Abracadabra

an excerpt



Based upon a True Story



Saturday, September 8, 2012

11:01 a.m.



Christopher Hartman loved live theatre, but he thought theatre tickets cost too much. As daytime manager of a smart Hollywood bistro, temporarily closed following a nasty kitchen fire, he didn't have one hundred dollars to spend on good seating for every show he wanted to see. That's why he loved shopping Gold Star Events, an Internet store that offered tickets to hundreds of Los Angeles and Orange County theatrical events for up to fifty percent off the ticket's face value, plus a modest service charge.

Sitting in his office in front of his new iMac --the one Beau had given him for Christmas--Christopher pulled up the Gold Star website. On the first page, his hazel eyes went directly to a half-price offer for a musical at Hollywood's historic Pantages Theatre, one of Tinseltown's most beautiful and prestigious venues.

George Hamilton and the extravagantly talented, openly gay Christopher Sieber were starring in a revival production of Jerry Herman's La Cage Aux Folles.

Checking the listing for performances available, Christopher happily noted that orchestra seating for the one p.m. matinee on Saturday, October twentieth, was on the list.

The show will be closed before Beau's November third birthday, but what a wonderful pre-birthday treat, and maybe I can help out Marco in the process.

Beau Bramlett, Christopher's live-in lover of two years, adored musical theatre--he secretly aspired to become a musical theatre performer someday, and Jerry Herman was his favorite Broadway composer. In truth, Beau's singing had been what first brought the couple together.

It had been a cold winter karaoke night at The Boulevard, a Pasadena gay club, not far from Christopher's home. That night, Beau's song had not been a show tune--it had been the Steve Miller Band's sexy 80s anthem, "Abracadabra."

In Christopher's mind, the present moment dissolved, fading into that life-changing February night.

* * *

Christopher loved the smallish neighborhood club, and he had always scored there--never leaving without eye candy on his arm…unless that was what he wanted.

While drinking an Irish coffee, he had become intrigued by a surprisingly good voice coming from the karaoke stage. Christopher had little use for karaoke, and he commonly avoided The Boulevard's weekly amateur night in Dixie. But something he couldn't identify had compelled him to visit tonight, and the voice he heard was pitch perfect. The song, "Abracadabra," evoked his best friend, Marco the Magician, whose professional theme song, as well as his nickname, was "Abracadabra."

So Christopher had taken his drink off the bar and walked toward the karaoke area. There had been no empty seats, but he found standing room behind the cabaret tables semi-circling the tiny stage.

Just one look confirmed that, physically speaking, the young karaoke singer was even more impressive than his strong baritone. The guy's thick chestnut hair was longish and stylishly cut. He had bright, sparkling eyes, a full, sensuous mouth, and the world's cutest button nose. His form-fitting blue jeans were torn in all of the right places, revealing sexy glimpses of smooth thigh flesh. On top of the jeans, a black, muscle tee emphasized a muscular upper torso that had obviously clocked beaucoup gym time.

Christopher had been powerless to take his eyes off the guy.

"Abracadabra, I'm going to reach out and grab you."

And that's exactly what Christopher had wanted to do: reach out and grab this dreamboat.

When the song had ended, he had made a split-second decision. As the singer basked in the applause, Christopher had sidestepped the cabaret tables and walked up to the stage.

Extending his hand, he had announced, "Christopher Hartman. You were great."

"Thanks. I'm Beau Bramlett." He had taken Christopher's hand and shaken it warmly.

Close up, Beau had looked considerably younger than Christopher's own twenty-eight years. Even so, he had been mesmerized by the singer's bright, sparkling turquoise colored eyes.

He's chicken, but what the hell? He's definitely legal, and he's scorching hot! I'm going for it.

"May I buy you a drink?"

Without the slightest hesitation, Beau had replied, "I never refuse a cold drink from a hot man."

Blushing inwardly, Christopher had hoped the flush he felt inside didn't show on his face, and he had asked, "What will it be?"

"I'm a Mudslide man."

One cocktail had led to a second, and that had led to some serious public fondling and kissing.

They had left The Boulevard arm-in-arm, headed to Christopher's pre-war Craftsman home, the very house in which he had been raised, less than a mile from the club.

They had shed most of their clothing en route to the bedroom, and they were kissing: hungry, powerfully charged, got-to-believe-we-are-magic kisses. Beau had tasted like chocolate and coffee from his Mudslides.

And then they had tumbled onto Christopher's queen-sized bed, impatiently stripping off what remained of their clothing. Once naked, their kissing had graduated to serious fondling and groping. Licking and sucking had been next, and, like the kisses that had preceded them, these were magical, too. Every touch, each embrace had set off electric, magical sparks.

Their lovemaking was like "Abracadabra," the sexy song that had brought them together.

For someone who had always used men as if they were Dixie Cups--enjoying them once and then discarding them, Christopher had found himself willingly, joyously giving himself up to the magical, sexual spell cast over him by Beau. This fit and fabulous young man was something else--something Christopher most definitely didn't want to discard after a single serving.

When Beau had kissed him gently upon the eyes, Christopher once again symbolically waved a white flag, his surrender complete.

Just when he had thought, It doesn't get any better than this, Beau had straddled Christopher's lap, grinding his bubble butt against Christopher's steely shaft. The pleasure had been nearly unbearable, too intense to sustain. Then and there, Christopher had shot his load against Beau's ass cheeks. As he did so, Christopher had seen that Beau was also shooting a load.

His orgasm over, Christopher's hunger for Beau--his Beau--had not been sated. That yearning had screamed, "More, more, more!"

Oh, shit! He had silently exclaimed. I came way too soon. I disappointed myself and probably Beau, too.

But Christopher's concern had been for naught. Seconds later, they had lain hugging one another--both of them wet and sticky, but highly satisfied, messes.

Moments later, when Beau had asked if he could spend the night, Christopher had been surprised that the words, "Of course!" had flown out of his mouth. Normally after sex, he couldn't wait for a hook-up to clean up, dress, and ship out, leaving him to the blissful comfort, solitude, and warmth of his big bed.

But that night had been different. To Christopher, it had felt as if their coupling was a fusion of the sexual with the spiritual, the metaphysical. This was something new, something special. The chemistry between them had been magical, transcending everything Christopher had previously known. He had been happy, smiling inwardly, knowing that Beau wanted to stay the night.