Too Much Rain, Chapter 143
So, this chapter... Henry the P.R. man deals with the aftermath of the John/Paul interview, Paul puts some long-considered plans into action after a frustrating conversation with John, John and Paul begin their world tour in Paris, and they inaugurate the beginning of their tour in a very graphic way...
When you read this last part you will understand why it took me three weeks to finish! Word by word. Sentence by sentence. At a time. Agony. But hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor. So to speak.
WARNINGS: VERY HEAVY SLASH SEX SCENE - don't read if this will bother you. ALSO - this is all FICTION - every word.
Chapter 143
“JOHN ‘N PAUL DON’T DENY
GAY RUMORS!”
Tabloid Headline
Early September 2000
The shouted headline was a source of aggravation for Henry, as well, no doubt, as for his clients - John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Since when was it news when someone doesn’t deny or admit something? Henry growled to himself. He amused himself with thinking of similar headlines: “The U.S. Doesn’t Deny that it is Not At War!” “The Queen Doesn’t Deny that she is Not a Courtesan!” Of course, said a tiny voice in Henry’s head, in John and Paul’s case, maybe the rumors were true? After all, they lived in the same house, or at least they seemed to do so, even though John had a perfectly lovely house on the other side of the mews. Henry had never asked about it outright, and had been reluctant in his first weeks on the job to inquire too closely of staff that had worked with the two men longer. Their loyalties would obviously lie with John and Paul, and no doubt they would tell them that the new press agent was asking nosy questions. So, Henry publicly assumed that the rumors were deniable. Privately, he had serious doubts that the rumors were untrue. Right now, however, he was more worried that his new clients were blaming him for the hubbub that had bubbled up after Variety and The Advocate had published stories about John and Paul’s refusal to answer direct questions about whether their relationship was sexual. The tabloids in America and in England had grabbed ahold of the more nuanced Variety and Advocate articles and had come up with some very provocative headlines. Their stories, however, remained devoid of any real facts.
It wasn’t all bad news from a press agent’s point of view: both of the serious magazine articles also mentioned the new album and it’s success, and the new tour and it’s success, and as the saying goes - there is no such thing as bad publicity. Within minutes of each tour concert being announced, the tickets would sell out. But still, Henry was smarting from the displeasure his clients had shown when he failed to eliminate The Advocate from the press pool vote. Paul had not mentioned it again, but Henry had noted a bit of side-eye from John on a number of occasions; a certain malicious resentment and distrust seemed to simmer in his eyes on such occasions.
Henry had talked to others who had worked closely with Lennon and McCartney before coming to work for them. He had wanted the job, and campaigned for it, but he had been made fully aware of the downside of working for the world’s most famous and successful musicians. Previous press agents and other former employees had pointed out that the two of them were absolutely indivisible - a two-headed monster - and even if they disagreed between themselves, if anyone else tried to take a side they’d both turn on the outsider and ruthlessly put him down. Then they’d go back to their own disagreement again, as if the interruption had not occurred. He had also heard that Lennon was ‘iffy.’ This had turned out to be absolutely true. John could be warm and friendly the one day, and cold and hostile the next. He was an untrusting person who sometimes behaved as though he did trust, only to show in the next moment how little he actually did. McCartney, although far less moody and unpredictable, was in some ways even scarier. There was nothing a press agent could know that McCartney didn’t already know. He had lived in front of the press for 38 years, and he knew all the tricks, pitfalls, and manipulations reporters came equipped with, and saw their machinations coming a mile away. Henry was also now wondering why he didn’t ask these former employees about the nature of his new bosses-to-be relationship. But honestly, it hadn’t occurred to him at the time that the rumors could even remotely be true. Now, of course, his inner voice was telling him he had a public relations time bomb on his hands, and he hadn’t thought to ask any of his predecessors about it. This was a huge ‘elephant in the room,’ to quote the fucking reporter who had started all this controversy.
Henry’s ruminations had suddenly come to a halt when the phone rang. It was a contact from the New York Times.
“What can you tell me about the Lennon/McCartney relationship?” He asked bluntly. He was a real reporter and didn’t mess around.
“You know I don’t answer questions about their personal lives, and neither do they,” Henry said, his voice sounding almost weary. He’d received calls like these for days, several times a day. He had supplied the same answer every time.
“They didn’t deny the rumors, though. If they’re not true, why don’t they deny them?” The reporter persisted.
“Why should people have to deny things like that?” Henry asked back, more spirit in his voice. “Just because people make up rumors, doesn’t mean that the subjects of those rumors have to confirm or deny them.”
The reporter on the other end of the line sighed. “I feel stupid having to follow this kind of thing up,” he admitted. “But it’s my job. Apparently, according to my editor, being the first paper to break the news officially about them is the latest competition between the major news outlets.”
Henry noted that the reporter assumed that the rumors were true. He remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the reporter’s comment.
As the seconds ticked by, the reporter seemed to have accepted the fact that he was not going to get that story. Instead, he said a little wistfully, “What I really want to be is a war correspondent. This celebrity shit pisses me off.”
*****
Cavendish
Mid September 2000
Packing for the tour had been a chore John had put off for as long as feasibly possible. But today he had finally buckled down, and had started writing out a list for himself, and also one for Paul. Paul was hopeless about packing. Linda had always done that stuff for him except for the few times John had done it. Back in the early Beatle tour days, Paul had often shown up with several pairs of socks, but no underwear. Brian had ultimately given Paul a checklist to pack by, and after that at least Paul always had brought the essential minimum. Before leaving for the ’66 European and Asian tour, Brian had asked John privately to check Paul’s suitcases. By that point, although the subject was never mentioned directly, Brian knew about the John/Paul ménage, and neither John nor Paul attempted to fool him about it any longer. It was just the secret assumed truth that lay unspoken between the three of them. And, since Linda's death, John had just picked up fulltime where Linda had left off when it came to Paul’s suitcases.
