Page 34 of Spread Your Wings
Sammy nodded, and Mustafa smiled. “Cool.”
The next few acts flew by in a blur. Sammy didn’t recognize the singer who joined Queen for “Las Palabras De Amor.” The lead singer of Extreme performed a rousing rendition of “Hammer to Fall,” but Brian May and Tony Iommi stole the show with their dueling guitars. Sammy wiggled along with the beat, continuing his dance along Mustafa’s cock. He jumped to the beat of Hetfield’s rendition of “Stone Cold Crazy,” until Mustafa bit his earlobe and grabbed his hips.
Sammy had been packing a semi-erection throughout the concert. Mustafa had his cock at full attention with one word.
“Stop.”
The roller-coaster of emotions continued. Brian sang a song he’d written, “Too Much Love Will Kill You.” Mustafa leaned on Sammy’s shoulder and cried. Sammy did his best to console him by lifting his arms to wrap them around the back of his neck. By the end, Sammy’s cheeks were wet, too. The song tore him apart and made him anew. It was a new world, after all. One without Freddie. One where Freddie’s friends took to the biggest stage in the world, bared their hearts, and said goodbye. It was nowhere near the experience of the Magic Tour. To Sammy, sharing it with Mustafa made it magical in its own right.
When “Radio Ga Ga” started, Kenny hoisted Simon onto his shoulders. Sammy clapped and cheered for them, earning an eye roll from Bex, and a laugh from Kenny.
Mustafa’s warmth disappeared from his back. The next thing he knew, he was on Mustafa’s shoulders, seated above the throng of people around them. He waved to Simon, who no longer seemed jealous. Simon gazed down at Kenny with awe, as though seeing him for the first time.
At the chorus, Sammy and Simon put their hands in the air, a rigid V during the lines, and a double-clap at each pause. The crowd did the same, copied from the music video.
When Seal took the stage, Mustafa dropped out from under Sammy. Back on the ground, flush against Mustafa, Sammy rocked with him through “Who Wants to Live Forever.” They shared a kiss after, when the crowd clapped furiously for Seal. The song became Sammy’s favorite Queen song in that moment. He wanted to stay there forever, with Mustafa’s arms around him, sharing an amorous kiss in a crowd of people just like them.
Lisa Stansfield, Annie Lennox, David Bowie, and a slew of others crossed the stage, singing Queen’s greatest hits. Sammy loved Bowie, another bisexual like Freddie. Loved him until he kneeled after “We Can Be Heroes,” to say The Lord’s Prayer.
Who does this motherfucker think he is?
People were dying. Sammy’s Catholic church, hell, most Christian churches, seemed content to let them die. God’s cleanse. Why did Bowie think those words were the right ones for those with AIDS? Sammy’s Christian God didn’t give a shit about AIDS victims. The prayer tainted the rest of the concert for him. George Michael. Elton John. Liza Minnelli. All tainted.
CHAPTER NINE
Sammy waited until they were seated side-by-side on the tube to ask the question bothering him since Bowie’s recital.
“Does Allah care about gay people dying from AIDS?”
Mustafa twisted in his seat so he could study Sammy’s face.
“How am I to know what Allah cares about?”
“But you believe?”
Mustafa sank against the bench seat, hanging his head. “I believe. Allah does not believe in me. Homosexuality is a sin in most religions, including mine. Including yours.”
“Fuck religion.”
“You’re angry at Bowie?”
Sammy nodded.
“He said a prayer.”
“The man writes songs for a living. You think he could write something heartfelt and meaningful for us, not say a prayer from a religion that condemns us.” His raised voice attracted several gazes to him across their tube car. Two guys, who must have also been at the concert, raised their fists in salute. The woman across from them shifted uncomfortably behind her newspaper.
Mustafa draped his arm over Sammy’s shoulder and rested against him. “The band seemed worried, like it wasn’t rehearsed.Maybe he didn’t plan to say anything, and the prayer was all he had in the moment.”
Sammy snuggled into Mustafa’s warmth. “It was poor timing and poor choice of words,” he mumbled against Mustafa’s plaid shirt.
“Does CNN have a concert review segment? You would be great at ripping artists to shreds.”
Sammy snuggled closer. “Maybe I’ll pitch the idea to them Wednesday morning.”
When they arrived at their hotel room, Sammy took the time to hang his jacket and backpack in the closet. Then he headed to the bathroom to fill the tub. His clothes smelled like smoke, both cigarette and reefer. As much as he’d loved the concert experience, he needed to get it off his skin. He wanted to be clean for Mustafa.
Mustafa joined him in the bathroom as he waited for the tub to fill. He took a leak and removed his clothes. First, the plaid shirt. Then, the Queen T-shirt he’d bought at the stadium. Shoes, jeans, underwear off. Mustafa stood before him, one leg slightly in front of the other, arms out to the sides, palms up. Sammy had spent the afternoon and evening watching performers who exercised regularly. Mustafa’s toned body turned him on more than anyone he’d ever seen, even his former crush, George Michael.
