Part 1 - Lecture Hall

[Ibby]

Ibram sat in the far back corner of the crowded lecture hall, legs spread wide, feet on the backs of the empty chairs ahead, half-listening to the professor in the front enthusiastically go on about the wonderful merits and finer points of Southeast Asian economics and absently chewing on the eraser of his haggard-looking mechanical pencil, Luigi Boccherini violins beautifully winding out of the earphone in his right ear, an increasingly common departure from his usual classic rock fixations. Idly removing the wet eraser from his mouth he doodled some stars in the margins of the paper where he was pointedly avoiding taking any actual notes. A head of long brown hair to his forward-left caught his attention, and he stared vacantly at the cute lad underneath the hair; it was certainly better than staring at the too-old and too-fat professor rambling in the front of the room.

As Ibby watched him, the skinny boy, tastefully dressed in a tight Queen t-shirt and very fitting 70’s-style (tight) blue jeans slowly turned his head and looked Ibram’s way. Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Ibram scratched his arm, subtly drawing attention to the small rainbow tattooed just above his elbow. With a slight smile, the boy stretched, bringing a small pink triangle pin on his sleeve into view. With a raise of his eyebrows, Ibram turned away and continued his steadfast refusal to care about the class.

As the class filed out the too-small doors some eternities later, Ibram maneuvered behind the as-yet unnamed teen, and started humming Bohemian Rhapsody with a wry smile. With a grin the Queen fan turned around and burst into the first verse. “I’m just a poor boy!” he sang empathically.
“I need no sympathy…” Ibram replied.
“Because I’m…” the boy continued
“Easy come, easy go! Little high, little low!” the two finished together.
Extending a hand, Ibram introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Ibr-... uh, well, Oscar Reynolds, but I go by Ibram. You a freshie here too?”
“Um, yeah, hey, I’m Noah. Uh, Noah Douglass,” He replied, shaking Ibram’s hand.

Ibram nodded, smiled, and turned away, calling a quick “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder. As he walked off, he had to make a conscious effort to not dance a little jig on the way back to his dorm. It was high time he found himself a nice gentleman; five months at college already and all he had to show for it was one lost phone number and three badly-ending dates.

The next day, after another seemingly endless lecture on… Ibram didn’t even know what, (he hadn’t listened enough to even get that much), he hooked up with Noah on the way out the door. Taking a leap of faith, Ibram asked nonchalantly “Hey Noah, d’you play guitar, by any chance?”
“Well, I uh, I like to think I do, but I’m not that great…” Noah replied, modestly.
“Ah, it’ll have to do. I play bass and my roommate plays drums – you wanna come jam with us this evening?”
Noah smiled widely. “I’d love to!”

The first little bit of a story I've started - much more to come, I hope.
Thoughts?

[Clodfobble]

The first sentence is way too long. Needs to be broken into at least two, probably three pieces.

I'm curious to see where it will go; I'm hoping personally hoping it turns into a rock opera.

[Trilby]

While I agree about the too long first sentence, I'd just go with it--you know, be creative NOW and let the editors worry about that shite. Since you've got the bug, woo the bug, have dinner with the bug ('bug' here meaning 'muse') and then perhaps dance the tango with the bug. EDIT later. IMHO the bug only lasts so long while editing, well...editing is forever.

I like it, Ibby. It has a real Buffy the Vampire Slayer kind of vibe to it. Keep going!

[DanaC]

That's some sound advice from Bri. Get the first draft down whilst the story's flowing and do the tidy up later.

[Ibby]

Part 2

Noah slung his Ibanez guitar over his head and shoulder and strummed a few chords to check tuning. He twiddled a knob on his amp and quickly ripped out the intro to Smoke on the Water, then, adjusting the volume a bit more, stood up and looked around the room again. "Man, I'm digging the soundproofed room, Ibby!" he exclaimed, thumping a fist solidly into the heavily padded wall.
Ibram grinned and replied, "Tom demanded it when he realized how thin these dorm floors and ceilings are; he's in here banging away all hours of the day. And night. And morning. And… well, as far as I can tell, all the time. Sometimes he eats. I think."