Paul was at the office and had been for most of the day. John presumed it was for his bimonthly marathon meeting with the accountants to go over all the finances and sign all the checks. Afterwards, Paul was in the habit of bringing home a stack of checks for John to sign, and then would chase John all over the house to get them signed. John was thoroughly tired of it, not having the slightest interest in bills, checks, or anything else to do with finance. He had complained bitterly about it, asking Paul why he couldn’t do it himself? Paul had always said, with a long-suffering voice, “We’re not actually the same person, John. I’m Paul - a whole other person entirely.”
But despite John’s assumptions about Paul’s activities that day, in reality Paul was working on the project he’d envisioned some time ago as a way to reduce the amount of stress and paperwork he had to do. He was working on a plan to merge his finances with John’s. It was very complicated. His reasons for doing so had a lot to do with not wanting to stress over two large financial portfolios. All sorts of conflicts arose between the two. Paul had the much greater portfolio, because John had given up so much to win his freedom from Yoko. Although in the years since the divorce Paul and his business partner John Eastman had greatly increased the value of John’s portfolio, still, Paul’s portfolio could tolerate much more risk than John’s. So often Paul and John Eastman were put in an awkward and stressful position: here is a hot potential investment. It has a huge upside, but also a huge downside. Paul could feel free to invest his own money in such a scheme, because his portfolio could take the hit if it did not work out; but John’s portfolio? Not so much. So, if Paul put his own money into the investment and it hit the jackpot, someone (the proverbial ‘reasonable man’) could ask why he didn’t share that information and wealth with John? And, if Paul had put John’s money into the investment along with his own, and the investment bombed, someone could ask, why did he put John’s money into it when Paul had to know that John’s portfolio was less able to sustain a loss that size? These were the insurmountable conflicts of interest that Paul and John Eastman were faced with regularly, and try as they might, they could never get John to help them out. “Do what you think is best,” is all he would say, assuming John would entertain their urgent questions at all. John meant for this response to set their worries at rest. Instead, such responses only reinforced the feeling in both Paul and John Eastman - who were both hyper-responsible men - that John was relying on them entirely, and that they had to do ‘the right thing.’ But what was that? They both were totally aware of the fact that if they guessed wrong, it could all go to hell in a hand basket, and they both had scars left over from the last time John got pissed off at Paul over business matters!
Paul was done with all that, and had asked his financial advisors to come up with a plan to merge his finances with John’s, assuming this was something John would want to do. Of course, John would have been an idiot not to agree to it, because he had far more to gain monetarily than Paul under the proposed new structure; but what Paul wanted out of it was peace of mind, and that was far more valuable to him than a bit of money.
That night, Paul decided to broach the subject with John. The plans were at the stage when all the constituents had green-lighted it: the tax experts, the wills and estates experts, the lawyers, the escrow officers...there had been a legion of experts put to work on it. Now it was time for action: either put it into motion or drop the whole idea. So what Paul needed now was John’s yea or nay. He had selected the tail end of dinnertime as the ideal moment. So, as he nursed the last of his cabernet, he brought the subject up.
“John, I’ve got an idea about our finances...”
“That’s great,” John drawled, “keep those ideas coming. Ka-ching, ka-ching.”
“Very funny. I want to talk to you about it.” Paul had expected attempts to thwart the discussion, so he didn’t let John’s playful avoidance tactics derail him.
“Why? I never know what the fuck you’re talking about,” John said reasonably.
“We’ve been through this before - it’s only because you’re bored by the subject.” Paul hadn’t meant to go back to this hobbyhorse argument, but John had successfully prodded him there nonetheless.
“I’m ignorant about business, Paul, just face the ugly truth,” John declared comically.
“Willfully ignorant. You’re smart enough to understand, John.”
“If you say so,” John chirped pleasantly, and then gave Paul one of his clownish close-mouthed grins.
Paul sighed and started again. “Well this time I want to talk about a concept - big picture, not details. I think even you with your tiny brain can grasp the main points of the idea.” Paul had decided to fight fire with fire.
John chuckled, acknowledging the hit. “Okay, what’s this ‘big picture’ when it’s at home?”
“I think I’ve mentioned this to you before - I think we ought to merge our finances.”
“Sounds great. Is that all then?” John asked flippantly.
“You need to understand what I mean by that,” Paul persevered.
John fluttered his eyelashes and responded in a mincing voice, “When you talk dirty like that to me - merging...” John emphasized the words with a great fluttering of eyelashes and a flamboyant gay flourish, “...well, it makes me weak at the knees.”
In spite of his impatience, Paul had to laugh. He decided to ignore the provocation, and proceed as though he had not been so rudely interrupted. “It’s too stressful for me maintaining our finances separately. I thought if we combined them, it would be far less stressful.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” John asked, this time with an adult attitude.
“It’s a serious thing, John. It would mean that we would both own everything equally.”
“You mean we don’t already?” John asked, confused. He had always thought they earned everything 50/50.
“You have your money, and I have mine. How could you possibly not know that?” Paul was, in truth, a bit stupefied by the depth of John’s willful ignorance.
“I guess I knew that,” John said, looking confused, “but I didn’t see why that didn’t mean we owned everything 50/50.”
Paul sighed. “Actually, what you’re confusing, I think, is the fact that we own our partnerships as 50% each partners, which means our present incomes from these partnerships is equal.”
“Yeah...so?” John tended to get a bit snippy when he thought someone was patronizing him.
“But income is different than assets, John. Income is the money you earn, assets are what you invested your income in, and which then can accrue a greater value over time and throw off new income streams.”
“You lost me. I hate when you talk about this shit.” John was looking frustrated.
“When the Beatles broke up,” Paul began, after tamping down an urge to go for John’s throat, “I hired different money managers than you did.”
