Page 33 of Spread Your Wings
Brian introduced Extreme, and the surrounding crowd went wild. Sammy sang along with the medley of Queen hits as his tears dried. Too soon, though, the set was over. The video screens showed the most recent Queen videos as the stage hands scurried to prepare for the next act.
“The Show Must Go On” and “Days of Our Lives” broke Sammy anew. He had to look away from emaciated Freddie, struggling through the last days of his disease. Sammy gazed around at the faces in the crowd, shining in the glow of the stage lights. He recognized the dark spots indicative of Kaposi’ssarcoma, a common secondary disease for those with HIV. The spots marked several people nearby as living with a death sentence. Two rows ahead of them, a man with paper-thin skin drawn too tight over his balding skull was sobbing. He’d been that way since the first song. Sammy’s heart went out to him, and everyone else in the audience dealing with HIV. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished for a cure.
Sammy had come so close to the same fate. He hadn’t cheated, but he’d been cheated on. He wanted to trust, to find his one, his “Somebody to Love.” All his life, he’d been looking. Already, he felt Mustafa could be the one, his special someone. If only Mustafa would also choose him.
Sammy’s hope seemed impossible, even here, at Wembley, a place he’d never expected to see. Living in the United States, going to school, becoming an accountant or whatever. Any of those experiences could change Mustafa into someone who wouldn’t choose Sammy. Sammy didn’t see himself as great boyfriend material, anyway. All he knew at this point in his life was what he didn’t want to do with it.
Def Leppard took the stage with Brian May, and Sammy’s tears didn’t quit, even with the upbeat, “Now I’m Here.” Mustafa nudged his shoulder, and their eyes locked during Brian’s guitar solo. God, yes, Sammy wanted Mustafa.
Mustafa embraced him as the crowd erupted in cheers, and they kissed. The crowd shouted and clapped, and Sammy pretended they were congratulating them.
The video for “Slightly Mad” began another set change. Mustafa pulled Sammy flush against his side and held on. Mustafa draped his arm across Sammy’s back. He looped his thumb in Sammy’s front jeans pocket.
Afterward, Bob Geldof took the stage. Sammy couldn’t concentrate on a song he didn’t know, with Mustafa shifting to stand behind him. Sammy pressed his back to Mustafa’s front,enjoying how hard Mustafa’s cock felt against the crack of his ass. He wiggled, giving himself a cock wedgie. The pressure felt wonderful, almost to the point of pain.
He stayed there through another song he didn’t know, this one by Spinal Tap, a band he thought was a joke. Their performance almost didn’t happen due to sound issues, but he didn’t care. He had Mustafa at his back, giving him a taste of what he would receive later that night.
Roger introduced Guns ‘N Roses. Despite the booming base of “Paradise City,” Sammy felt Mustafa’s breath on the back of his head.
Axl pranced onto the stage wearing tight jean shorts and a black T-shirt. The shirt bore the image of Jesus and the words, “Kill Your Idols,” in green. It clashed with the red bandanna he wore like a crown and the red plaid shirt tied around his waist.
“He has legs like yours,” Mustafa shouted in his ear.
Sammy couldn’t argue with that. The sparse hair on his legs was blond instead of red. Gavin had accused him of shaving them, which he’d never done. He’d considered it, though. One of his female classmates said leg hair grew back thicker after the first shave.
“So sexy.” He felt the words in his ear, rather than heard them. He rested against Mustafa. Mustafa wrapped his arms around him. Then, he unzipped Sammy’s jacket to press chilly hands against his pecs.
Many women in the audience climbed up on their neighbors’ shoulders. They yelled and screeched at Axl and Slash.
Slash wore a Stones tongue T-shirt beneath a jean jacket. The shirt almost seemed sacrilege onstage with Queen. He played his guitar over his crotch, stroking it like a lover as his cigarette dangled from his lips.
After their set, attention shifted to the concert’s true purpose. Liz Taylor walked onto the stage in a rhinestone-encrustedget-up. The jacket depicted herself in several busts from her Hollywood roles. Cleopatra and National Velvet were the only two Sammy recognized. Someone in the row ahead of them heckled her speech from the start, as he had with Spinal Tap.
“Get off the stage!”
“No,” she replied. “I have something to say.”
Sammy hugged Mustafa’s arms to his chest as she talked about the number, five thousand, of new HIV transmissions each day. “Always wear condoms,” she said. “Stay safe,” she said. “The world needs you to live.”
Sammy wanted to live. He wanted to be safe. Most of all, he wanted this, a man holding him in public without being afraid of what straight people might think.
“I need you to live,” Mustafa said in his ear.
Sammy turned in his arms, even though it rucked up his jacket. They kissed. Mustafa blocked him from the crowd behind them. Bex and her friends surrounded them, hiding them from prying eyes. Not that anyone noticed or cared. They were among friends in this crowd.
Sammy turned back to the performance when Queen took the stage with “Tie Your Mother Down.” He jumped up and down to the song, one of his favorites, loving the way Mustafa’s cock grazed his ass.
When Brian introduced Roger Daltrey, Mustafa shouted, “Who?”
Sammy nodded up at him, but he looked even more confused.
“The Who,” Sammy shouted. “Lead singer.”
Mustafa shook his head.
“‘Pinball Wizard.’ ‘Magic Bus.’ ‘Baba O’Reilly.’ The Who.”
“Tommy?”
