A MAGISTERIAL TALE
Digby walked slowly back home from his guitar lesson. He passed by Claudia and Carol Ann and gave a friendly hello, but they snickered and then ignored him. Bach’s “Sheep Safely Graze” returned to his mind and his fingers automatically started twitching into the intricate melodic patterns he had been practicing all week. He thought, too, about the praise bestowed on him by his teacher, Julian, once a classical guitar artist himself, but who never quite made the ‘A’ list. Fuck him! came the angry thought. He would much rather have had a smile or look from Claudia or Carol Ann than praise from the ancient ‘has-been’!
He felt so alone some days. Since his parents’ death his guitar had literally been his only friend. Movement from a long series of foster homes had left him disoriented, mistrustful, alienated, and generally low in his self-concept. Only his music was his friend—and he played well. Too angrily, Julian said, and sometimes with a passion that was too strong, but then that was understandable, Julian said kindly.
The latest foster home, perhaps his last one, since he would be sixteen in a few weeks—able to go it alone if need be—was the best home yet from the point of view of being left to do as he pleased. The older man worked nights and only took him in as a favor to his son-in-law, one of the child-care workers at Children’s Aid. John Digby could have the house to himself, not disturbing anyone with his constant practice. Even when he was home, Mr. Morgan told Digby he enjoyed the music. But he wasn’t home much, and although Digby was lonely, he was also grateful for that fact.
If only he weren’t such a nerd around others. One of his teachers thought it might help to have him play a concert for the students in his homeroom, help them appreciate what a “gem” they had for a classmate. He was always eager to play, but he didn’t count on the absolute ignorance of classical music in the class. When they saw the guitar they expected to hear something very different from what they did hear, and they were not at all appreciative. One of the class clowns, Derek—a throwback to the ancient ‘50’s with his greaser DA—farted just at the point Digby was to pluck the climactic E from Dowland’s “Queen Elizabeth’s Galliard” leaving the class in hysterics and Digby fighting the tears. Miss Enderby was apologetic but the damage was done. He was anathema in the classroom from that point on.
Digby finished the interminable walk home, grabbed a cookie, tied back his stringy shoulder length hair and then sat down for the next few hours to practice next week’s assignment—Byrd’s “Pavana Bray”.
Across the street and two blocks down, in a creaky old garage, lit by two very large disc lights, Derek Jefferson, Marty Browning and Jack “Spin” Spinarski sat around on old park benches and crates, smoking, tuning, tapping, swearing, and otherwise preparing for the first ‘real’ gig (read “paying” gig) that the recently formed group “Spin and Marty meet Jefferson Hairplain” was finally to have. This group sounded and looked ‘50’s (long top hair piled high flowing into a duck’s ass at the back) with the exception of the still absent Bobby Plainer who had a buzz cut, thus representing the Hairplain of the ‘pun’ny title.
They had recently been discovered by John “Ozzie” Osgood of the Osgood Promotion Agency when they played at a birthday party for Darla Osgood, John’s niece. Always on the lookout for talent, he was fascinated by the “fifties” sound which they somehow made ‘nineties” , partly because Spin’s vocal solos were so daring, but also because the close harmonies of the drummer, Marty and bass guitarist, Derek, were integrated so fully with some ‘90’s harmonic variations. Besides that, he still liked ‘50’s music himself—his favorite period, his favorite look, his fantasy-inducing time (both of memory and imagination). Even more than that, of course, he was turned on by the four guys—so reminiscent of his first gay wet dreams when he was a teen in the late fifties. It brought him back to the times he played his hi-fi recordings of Elvis and the Everly Brothers, Fabian and Rick Nelson while masturbating to his James Dean images. Maybe reminiscent also, of the strange fantasies he had of turning the other ‘straighter’ pop stars of the period—the Pat Boones, for example, into the darker, DA’d, cigarette smoking, ‘tougher’ versions of his idols through hypnosis or mind control.
He hoped that he wasn’t letting his fantasy world of past and present influence his assessment of SMJH’s ability to win over an audience. He had signed them to a contract and booked their first job as opening act for a second rate touring group that would probably sell-out most of the seats in the arena. He would know soon enough, in any case.