“Yeah, I remember that. It was in all the papers,” John sneered.
Paul ignored this. “You went with someone who was greedy for himself and also incompetent. I hired the Eastmans.”
“Here we go...” John grumbled.
“You asked the question, and I’m answering it,” Paul said firmly. “I managed my money better in the ‘70s than you did, because I had better money managers.”
“I don’t know why you’re rubbing my nose in this now,” John complained.
“Because I’m trying to explain and you’re being bloody minded about it - will you let me finish a whole thought before you cut me off?”
John noticed that Paul was beginning to get hot under the collar. He decided he should just shut up and let Paul shoot his wad. “Okay, so I was a jerk about the management, but you had the last laugh. We all know that story by heart.”
“My point wasn’t to have a last laugh, it was to explain why I have more assets than you. I invested my money more wisely, and had honest people handing my finances for me. Also, I made all that money in Wings, too.”
“Okay, yeah, and I was in the Dakota sitting on my ass.” John was starting to get pissed.
“John - please - listen. Yoko didn’t do badly for you when she took over the finances. She actually handled them very well and recouped most of your losses. But then she took the lion’s share of the assets with your divorce, remember?”
“She was a greedy pig...” John grumbled.
“You got the best asset, though - your song rights. Those were by far the best assets you had, and over the long run have increased your wealth substantially,” Paul pointed out.
“So, okay, and?”
“So, because of those historical factors, I have more money than you do, even though now we are making 50/50 from our partnerships,” Paul said, his patience frayed and at an end.
“So you have more money than me. Got it.” John looked pissed.
Where did I go wrong? Paul wondered. He hadn’t meant to go into this much detail. John would try the patience of a saint. He smiled to ease the tension. “I’m only saying I want us each to put our assets - excepting the trusts for our families and charities of course - in one basket, and then we can each own an equal amount of those assets.”
John was thoroughly confused, but he was also bored and wanted the conversation over. It was raking up all sorts of bad memories. And, more to the point, he totally trusted Paul to do the right thing by him. In truth, that was why John had never bothered to learn anything about finance and business. It was boring and required deep thinking, and he knew Paul would do a better job of that sort of thing than he would; he knew he could rely on Paul to handle everything well, so it wouldn’t matter if he understood it or not. “Paul, just do what you’re going to do. If it is easier for you, then by all means do it. I trust you not to screw me.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he made a comical face and said, “Let me rephrase that...”
Paul was already laughing. “I will go ahead then, but I want you to go alone to consult with an independent lawyer and financial advisor before we sign anything.”
John groaned. “Can’t I just go in and have my thumbs hammered for an hour instead?”
*****
A Few Days Later
Early September 2000
The tour was kicking off in Paris. The European tour encompassed 11 concerts in 9 cities, to be followed by a tour of the British Isles - 7 concerts in 6 cities. After this they were scheduled to perform a concert in Red Square - the first western performers to be invited to do so. These 19 concerts would take up the remainder of the year 2000, leaving the last half of December free for the holidays. January and February were going to be spent, for the most part, hiding away in Costa Rica. Australia was next, with 3 concerts in March, bleeding into South America again for a number of dates in Brazil, Peru and Argentina that would get them through April. A few Asian dates would follow in May, and then the month of June would be a rest time before starting the American leg of the tour in New York City in early July in Central Park. The American tour would cover all of July and August, and would conclude in the beginning of September 2001: a full year of touring, but with lots of time off in between. It wouldn’t be a Beatles-style Epstein-driven Death March, which was something even Paul wanted to avoid, who had repeated the death marches during his Wings career and never wanted to do that again.
Paris was, of course, John’s absolute favorite city, and it held a lot of intense memories for John - almost all of them having to do with Paul. When he was in Paris, he always felt nearer to the young John and Paul - when they first became lovers, however imperfectly and awkwardly. It was a memory that had a strong hold on him, and often he felt a grab in his throat when he was dwelling on those early memorized scenes of a finally realized physical connection with Paul. Over four years he had waited!
Paul also thought of Paris as his and John’s city. For that reason he had made sure never to make the city his and Linda’s. Thankfully, Linda was more of a country-lover, so she never knew Paul’s thoughts on the subject of Paris. For Paul, though, the romance of Paris had more to do with later memories - the secret few-day getaways to a certain pensione during the madness of the Beatle years. Fleeting memories of pot and sex, and sex and pot, and knowing that no one in the fucking world knew where he and John were.
For this trip, they decided to stay in the Hotel George V, just as they had done in early 1964 when they had learned that the Beatles had their first number one in America: I Want to Hold Your Hand. The suite was utterly luxurious of course, and it brought back memories of their first stay there.
“Do you remember those pink marble bathrooms with gold fixtures?” John asked. “I see they’ve changed that out.”
“I’d never seen anything like it,” Paul recalled. “It looked like one of those opulent Hollywood sets. And the little box in the wall that you could put your shoes in to get shined?”
“Yeah, and the man could come and unlock the box in the hallway to get them, and then put them back in. That was very surprising,” John agreed. “It seemed like the heights of class to me at the time. I felt unworthy of it.”
Paul laughed. “Yeah. I felt like the below-stairs scullery boy who had snuck into the master’s suite while he was away. At any moment someone might come in and yell at me to disappear.”
A pleasant silence followed this memory, and then another more stirring memory came unbidden to John. “And then there was when Brian came in to the room and there were two beds...”
“And only one slept in. Yeah.” Paul chuckled a bit at how much they had worried about it at the time.
“Do you think he noticed it?” John asked.
“He thought something fishy was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was. But he no doubt later put two and two together and got...”
“...Lovers,” John finished.
“He was never quite sure, though,” Paul mused.
“We were cruel. We teased him with it,” John pointed out.
