Interstate Triad Concerto

The night, in Tex's room at the Holiday Inn, I learned something else new as well. Anton was on his back on Tex's bed, and I was straddling him, riding his thick cock in a facing cowboy position, with Tex off to the side, drinking beer out of a can and pulling on his shaft. Then, without notice, Tex was climbing up on the bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist, and positioning his cock at my hole with his other hand. Anton already was in that hole, though. That didn't stop Tex. I'd gotten the idea earlier in the day that Tex didn't much like the idea of socializing with black Anton, thirty years his junior and much more finely muscled, much. But it turned out he didn't mind sharing a guy's hole with Anton.

I'd never been doubled before. That night, in the Holiday Inn Express in Nashville, Tex and Anton doubled me in just about every position they could get me sandwiched between me. Anton was firing off constantly, but he was young and virile and could recharge quickly. Tex only managed a couple of releases, but he could keep it hard and pumping for hours.

I managed, and it was something to think "wow" about afterward, but for a couple of hours there I was their slave and they were working me together like they'd been trained to do it together.

It was almost a relief the next morning when I found that it was Gabe Johnson himself, the trucking company owner from Savannah and the man who had set this Interstate Triad experience himself, who had come to Nashville to drive a lumber truck back to Savannah--and to drive me at a couple of rest stops on the one-day run between the cities on I-75 and I-16. As he had done before, he gave me a good sexual workout. I let him have it the way he wanted it in the sleeper cab behind the driver's compartment at two rest stops, but all the time he was on top of me and fucking me in a deep, throat-choking missionary, I had musical notes and how they went together and how they sounded with the tenor saxophone in the lead ringing in my head.

* * * *

Five Months Later

I was sitting in a prominent seat in the orchestra section of Savannah State University's Kennedy Fine Arts auditorium, as was right, since it was my composition being performed on stage this evening, when Gabe Johnson came into the section and sat next to me. That was his right, as well, since he'd put up much of the money as a sponsor to get this concert on stage. The lights in the auditorium began to dim as he sat down, gave me a smile, squeezed my knee with his hand, and left the hand there. He had every right to do that, as well, and not just because he was underwriting the concert. He'd had me sexually frequently in the months since he'd introduced me to the Interstate Triad game.

He probably thought he'd have me again tonight after the concert, but he was wrong. Still, we shared an amusing secret. We both knew where the name of the work about to be performed on stage had come from--and, indeed, what had inspired the work that resulted from my six-month sabbatical in Savannah. I'd named the composition, "Interstate Triad Concerto."

Only three of us could fully appreciate the concerto I'd composed for a small orchestra, with prominent tenor saxophone solos. Gabe, who had an appreciation for music as a singer despite his rough exterior as the owner of a trucking company, and I were fully able to follow the intricacies of the three-movement piece, which showcased the direct moods that could be evoked by a saxophone, in this case the regional flavors of Savannah, New Orleans, and Nashville, each given its own movement and flavor and each exhibiting rises and falls in the music corresponding with the sex sessions in the sleeper cabs while on the road and on hotel beds in the intervening nights during my first Interstate Triad experience.

The third person who fully understood the flow of the music was Jamie, the saxophonist performing the featured instrumental solo work in this premier of the "Interstate Triad Concerto." Jamie had worked closely with me in the composition phase, reliving with me the high points of the sexual encounters being captured in the music.

And it was Jamie I'd be withdrawing with this evening to my apartment in Savannah, where we'd put a recording of the "Interstate Triad Concerto" on and fuck to the music--one last time before I left the next day to return to my world of Winchester, Virginia, and the Shenandoah Conservatory, imbued with the experience and pleasure of six months of satisfying and enlightening exposure to the Savannah lifestyle.