“Why isn’t Plainer here yet?” Osgood asked.
“How the fuck do I know? Do I look like a zoo keeper?” Marty hit a cymbal which neatly coincided with Spin’s guffaw.
“I haven’t got all night and I want to hear what you’ve done with “Long Tall Sally”,” Osgood said, ignoring the remark.
“It ain’t gonna sound too good without a guitar, Ozzie” noted Derek, taking a long, slow draw on his cigarette. A lock of his pompadour fell down bewitchingly over one eye, a fact that was not lost on John Osgood.
From the noise of the instruments in process of tuning came loud banging from the front of the garage. Ozzie raised his hands up to quiet them but it took a while before they noticed or heard. Finally Ozzie got up and walked over to the door. A thin girl, possibly ten years old, was pounding on the garage door, unaware that the entrance door around the corner was open.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Where’s my brother? Where’s Marty?
“Oh, you’re Marty’s sister. Did you come to hear them rehearse?
“No. Ma sent me with a message. Where is he?”
Ozzie led the girl into the garage.
“Hey, Glor—! What’s up?
“Marty, Ma says to tell you there’s been a terrible accident and Bobby’s been hurt real bad. Mizz Plainer called from the hospital and...”
The gloom that overtook the room was solid and tenable. After a quick trip to the hospital in Ozzie’s car, having learned that although he would live, Bobby would lose an arm—never to pick up his guitar again—Ozzie didn’t know whether the gloom was for Bobby or was for themselves, so close to a gig and a career that would never be, not at least for “Spin and Marty meet Jefferson Hairplain”. They spent the evening at a local coffee shop trying to piece it all together.
It was near the end of a long, depressing evening that Derek mentioned how “too bad” it was that the nerdy kid in their homeroom that played that “stupid fucking acoustical classical crap” wasn’t into their kind of music. Marty was not in that homeroom, but as Derek told the story of what happened in the class and how he was playing some “Rena”sauce” shit and how he farted right near the end of it and got the kid crying. It was the high point of the evening and the only thing to make the other two ‘greasers’ laugh—the end of a depressingly dismal day.
Ozzie’s eyes, however, lit up. “I want to meet this kid. Where does he live?”
After Ozzie had pulled up to the Morgan residence and walked up the beaten gray stairs, he paused and listened to the most beautiful music wafting through the walls. He stood there admiring the talent that could make that guitar sing such an achingly romantic song. He looked in the window and was immediately hit by Cupid’s arrow as he saw a skinny young man, hair pulled back and in a pony tail, face delicate and child-like, lost in his sensuous sound. His heart beat faster and faster as he watched the boy, his hands moving at lightning speed over the frets, his angelic facial muscles moving ever so slightly with each new chord. Ozzie was in love.
But he was a practical man, as well. He knew that there was no way this boy couldn’t take over for Bobby in terms of talent. He could play anything he wanted. It was the last part that was likely to be a problem. Why would he want to play ‘50’s ‘crap’ when he could transport people not to their jalopies and drive-ins, but to heaven itself. An idea, born of lust and hours of imagining and fantasy grabbed hold of him. He had only a few weeks. But he would try.
It was not hard to ingratiate himself with the boy. He had arranged with Digby’s foster parent to meet the boy—for he was, of course, a talent scout of sorts, an entrepreneur of talent, he liked to say. He convinced the old man that he could make a star of the boy, and the old man, knowing and appreciating Digby’s talent was all for it.
Digby liked the man right away as, in fact, Ozzie had a talent for making people like him. Digby played for the man and the “man” used words and spun webs that made Digby feel good about himself for the first time in a long while. Ozzie tapped into the boy’s need for acceptance by waiting on his every word and asking questions which led Digby to believe that he appreciated the nuances of his talent as well.
After only a few days they became “good friends” and Digby looked forward to his daily visits and chats.
Ozzie got his chance when the boy admitted there was too much anger and tension in his playing. He told the boy stories of how he had gotten musicians to relax and improve their playing. He convinced the boy that relaxation was the key that would bring his playing to a new level.