Paul chuckled. “He was perfect for us. We were sadists, and he was a masochist.” This earned a huge laugh from John.
“Well,” John said, shifting his attention back to the present, “this suite they gave us has two separate massive bedrooms. Which one do you want to try out tonight? The silver one or the gold one?”
“I’m feeling the gold,” Paul said judiciously, but with a twinkle in his eye. It was the kind of twinkle that always promised - to John Lennon at least - wishes were soon to become true. “But we’ll have to go in and mess up the other bed first, to throw off the maid staff in the morning,” he pointed out.
“That ought to be fun,” John commented. “No time like the present.” So, together they went to the silver bedroom, and put their creative minds together to put the bed’s linens in an appropriate state of disarray, as if a single man had spent the night in it. When pleased with the results, they decamped to the gold room, where Paul disappeared into the bathroom.
Alone in the bedroom, John stripped off his clothes, ensconced himself in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, and then poked through their suitcases to make some decisions about the next day’s clothing. He then went out on to the little ornate balcony off the bedroom, and stared across the darkened Paris skyline. Gorgeous. Unbeatable. Say what you will about the French (and there was plenty to say), they had created a culture of refinement, taste and discernment in architecture, clothing, food, drink and the arts. It was a culture jam-packed with the most elegant class the world had to offer. Too bad so many of the French were so full of themselves, and looked down on others. Still, John thought, the culture was worth bragging about. It wasn’t as if they were bigheaded over nothing. Lost in his musings, John didn’t hear Paul’s quiet approach.
“It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice was soft, low, and held a slight throb of emotion in it. He had wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and was leaning against him. John felt the never-dying thrill of being physically connected to Paul. It never went away, and it never lessened. It was like an intense electrical wave going through him.
John turned sideways to look into Paul’s eyes. He really didn’t have any words to say. Words were not important. John just turned to head back into the bedroom, and, clutching Paul’s wrist, pulled him gently behind him. Paul pushed the balcony door closed, and realized, as John pulled him towards the bed, that tonight he would be the follower, not the leader. This was fine with him.
Through silent body language, John indicated that Paul should lie down on the bed. Paul, reading this body language perfectly, did just that. He held his arms out to encourage John to join him there, and within seconds John had done so. John luxuriated in the feel of his naked legs touching Paul’s naked legs, and also his chest skimming Paul’s chest. He also loved it when Paul’s face melted into a soft and yielding mien. Although John loved forceful, strong, determined Paul, he also cherished the angel-faced boy who lived up to his face. And in this moment, John was gazing down on liquid brown eyes fringed with long eyelashes, and a full almost pouty mouth. It was a sight that caused a ripple of excitement in his belly. He coached himself not to crush this flower. Slowly, he leaned down to steal a kiss.
But Paul was no innocent blushing bride. The kiss soon deepened into something far more passionate and worldly. At moments like these both men felt they could even possibly devour each other and finally become one person, if they only plunged their tongues into each other’s mouths deeply enough. While their tongues warred, John was using his right knee to separate Paul’s legs. Paul felt the motion and it thrilled him. He clasped John’s right leg with both of his own, and John groaned and had to pull away from Paul’s mouth for long enough to still them both so he would not come too soon.
Paul was frustrated by the delay, even though he knew what it was about. There was a familiar jungle beat going on inside of his loins, and he was having a hard time controlling it.
John instinctively understood Paul’s problem, and began soothing movements to calm him down. He sprinkled light kisses all over Paul’s face, and whispered low, loving words in a sensual tone directly into Paul’s ear, and these tactics indeed caused the near-boil to return to a steady simmer. Now Paul was focusing on John’s light kisses, touches and low sexy words. It was privately fulfilling for Paul to allow himself to let go - to let someone else take the lead and call the shots. This was something he could not freely allow himself to do in another situation - not in business, not in the recording studio, not on the stage, and not in any of his other personal activities. Only in bed with John on those occasions when John took the lead, could Paul allow himself to be dominated in this way.
Paul’s hands began to do their magic. They were free, while John’s were occupied. He let those hands roam down John’s back, and all the way down to his bum, where Paul could grasp a cheek in each hand and squeeze. This did create a reaction in John: a rather immediate one. He bucked up, pushing his hands down into the mattress until he was hovering a bit over Paul, and he glared down into Paul’s face with an almost demonically sexual expression. This made Paul smile. He loved it when John got wicked. Now he was in for it! And didn’t he look forward to it!
So that’s how he wants it! The devil in John announced, although only John could hear it. Paul felt the challenge, however, and it thrilled him. John dug his knees down in the mattress, firmly between Paul’s two legs, and then roughly lifted Paul’s legs up in one strong movement. Once Paul’s legs were up, Paul bent them at the knees. He could feel John’s pubic hair rubbing up against his anus. This was exciting. John, meanwhile, had grabbed the lube from the bedside table and then held Paul’s wrist while he pushed out a healthy amount of the unction into Paul’s hand.
“Prepare me,” John growled at Paul, who obediently rubbed his hands together to spread the lube and warm it up, and then, as John muttered impatiently, he began to cover John’s cock in the jelly while overtly pumping to increase the erection. John moaned with pleasure, but then impatiently snatched Paul’s hand away when he was ready to fuck Paul up his ass. This was what he was thinking: I’m gonna fuck that man up his ass, and I am going to show him once again that he is my property. John’s territorial drives always came to the forefront just as he was plunging his penis into Paul’s rectum. He liked to imagine Paul, utterly vanquished, finally giving up his sovereignty to him while mewing like a kitten. John’s limbic brain was entirely satisfied by that image, and in those few moments of conquest John felt utterly in charge.