As the boys shared a good chuckle, and Ibram tuned up, Tom came in and sat down on his drum throne, pulled a pair of sticks seemingly from thin air, and limbered up. Counting four, Ibram launched headlong into the Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop, playing an extra couple measures to give his new bandmates time to catch up. As they finished the punk rock classic, Ibram leaned his mic to the side and started crooning towards Noah “Hold me clo-o-oser, tiny da-a-nce-ah! Count the headlights on the hi-i-ighway!”
“Lay me down in sheets of li-i-inen!” Noah continued, grinning madly at his new friend.
“Y’had a busy day toda-a-a-ay…” the boys finished together, as per their developing style.
Ibram shook his head slowly and said, “Man oh man, I love Elton John. He’s so cute with his new husband…"

After a good three hours of playing and jamming and arguing and, yes, shameless flirting, Tom left for math class and the other two crashed on the couch with an old Bowie concert DVD and a box of Girl Scout cookies. Of course, the inevitable conclusion of the evening was Ibram strutting around the flat in little more than his underwear, wailing about pretty things and moonage daydreams, and Noah doing his best Mick Ronson and contorting his face into intense acrobatics in time with his solos. As the evening wore on and fellating guitars grew old, the boys calmed down a bit and stuck in an old Stephen Fry movie about Wilde.

As the movie finished, Noah left to do homework, leaving his guitar so they could jam the next day. Ibram fell into bed, visions of his new friend dancing behind his closed eyelids and keeping him up with excitement and longing.

Waking up early the next morning, Ibram called Noah to check on rehearsal time. “Hello?” came a distinctly female voice, from the other end.
“I, uh, hi, um… I think I have the wrong number, sorry, I’m looking for… Noah?”
“Oh hi, you must be Ibram! I’m Trish, Noah’s girlfriend. I’ll get him for you, hold on, I think he’s up” the girl responded quickly. But before she could return, Ibram had slammed the phone down in a tragic mix of anger, betrayal, disappointment, and pain.

[Ibby]

Part 3

Ibram spent the day in a stupor. How could he have fallen for someone so quickly, so absolutely, so obsessively, that finding out that he had a girlfriend could do this to him? He had to get a hold on himself. The day flew by, classes were avoided, homework was ignored, friends not talked to. A whole day spent on the couch, staring at the blank black screen of the TV. Finally, as Ibram was contemplating actually getting up and eating his first meal of the day, a very late dinner, there came a timid rapping at the door. Ibram ignored it as it came again and again. Finally a quivering voice came from the other side of the door.
“Ibram… Ibby, it’s me, Noah… Look, Ibram, I’ve got to explain things to you… Ibram, open the door, I know you’re there…”

Ibram staggered to his feet and blearily opened the door. Noah was greeted by Ibram’s rough, red-eyed, unshaven face, his normally-neat long black hair scattered messily, his dirty Iron Maiden shirt on backwards and his glasses crooked.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“Ibram, look, it’s not what you think. I know you talked to Trish, and I hav-” Noah got no further, as Ibram slammed the door in his face at the mention of the girl.

The next day, Ibram avoided Noah again after class, and Noah again came to Ibram’s door. This time, Ibram didn’t even answer the door, but rather shut himself off in the music room with the guitar Noah had not yet retrieved. Gingerly and reverently removing it from its case, he cradled it in his lap, letting his fingers caress the fretboard that Noah had so often done the same to. Letting a small sob escape his lips, he traced the lines of palm prints across the finish, ran his hands along the neck, held the icon of his sudden, mad, terrible love tight to his chest.

Sitting there in a daze, guitar in his lap and tears on his cheeks, Ibram didn’t hear the door open. Slowly, Noah walked into the room and stood behind Ibram. Finally, as Ibram sat catatonic and cross-legged on the floor with no sign of stopping, Noah approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. Ibram jumped, turned, and, seeing Noah, quickly dropped the guitar into its case and started to leave wordlessly.

Noah grabbed his arm and stopped him. “Ibram… No. Stop it, stop ignoring me, stop avoiding me. It’s no secret that you like me more than a little. Why, I’m not so sure, as you’ve only known me a few days, but… Ibram, Ibby, look, I know you talked to Trish, and I know you’re upset, but I-”
“Noah, shut up. Just, just, ugh, shut up. I don’t want, need, to hear this. Just, go. Take your guitar; I’m sure that’s all you’re here for anyway. Just, go.” Ibram hoisted the case and thrust it at Noah.