On Day 5 Ozzie hypnotized Digby and Digby went to depths never seen before by Ozzie.
Ozzie waited until the third session, building rapport, obedience, trust, and dependence, before he began to live out his fantasies and in the process create a 50’s rock group that would be like no other.
He started by trying to see if he could get Digby to do something he didn’t want to do. He chose smoking because he himself liked to smoke, but also because it was an integral part of the greaser image, almost as important as the hair, that turned him on.
Digby had always made faces when Ozzie smoked, never getting to the point of telling him he shouldn’t or couldn’t. Ozzie built on the relaxing aspects of smoking, creating a need in the boy to find a stimulus for relaxation, and also building on his need to appeal to girls. He noted how the other ‘popular’ boys in his class smoked—he knew this , of course, because of the boys in the band, and he built on Digby’s need to be noticed and popular. He started the boy smoking under hypnosis, slowly and gently, smaller puffs to smaller inhales, to larger sucks and each time the boy grew more relaxed, more assured, more “popular” and related it all to the smoking.
Though Digby forgot about having actually smoked when he awoke, the trap was set, and it took only Ozzie “forgetting” his cigarettes, for Digby to try smoking on his own ( a suggestion made earlier, of course), only to find how good it made him feel. He finished the pack in two days.
By Day Eight Ozzie had him smoking privately, publicly and a lot around him—leaving Ozzie perpetually hard with the power he was achieving. The two were becoming great friends—greater, in fact, with each hypnotic session, which was happening now with only a cue phrase.
On Day 9 Ozzie sucked Digby off when he was in a trance, smoking, listening to ‘50’s music, the new love of his musical life. Digby was in his mind in a car in a leather seat in a cloud of smoke in a sea of ‘50’s rock—with the most poplar girl in school giving him a blow job. The music became even more important to him as a memory of his first sexual experience.
Because of the name of the band and also because of the lack of time Ozzie decided that Digby’s long blondish locks would have to go. Unfortunately, Digby’s hair was the hardest thing to get him to change. It had become an integral part of his personality after many fights with foster parents and schools.
The music had been easier. Digby was already playing around with rock riffs and finding out how the ‘50’s sound could be recreated. He had missed his last two lessons, choosing rather to imitate the Everly Brothers than doddle with Dowland.
Ozzie had decided on a crew cut—not quite the “Hairplain” of the band’s name—still a very popular butch style in the 50’s. Ozzie remembered the original “Spin and Marty” and how Spin’s crewcut was so flat on top and how turned on he was by the boy.
Gradually each day, Ozzie pushed the boy to need to “become” a ‘50’s rocker. Under hypnosis, he had Digby stare at pictures of boys in crew cuts while he brought Digby to orgasm. On the last day, out of hypnosis, he finally told Digby that a band had formed that need a ‘50’s player and he thought Digby could be “it”. This band would be so good with him in it, it would drive the crowds wild, especially the girls. Unfortunately, though, he knew Digby would have no trouble playing and fitting in with the style of the group, but that he didn’t look the part, so it could never work.
He acted surprised when Digby suggested he could get a haircut—not one of those greaser do’s, though, but a flat top. That was ‘50’s wasn’t it, Digby asked?
“I guess so,” Ozzie said innocently, handing to him lighting up Digby’s tenth cigarette of the session.
Ozzie watched proudly as the barber, himself a connoisseur of ‘50’s memories, molded and formed Digby’s dull, lifeless, stringy locks into the tight, flat, bristly active look that they both wanted. Sitting in the barber’s chair, cigarette dangling from his lips, Digby smiled as he took his first look at his new self—and his own cock grew as well.
The band was an immediate success. Spin, Marty and Derek, shocked that the boy they remembered as nerdy only a few weeks ago had become the coolest, hottest, sexiest part of their group. Themselves having been “relaxed” by Ozzie, they were surprised at how they were becoming turned on by each other and how their cocks and asses twitched when they were together. It led to one reviewer calling ‘Spin and Marty meet Jefferson Hairplain’ a group that “makes a large rock concert auditorium seem like an intimate sexual hotbed where gender disappears and music both penetrates and sucks one in”.
Ozzie had a perpetual smile.