Paul felt the tip of John’s cock rubbing against him, and then John’s finger opening his passage. Paul groaned in a kind of mixture of pain and pleasure as this happened, and the pain and the pleasure intensified ever more with each push and stroke. When not in the throes of sex, but sometimes afterward, Paul thought it was odd that he kind find sexual satisfaction in pain, but he supposed women must have felt much the same way when he fucked them. But these were thoughts that would occur to him randomly when he hadn’t lost control of his libido. In this particular moment, his libido was in complete control.
John had found a warm, tight place, and he sensed that Paul had relaxed and was starting to enjoy the sensations, so he began the age-old rhythmic rut, and his toes curled and his eyes seemed to move up into his head as he abandoned himself to his urges. He could hear Paul’s huffs and moans along with his own - in fact, they were actually harmonizing even as they fucked - and this only assured John that his partner was enjoying being ridden, just as he was enjoying the ride. It was only a moment later when John felt the tension building to that magical place - that place where you teetered for a moment praying you’d fall over the age into the orgasm, rather than drop back the other side, to be frustrated. This time, as always happened for John when he was fucking Paul, he went straight over that edge and down into a throbbing, aching, pulsating, tingling orgasm, and somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Paul’s half-smothered cries. In that moment of perfect connection they might suspend themselves in that throbbing place for a few seconds before letting it all go.
John pulled out just in time to spend his jism into a waiting towel. Then he collapsed back down on to Paul’s chest, their individual sweat combining and becoming one as each of their racing hearts gradually stilled.
Paul had felt the orgasm coming and had just thrown himself into it. He always felt like he was falling into a vortex of sensation, and along with it came flashes of darkness and light in confusing patterns. It was freeing and frightening at the same time to lose oneself so thoroughly in the arms and heart of another human being.
Several moments went by before either of them spoke. John first had to find the energy to pull himself off Paul, and he finally flopped backwards on to his back and then heaved a giant sigh. The cool air immediately began to evaporate his sweat, but he missed the warmth and wetness of Paul’s skin. Without thinking, he reached his hand out to find Paul’s hand, and then he grasped it until both of their knuckles went white. Paul squeezed back. It was their way of saying it to each other without actually having to say anything quite so corny to each other in real time: you’re my everything.
When you read this last part you will understand why it took me three weeks to finish! Word by word. Sentence by sentence. At a time. Agony. But hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor. So to speak.
WARNINGS: VERY HEAVY SLASH SEX SCENE - don't read if this will bother you. ALSO - this is all FICTION - every word.
Chapter 143
“JOHN ‘N PAUL DON’T DENY
GAY RUMORS!”
Tabloid Headline
Early September 2000
The shouted headline was a source of aggravation for Henry, as well, no doubt, as for his clients - John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Since when was it news when someone doesn’t deny or admit something? Henry growled to himself. He amused himself with thinking of similar headlines: “The U.S. Doesn’t Deny that it is Not At War!” “The Queen Doesn’t Deny that she is Not a Courtesan!” Of course, said a tiny voice in Henry’s head, in John and Paul’s case, maybe the rumors were true? After all, they lived in the same house, or at least they seemed to do so, even though John had a perfectly lovely house on the other side of the mews. Henry had never asked about it outright, and had been reluctant in his first weeks on the job to inquire too closely of staff that had worked with the two men longer. Their loyalties would obviously lie with John and Paul, and no doubt they would tell them that the new press agent was asking nosy questions. So, Henry publicly assumed that the rumors were deniable. Privately, he had serious doubts that the rumors were untrue. Right now, however, he was more worried that his new clients were blaming him for the hubbub that had bubbled up after Variety and The Advocate had published stories about John and Paul’s refusal to answer direct questions about whether their relationship was sexual. The tabloids in America and in England had grabbed ahold of the more nuanced Variety and Advocate articles and had come up with some very provocative headlines. Their stories, however, remained devoid of any real facts.
It wasn’t all bad news from a press agent’s point of view: both of the serious magazine articles also mentioned the new album and it’s success, and the new tour and it’s success, and as the saying goes - there is no such thing as bad publicity. Within minutes of each tour concert being announced, the tickets would sell out. But still, Henry was smarting from the displeasure his clients had shown when he failed to eliminate The Advocate from the press pool vote. Paul had not mentioned it again, but Henry had noted a bit of side-eye from John on a number of occasions; a certain malicious resentment and distrust seemed to simmer in his eyes on such occasions.
Henry had talked to others who had worked closely with Lennon and McCartney before coming to work for them. He had wanted the job, and campaigned for it, but he had been made fully aware of the downside of working for the world’s most famous and successful musicians. Previous press agents and other former employees had pointed out that the two of them were absolutely indivisible - a two-headed monster - and even if they disagreed between themselves, if anyone else tried to take a side they’d both turn on the outsider and ruthlessly put him down. Then they’d go back to their own disagreement again, as if the interruption had not occurred. He had also heard that Lennon was ‘iffy.’ This had turned out to be absolutely true. John could be warm and friendly the one day, and cold and hostile the next. He was an untrusting person who sometimes behaved as though he did trust, only to show in the next moment how little he actually did. McCartney, although far less moody and unpredictable, was in some ways even scarier. There was nothing a press agent could know that McCartney didn’t already know. He had lived in front of the press for 38 years, and he knew all the tricks, pitfalls, and manipulations reporters came equipped with, and saw their machinations coming a mile away. Henry was also now wondering why he didn’t ask these former employees about the nature of his new bosses-to-be relationship. But honestly, it hadn’t occurred to him at the time that the rumors could even remotely be true. Now, of course, his inner voice was telling him he had a public relations time bomb on his hands, and he hadn’t thought to ask any of his predecessors about it. This was a huge ‘elephant in the room,’ to quote the fucking reporter who had started all this controversy.
Henry’s ruminations had suddenly come to a halt when the phone rang. It was a contact from the New York Times.