Taking the case and turning to leave, Noah sighed. “Ibby… I know it seems like I led you on the other night, I know we had a good time; I know you like me very much; I know I was wearing the triangle… Ibby, when Trish talked to you, she didn’t really realize who you were or what you knew. My father… my father is a Baptist preacher, a devout one at that. Trish lives with me because my dad nearly killed me two years ago for being gay. Ibby… I, I don’t know how to say this… but Ibram... I love you too.

[Ibby]

Part 4

Ibram opened his eyes and looked blurrily at the ceiling. It was blue.
“Wait a second…” he thought tiredly, “my ceiling’s white…”
He reached for the clock on his nightstand. It wasn’t there.
“This isn’t my room” he concluded after some thought.

A noise to his right, somewhere between a snore, a snort, and a mumble, made him turn his head with a stiff neck. For the first time in nearly a year and a half, he was surprised by a warm body next to him on the rumpled sheets. Looking around the room, Ibram counted no less than ten band posters on the walls, and five more of random (hot!) fashion models. The room was a delicate blend of chaos and order, mess and neat, dirty and clean; like a delicate Japanese garden, the scattered clothes, crumpled papers, empty pizza boxes flowed into a beautiful but subtle pattern.

All this Ibram noticed in minute detail as he put off any actual though for as long as he possibly could. Finally, a little ditty that had been dancing frantically through the back corridors of his mind forced itself into his forebrain.

“You just slept with Noah!”

Ibram catapulted his naked, sticky, sweaty body out of the bed and, grabbing his clothes, dashed for the door. A muffled voice rose from the face buried in a pillow across the room, and Ibram paused at the door, unwilling to simply abandon his last-night’s lover. Noah sat up in bed and looked lovingly through sleep-dulled eyes at Ibram.

“…Going so soon?” he called through his dry throat.
“Noah, I… What happened, last night? Wha… why… we… did we…?”
Noah smiled wanly. “Ibby… don’t tell me you’re thinking twice about this now. We talked about this last night. We’re in love, already, aren’t we? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Ibram hesitantly pointed towards his own shoulder. Across the room, Noah looked at his own shoulder, and ran his fingers across the dark scar torn between two of his ribs, under his collarbone.
“Ibby, my father isn’t here. He’s nearly a thousand miles away, and he and I are both going to keep it that way. He knows I’ll press charges about… this if he comes anywhere near me again. I haven’t seen him in two years; I won’t see him again for many, many decades more.” With a grin, Noah added coyly, “Besides… you’re just too good in bed to worry about him.”

Pulling on a pair of boxers – he hoped they were his – Ibram started getting dressed. “I don’t know, Noah, I’m just… I’m just scared. Anyone who could do that to you – do that to such a perfect beauty as you! – just for something as… as ridiculous as that… It just scares me. I’m sorry.” Ibram shook his head as if to clear it. Grabbing one of Noah’s Frank Zappa t-shirts, Ibram walked out the door. Sticking his head back through the door a moment, he blew Noah a kiss. “I’ll see you this afternoon; I’ve got to go to the bank, and go to the grocery store, and have lunch with an old friend today, but uh, come by my flat around two, and we can…” Ibram hesitated for a moment… “uh, jam,” he finished lamely

[Trilby]

Ibby, you darling boy, I've lots to say about where your story is going but unfortunately I have to go to class which is nowhere near as interesting.

I like it, sweetie, I really like it and I've only read part I and II (not part III and IV yet) BUT I will say this based on the vibe: I KNOW you are horny. Advance the story and/or characters, sweetie, not your erection. ( or, as glorious as that erection would be, I want to know more about Noah, and YOUR-Ibby's- motivations. Sex is easy. What's special about Noah save his cute face - and, we suppose, - huge cock?)

gimme some psych, baby. gimme, gimme!



and then keep going!

[Trilby]

PS-I stole one of your lines for my sig. is that kosher with you?

[Ibby]

Bri, when I start explicitly describing hot teen gay sex, THEN you can assume I'm horny. I swear I wasn't horny at all (or, at least, wasnt any more horny than the normal 'background horny' any teen has) when I wrote these.

[Ibby]

okay so i posted up to part five on my dA... then decided it was nothing special, nothing original... that it had nothing to set it apart from the thousands of stories about gay boys that are so popular (and oh-so good).

