that connection. That spark. I never thought it would happen to us. We’re childhood sweethearts—always prided ourselves on our chemistry—how lucky we were to meet so young. Soulmates. We’d met in a high school Jazz club, him on the guitar, me the soprano sax. I wasn’t too good but you could just tell he’d be getting a scholarship to a music college. We’d fallen in love over a terrible rendition of Summertime, absolutely murdered the poor song, but there’s only so much you can expect from a senior year band who are itching to get out of the place and to a party somewhere. He must have been so fucking bored, waiting for everyone to catch up and hit the right notes. He didn’t even need to practice. Music was instinctual. The way his fingers danced and plucked at those strings had me quivering. We’d gone on to the same uni, different studies of course. I left my sax behind but we were inseparable from the first kiss and the thought of any time apart
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