“What can you tell me about the Lennon/McCartney relationship?” He asked bluntly. He was a real reporter and didn’t mess around.
“You know I don’t answer questions about their personal lives, and neither do they,” Henry said, his voice sounding almost weary. He’d received calls like these for days, several times a day. He had supplied the same answer every time.
“They didn’t deny the rumors, though. If they’re not true, why don’t they deny them?” The reporter persisted.
“Why should people have to deny things like that?” Henry asked back, more spirit in his voice. “Just because people make up rumors, doesn’t mean that the subjects of those rumors have to confirm or deny them.”
The reporter on the other end of the line sighed. “I feel stupid having to follow this kind of thing up,” he admitted. “But it’s my job. Apparently, according to my editor, being the first paper to break the news officially about them is the latest competition between the major news outlets.”
Henry noted that the reporter assumed that the rumors were true. He remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the reporter’s comment.
As the seconds ticked by, the reporter seemed to have accepted the fact that he was not going to get that story. Instead, he said a little wistfully, “What I really want to be is a war correspondent. This celebrity shit pisses me off.”
*****
Cavendish
Mid September 2000
Packing for the tour had been a chore John had put off for as long as feasibly possible. But today he had finally buckled down, and had started writing out a list for himself, and also one for Paul. Paul was hopeless about packing. Linda had always done that stuff for him except for the few times John had done it. Back in the early Beatle tour days, Paul had often shown up with several pairs of socks, but no underwear. Brian had ultimately given Paul a checklist to pack by, and after that at least Paul always had brought the essential minimum. Before leaving for the ’66 European and Asian tour, Brian had asked John privately to check Paul’s suitcases. By that point, although the subject was never mentioned directly, Brian knew about the John/Paul ménage, and neither John nor Paul attempted to fool him about it any longer. It was just the secret assumed truth that lay unspoken between the three of them. And, since Linda's death, John had just picked up fulltime where Linda had left off when it came to Paul’s suitcases.
Paul was at the office and had been for most of the day. John presumed it was for his bimonthly marathon meeting with the accountants to go over all the finances and sign all the checks. Afterwards, Paul was in the habit of bringing home a stack of checks for John to sign, and then would chase John all over the house to get them signed. John was thoroughly tired of it, not having the slightest interest in bills, checks, or anything else to do with finance. He had complained bitterly about it, asking Paul why he couldn’t do it himself? Paul had always said, with a long-suffering voice, “We’re not actually the same person, John. I’m Paul - a whole other person entirely.”
But despite John’s assumptions about Paul’s activities that day, in reality Paul was working on the project he’d envisioned some time ago as a way to reduce the amount of stress and paperwork he had to do. He was working on a plan to merge his finances with John’s. It was very complicated. His reasons for doing so had a lot to do with not wanting to stress over two large financial portfolios. All sorts of conflicts arose between the two. Paul had the much greater portfolio, because John had given up so much to win his freedom from Yoko. Although in the years since the divorce Paul and his business partner John Eastman had greatly increased the value of John’s portfolio, still, Paul’s portfolio could tolerate much more risk than John’s. So often Paul and John Eastman were put in an awkward and stressful position: here is a hot potential investment. It has a huge upside, but also a huge downside. Paul could feel free to invest his own money in such a scheme, because his portfolio could take the hit if it did not work out; but John’s portfolio? Not so much. So, if Paul put his own money into the investment and it hit the jackpot, someone (the proverbial ‘reasonable man’) could ask why he didn’t share that information and wealth with John? And, if Paul had put John’s money into the investment along with his own, and the investment bombed, someone could ask, why did he put John’s money into it when Paul had to know that John’s portfolio was less able to sustain a loss that size? These were the insurmountable conflicts of interest that Paul and John Eastman were faced with regularly, and try as they might, they could never get John to help them out. “Do what you think is best,” is all he would say, assuming John would entertain their urgent questions at all. John meant for this response to set their worries at rest. Instead, such responses only reinforced the feeling in both Paul and John Eastman - who were both hyper-responsible men - that John was relying on them entirely, and that they had to do ‘the right thing.’ But what was that? They both were totally aware of the fact that if they guessed wrong, it could all go to hell in a hand basket, and they both had scars left over from the last time John got pissed off at Paul over business matters!
Paul was done with all that, and had asked his financial advisors to come up with a plan to merge his finances with John’s, assuming this was something John would want to do. Of course, John would have been an idiot not to agree to it, because he had far more to gain monetarily than Paul under the proposed new structure; but what Paul wanted out of it was peace of mind, and that was far more valuable to him than a bit of money.
That night, Paul decided to broach the subject with John. The plans were at the stage when all the constituents had green-lighted it: the tax experts, the wills and estates experts, the lawyers, the escrow officers...there had been a legion of experts put to work on it. Now it was time for action: either put it into motion or drop the whole idea. So what Paul needed now was John’s yea or nay. He had selected the tail end of dinnertime as the ideal moment. So, as he nursed the last of his cabernet, he brought the subject up.
“John, I’ve got an idea about our finances...”
“That’s great,” John drawled, “keep those ideas coming. Ka-ching, ka-ching.”
“Very funny. I want to talk to you about it.” Paul had expected attempts to thwart the discussion, so he didn’t let John’s playful avoidance tactics derail him.
“Why? I never know what the fuck you’re talking about,” John said reasonably.
“We’ve been through this before - it’s only because you’re bored by the subject.” Paul hadn’t meant to go back to this hobbyhorse argument, but John had successfully prodded him there nonetheless.
“I’m ignorant about business, Paul, just face the ugly truth,” John declared comically.
“Willfully ignorant. You’re smart enough to understand, John.”
“If you say so,” John chirped pleasantly, and then gave Paul one of his clownish close-mouthed grins.
Paul sighed and started again. “Well this time I want to talk about a concept - big picture, not details. I think even you with your tiny brain can grasp the main points of the idea.” Paul had decided to fight fire with fire.