So I scrapped it.

And started a new one off the first couple parts of the original.

[Ibby]

Ibram sat in the far back corner of the crowded lecture hall, legs spread wide, feet on the backs of the empty chairs ahead, half-listening to the professor in the front enthusiastically go on about the wonderful merits and finer points of Southeast Asian economics and absently chewing on the eraser of his haggard-looking mechanical pencil, Luigi Boccherini violins beautifully winding out of the earphone in his right ear, an increasingly common departure from his usual classic rock fixations. Idly removing the wet eraser from his mouth he doodled some stars in the margins of the paper where he was pointedly avoiding taking any actual notes. A head of long brown hair to his forward-left caught his attention, and he stared vacantly at the cute lad underneath the hair; it was certainly better than staring at the too-old and too-fat professor rambling in the front of the room.

As Ibby watched him, the skinny boy, tastefully dressed in a tight Queen t-shirt and very fitting 70’s-style (tight) blue jeans slowly turned his head and looked Ibram’s way. Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Ibram scratched his arm, subtly drawing attention to the small rainbow tattooed just above his elbow. With a slight smile, the boy stretched, bringing a small pink triangle pin on his sleeve into view. With a raise of his eyebrows, Ibram turned away and continued his steadfast refusal to care about the class.

As the class filed out the too-small doors some eternities later, Ibram maneuvered behind the as-yet unnamed teen, and started humming Bohemian Rhapsody with a wry smile. With a grin the Queen fan turned around and burst into the first verse. “I’m just a poor boy!” he sang empathically.
“I need no sympathy…” Ibram replied.
“Because I’m…” the boy continued
“Easy come, easy go! Little high, little low!” the two finished together.
Extending a hand, Ibram introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Ibr-... uh, well, Oscar Reynolds, but I go by Ibram. You a freshie here too?”
“Um, yeah, hey, I’m Noah. Uh, Noah Douglass,” He replied, shaking Ibram’s hand.
Ibram nodded, smiled, and turned away, calling a quick “See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder.

The next day, after another seemingly endless lecture on… Ibram didn’t even know what, (he hadn’t listened enough to even get that much), he hooked up with Noah on the way out the door. Taking a leap of faith, Ibram asked nonchalantly “Hey Noah, d’you play guitar, by any chance?”
“Well, I uh, I like to think I do, but I’m not that great…” Noah replied, modestly.
“Ah, it’ll have to do. I play bass and my roommate plays drums – you wanna come jam with us this evening?”
Noah smiled widely. “I’d love to!”

It was high time he’d found himself a band; Ibram had been trying to start one for months, but had yet to find a classic rock enthusiast of the right caliber to start one with. Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found one.

* * *

[Ibby]

Noah slung his Ibanez guitar over his head and shoulder and strummed a few chords to check tuning. He twiddled a knob on his amp and quickly ripped out the intro to Smoke on the Water, then, adjusting the volume a bit more, stood up and looked around the room again. "Man, I'm digging the soundproofed room, Ibby!" he exclaimed, thumping a fist solidly into the heavily padded wall.
Ibram grinned and replied, "Tom demanded it when he realized how thin these dorm floors and ceilings are; he's in here banging away all hours of the day. And night. And morning. And… well, as far as I can tell, all the time. Sometimes he eats. I think."

As the boys shared a good chuckle, and Ibram tuned up, Tom came in and sat down on his drum throne, pulled a pair of sticks seemingly from thin air, and limbered up. Counting four, Ibram launched headlong into the Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop, playing an extra couple measures to give his new bandmates time to catch up. As they finished the punk rock classic, Ibram leaned his mic to the side and started crooning towards Noah “Hold me clo-o-oser, tiny da-a-nce-ah! Count the headlights on the hi-i-ighway!”
“Lay me down in sheets of li-i-inen!” Noah continued, grinning madly at his new friend.
“Y’had a busy day toda-a-a-ay…” the boys finished together, as per their developing style.

After a good three hours of playing and jamming and arguing and even a bit of songwriting, Tom left for math class and the other two crashed on the couch with an old Bowie concert DVD and a box of Girl Scout cookies. Of course, the inevitable conclusion of the evening was Ibram strutting around the flat in little more than his underwear, wailing about pretty things and moonage daydreams, and Noah doing his best Mick Ronson and contorting his face into intense acrobatics in time with his solos. As the evening wore on and fellating guitars grew old, the boys calmed down a bit and stuck in an old Stephen Fry movie about Wilde.

