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Studio Musician

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STUDIO MUSICIAN
One

I’m a studio musician/We’ve never met/But you know me well/I am the English horn/Who plays the poignant counter-nine/Upon the songs you heard/While making love in some hotel/I am a part of you/I’ve never tried for fame/You’ll never know my name…

 

“Up here.” Justin Timberlake giggled drunkenly as he pulled the other man up a flight of stairs. “Elevator’s broken.”

“You’d think the ritziest hotel in town wouldn’t have that problem,” the man muttered.

Justin unlocked the door and tumbled into the suite. “Home sweet home,” he said cheerfully. He plopped onto the sofa. “What’s your name again?”

“Tim,” the man replied, looking around. “Now THIS is what I’m talking about.”

“Just another hotel,” Justin shrugged. He unzipped his jeans and pulled out his cock. He stroked it with one hand while he reached for the stereo remote with the other. A gentle love song soon poured through the speakers. “Why don’t you come over here, Tim?” Justin asked huskily.

“I can’t believe this,” Tim whispered. “You’re…you’re amazing. I see you on MTV, I own all your CDs…and now I get to fuck you.” He fell to his knees before Justin.

“Whoa, there, cowboy.” Justin held up a hand. “I’m not THAT drunk. You’re not gonna fuck me. You’re gonna blow me, and maybe I’ll blow you, but nothing fucks me but the music.” Justin leaned back and looked at Tim. “If you don’t like it, over there’s the door.”

“N-no…that’s fine.” Tim eagerly put his mouth over Justin’s cock. Justin moaned and closed his eyes, the blood rushing through his body in time with the music.

 

“Josh, we need you tomorrow. Kevin’s wife had her baby, and he won’t be in for a while.” Chris Kirkpatrick, the manager of the recording studio, sounded as if he considered the baby a personal insult.

“Sure. I have no life anyway.” Joshua Chasez picked up his briefcase. “What do you need?”

“Uh, sax. Bring your clarinet, too. Some sap who thinks he’s gonna reinvent the big band sound.” Chris dug through a pile of sheet music. “Here.”

“Um-hm. Looks easy enough.” Josh read the music quickly. Chris laughed.

“EVERYTHING looks easy to you, boy.” Josh played the saxophone, clarinet, piano, organ, guitar, and was able to manipulate the electronic keyboarding system as well. “You just enjoy it, because Wednesday will be hell. Timberlake’s coming in again.”

“JUSTIN Timberlake?” Josh asked, intrigued. They were a tiny recording studio in a big city. “Here?”

“Yeah. He laid some stuff down a few years back…says he “feels the music” here or some dumb shit like that.” Chris rolled his eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass. Everything he does is on the keyboard, so that will be easy for you. It’s just his attitude…such a fucking diva. He kicked out two pianists in two days, and he refuses to hand his music over in advance.”

“Sounds like a winner,” Josh agreed.

“Josh, I don’t know why you won’t let me put some of your stuff down on tape. Your voice is good, your songs are amazing, and you’re a LOT easier to work with than Timberlake.”

Josh laughed as he slid the music into his briefcase and snapped it shut. “Nah. Fame and fortune aren’t in the cards for me. I’m just happy making other people’s good songs sound better, and not so good songs sound good. I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.” Josh strolled out of the studio, leaving Chris to shake his head.