John chuckled, acknowledging the hit. “Okay, what’s this ‘big picture’ when it’s at home?”
“I think I’ve mentioned this to you before - I think we ought to merge our finances.”
“Sounds great. Is that all then?” John asked flippantly.
“You need to understand what I mean by that,” Paul persevered.
John fluttered his eyelashes and responded in a mincing voice, “When you talk dirty like that to me - merging...” John emphasized the words with a great fluttering of eyelashes and a flamboyant gay flourish, “...well, it makes me weak at the knees.”
In spite of his impatience, Paul had to laugh. He decided to ignore the provocation, and proceed as though he had not been so rudely interrupted. “It’s too stressful for me maintaining our finances separately. I thought if we combined them, it would be far less stressful.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” John asked, this time with an adult attitude.
“It’s a serious thing, John. It would mean that we would both own everything equally.”
“You mean we don’t already?” John asked, confused. He had always thought they earned everything 50/50.
“You have your money, and I have mine. How could you possibly not know that?” Paul was, in truth, a bit stupefied by the depth of John’s willful ignorance.
“I guess I knew that,” John said, looking confused, “but I didn’t see why that didn’t mean we owned everything 50/50.”
Paul sighed. “Actually, what you’re confusing, I think, is the fact that we own our partnerships as 50% each partners, which means our present incomes from these partnerships is equal.”
“Yeah...so?” John tended to get a bit snippy when he thought someone was patronizing him.
“But income is different than assets, John. Income is the money you earn, assets are what you invested your income in, and which then can accrue a greater value over time and throw off new income streams.”
“You lost me. I hate when you talk about this shit.” John was looking frustrated.
“When the Beatles broke up,” Paul began, after tamping down an urge to go for John’s throat, “I hired different money managers than you did.”
“Yeah, I remember that. It was in all the papers,” John sneered.
Paul ignored this. “You went with someone who was greedy for himself and also incompetent. I hired the Eastmans.”
“Here we go...” John grumbled.
“You asked the question, and I’m answering it,” Paul said firmly. “I managed my money better in the ‘70s than you did, because I had better money managers.”
“I don’t know why you’re rubbing my nose in this now,” John complained.
“Because I’m trying to explain and you’re being bloody minded about it - will you let me finish a whole thought before you cut me off?”
John noticed that Paul was beginning to get hot under the collar. He decided he should just shut up and let Paul shoot his wad. “Okay, so I was a jerk about the management, but you had the last laugh. We all know that story by heart.”
“My point wasn’t to have a last laugh, it was to explain why I have more assets than you. I invested my money more wisely, and had honest people handing my finances for me. Also, I made all that money in Wings, too.”
“Okay, yeah, and I was in the Dakota sitting on my ass.” John was starting to get pissed.
“John - please - listen. Yoko didn’t do badly for you when she took over the finances. She actually handled them very well and recouped most of your losses. But then she took the lion’s share of the assets with your divorce, remember?”
“She was a greedy pig...” John grumbled.
“You got the best asset, though - your song rights. Those were by far the best assets you had, and over the long run have increased your wealth substantially,” Paul pointed out.
“So, okay, and?”
“So, because of those historical factors, I have more money than you do, even though now we are making 50/50 from our partnerships,” Paul said, his patience frayed and at an end.
“So you have more money than me. Got it.” John looked pissed.
Where did I go wrong? Paul wondered. He hadn’t meant to go into this much detail. John would try the patience of a saint. He smiled to ease the tension. “I’m only saying I want us each to put our assets - excepting the trusts for our families and charities of course - in one basket, and then we can each own an equal amount of those assets.”
John was thoroughly confused, but he was also bored and wanted the conversation over. It was raking up all sorts of bad memories. And, more to the point, he totally trusted Paul to do the right thing by him. In truth, that was why John had never bothered to learn anything about finance and business. It was boring and required deep thinking, and he knew Paul would do a better job of that sort of thing than he would; he knew he could rely on Paul to handle everything well, so it wouldn’t matter if he understood it or not. “Paul, just do what you’re going to do. If it is easier for you, then by all means do it. I trust you not to screw me.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he made a comical face and said, “Let me rephrase that...”
Paul was already laughing. “I will go ahead then, but I want you to go alone to consult with an independent lawyer and financial advisor before we sign anything.”
John groaned. “Can’t I just go in and have my thumbs hammered for an hour instead?”
*****
A Few Days Later
Early September 2000
The tour was kicking off in Paris. The European tour encompassed 11 concerts in 9 cities, to be followed by a tour of the British Isles - 7 concerts in 6 cities. After this they were scheduled to perform a concert in Red Square - the first western performers to be invited to do so. These 19 concerts would take up the remainder of the year 2000, leaving the last half of December free for the holidays. January and February were going to be spent, for the most part, hiding away in Costa Rica. Australia was next, with 3 concerts in March, bleeding into South America again for a number of dates in Brazil, Peru and Argentina that would get them through April. A few Asian dates would follow in May, and then the month of June would be a rest time before starting the American leg of the tour in New York City in early July in Central Park. The American tour would cover all of July and August, and would conclude in the beginning of September 2001: a full year of touring, but with lots of time off in between. It wouldn’t be a Beatles-style Epstein-driven Death March, which was something even Paul wanted to avoid, who had repeated the death marches during his Wings career and never wanted to do that again.
Paris was, of course, John’s absolute favorite city, and it held a lot of intense memories for John - almost all of them having to do with Paul. When he was in Paris, he always felt nearer to the young John and Paul - when they first became lovers, however imperfectly and awkwardly. It was a memory that had a strong hold on him, and often he felt a grab in his throat when he was dwelling on those early memorized scenes of a finally realized physical connection with Paul. Over four years he had waited!