As the movie finished, Noah left to do homework, leaving his guitar so they could jam the next day. Ibram fell into bed, visions of stardom and rock & roll excess pounding through his brain. Strutting across the stage, he punched out a bass solo to rock the rafters, singing heartfelt tales of life and love to filled auditoriums of screaming, adoring fans. Faces rose out of the crowd; spun about his head, fueling him, driving his showmanship, his energy, his flamboyance ever higher. Laughing, screaming, crying, dancing along to his every word, the audience pulsated to his rhythms, surging, breaking like waves on the stage, a hundred, a thousand, a million hands reaching for him, worshipping him, hands straining, reaching, grasping, all of them, all the fans, the fans, the fame, the love, the adoration, oh god its all too much the lights sounds faces sights beats chords spinning spinning away in the night and-

Ibram woke up drenched in sweat. His hands were clenched tight, white-knuckled. He sat up and looked around him, feeling so alone after his fantasy onstage. He knew what he had to do. He had to make it, he had to get this band onstage and make it to the big time.

* * *

[Ibby]

After five days of near-constant jamming, the three lads already had amazing chemistry. They were as together as any band could hope to be, and already had a repertoire of a good dozen songs, mostly Bowie covers and Queen classics. All they needed was a name and a gig.
“You know, Ibram, they have open mic every Saturday down at the coffee shop by Wal-Mart, we could go play there…” Noah suggested as they packed up after practice that day.
“Open mic is all fine and dandy, but I want a paying gig, a real gig!” Ibram exclaimed.
“Baby steps, man. Let’s get out there a bit first, let’s play free a bit, let’s gig a few times before we try to get paid for it.”
“We’ll open mic once, that’s it. That’s my compromise.”
“Ibram, you’re being ridiculous. We’ve gotta play some open mics, some free gigs and stuff before we start getting offers to play for cash!”
Ibram studied Noah’s face with a grimace, then, his gaze softening, replied “If you say so, Noah. We’ll play some open mic gigs.”

That Saturday, the boys got to the coffee shop early and put their names down to play first. Ibram got a cup of piping hot black cherry tea, to do everything he could to prep his throat for singing; he was bad enough at his best, he needed all the help he could get. Tom got mocha with three shots of espresso, and Noah got a decaf chocolate frappachino-ripoff.

“Noah, you pussy, get a REAL drink! Y’gotta have caffeine for a gig, man… or something stronger!” Ibram joked at his bandmate.
“Yeah, ‘cause your tea is sooo strong, right?” Noah jibed back. “Look at Tommy here, with enough espresso to kill a horse!”
Tommy smiled and opened his mouth as if to reply, but quickly closed it again.
“Not too talkative are you, buddy? I don’t think I’ve heard you say a word since we started jamming together last week!” Noah said, nudging the drummer.
“Yeah, Tom doesn’t say much. Ever. He… he’s had some problems before, and he’s gotten to be something of a quiet guy from it. Well, quiet in speech at least. He sure doesn’t play quietly by any sense of the word…” Ibram explained over his steaming mug. Tom smiled wanly, and returned to his supercharged mocha. Noah frowned and looked across the table at the quiet drummer, wondering what could shut a man up like that.

As stage time approached, the boys went back behind the small stage and, hidden from the prying view of the coffeshop patrons, tuned while smoothing out their classic-rock heavy setlist. Finally, as the lights in the shop started to slowly dim and a short, round man in a leather jacket and blue glasses started welcoming the growing crowd to the café, the three came together into a tight huddle, arms on each other’s shoulders.
“This is it, boys” Ibram murmured to his band.
Grinning, Noah added “And remember, Ibram, singing is better when it’s on key.”
“Aw, shut it, you. Come on, guys – lets give these fuckers the coffeshop show of their lives!”
* * *

[DanaC]

This is interesting stuff Ibram. Needs some tidying up once you've finished. But there're are some really nice touches. I liked the description of the 'too-small doors'. I also think your dialogue is a very strong feature. It feels dynamic, which is a very difficult thing to achieve.