Paul also thought of Paris as his and John’s city. For that reason he had made sure never to make the city his and Linda’s. Thankfully, Linda was more of a country-lover, so she never knew Paul’s thoughts on the subject of Paris. For Paul, though, the romance of Paris had more to do with later memories - the secret few-day getaways to a certain pensione during the madness of the Beatle years. Fleeting memories of pot and sex, and sex and pot, and knowing that no one in the fucking world knew where he and John were.
For this trip, they decided to stay in the Hotel George V, just as they had done in early 1964 when they had learned that the Beatles had their first number one in America: I Want to Hold Your Hand. The suite was utterly luxurious of course, and it brought back memories of their first stay there.
“Do you remember those pink marble bathrooms with gold fixtures?” John asked. “I see they’ve changed that out.”
“I’d never seen anything like it,” Paul recalled. “It looked like one of those opulent Hollywood sets. And the little box in the wall that you could put your shoes in to get shined?”
“Yeah, and the man could come and unlock the box in the hallway to get them, and then put them back in. That was very surprising,” John agreed. “It seemed like the heights of class to me at the time. I felt unworthy of it.”
Paul laughed. “Yeah. I felt like the below-stairs scullery boy who had snuck into the master’s suite while he was away. At any moment someone might come in and yell at me to disappear.”
A pleasant silence followed this memory, and then another more stirring memory came unbidden to John. “And then there was when Brian came in to the room and there were two beds...”
“And only one slept in. Yeah.” Paul chuckled a bit at how much they had worried about it at the time.
“Do you think he noticed it?” John asked.
“He thought something fishy was going on, but he wasn’t sure what it was. But he no doubt later put two and two together and got...”
“...Lovers,” John finished.
“He was never quite sure, though,” Paul mused.
“We were cruel. We teased him with it,” John pointed out.
Paul chuckled. “He was perfect for us. We were sadists, and he was a masochist.” This earned a huge laugh from John.
“Well,” John said, shifting his attention back to the present, “this suite they gave us has two separate massive bedrooms. Which one do you want to try out tonight? The silver one or the gold one?”
“I’m feeling the gold,” Paul said judiciously, but with a twinkle in his eye. It was the kind of twinkle that always promised - to John Lennon at least - wishes were soon to become true. “But we’ll have to go in and mess up the other bed first, to throw off the maid staff in the morning,” he pointed out.
“That ought to be fun,” John commented. “No time like the present.” So, together they went to the silver bedroom, and put their creative minds together to put the bed’s linens in an appropriate state of disarray, as if a single man had spent the night in it. When pleased with the results, they decamped to the gold room, where Paul disappeared into the bathroom.
Alone in the bedroom, John stripped off his clothes, ensconced himself in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, and then poked through their suitcases to make some decisions about the next day’s clothing. He then went out on to the little ornate balcony off the bedroom, and stared across the darkened Paris skyline. Gorgeous. Unbeatable. Say what you will about the French (and there was plenty to say), they had created a culture of refinement, taste and discernment in architecture, clothing, food, drink and the arts. It was a culture jam-packed with the most elegant class the world had to offer. Too bad so many of the French were so full of themselves, and looked down on others. Still, John thought, the culture was worth bragging about. It wasn’t as if they were bigheaded over nothing. Lost in his musings, John didn’t hear Paul’s quiet approach.
“It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice was soft, low, and held a slight throb of emotion in it. He had wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and was leaning against him. John felt the never-dying thrill of being physically connected to Paul. It never went away, and it never lessened. It was like an intense electrical wave going through him.
John turned sideways to look into Paul’s eyes. He really didn’t have any words to say. Words were not important. John just turned to head back into the bedroom, and, clutching Paul’s wrist, pulled him gently behind him. Paul pushed the balcony door closed, and realized, as John pulled him towards the bed, that tonight he would be the follower, not the leader. This was fine with him.
Through silent body language, John indicated that Paul should lie down on the bed. Paul, reading this body language perfectly, did just that. He held his arms out to encourage John to join him there, and within seconds John had done so. John luxuriated in the feel of his naked legs touching Paul’s naked legs, and also his chest skimming Paul’s chest. He also loved it when Paul’s face melted into a soft and yielding mien. Although John loved forceful, strong, determined Paul, he also cherished the angel-faced boy who lived up to his face. And in this moment, John was gazing down on liquid brown eyes fringed with long eyelashes, and a full almost pouty mouth. It was a sight that caused a ripple of excitement in his belly. He coached himself not to crush this flower. Slowly, he leaned down to steal a kiss.
But Paul was no innocent blushing bride. The kiss soon deepened into something far more passionate and worldly. At moments like these both men felt they could even possibly devour each other and finally become one person, if they only plunged their tongues into each other’s mouths deeply enough. While their tongues warred, John was using his right knee to separate Paul’s legs. Paul felt the motion and it thrilled him. He clasped John’s right leg with both of his own, and John groaned and had to pull away from Paul’s mouth for long enough to still them both so he would not come too soon.
Paul was frustrated by the delay, even though he knew what it was about. There was a familiar jungle beat going on inside of his loins, and he was having a hard time controlling it.
John instinctively understood Paul’s problem, and began soothing movements to calm him down. He sprinkled light kisses all over Paul’s face, and whispered low, loving words in a sensual tone directly into Paul’s ear, and these tactics indeed caused the near-boil to return to a steady simmer. Now Paul was focusing on John’s light kisses, touches and low sexy words. It was privately fulfilling for Paul to allow himself to let go - to let someone else take the lead and call the shots. This was something he could not freely allow himself to do in another situation - not in business, not in the recording studio, not on the stage, and not in any of his other personal activities. Only in bed with John on those occasions when John took the lead, could Paul allow himself to be dominated in this way.
Paul’s hands began to do their magic. They were free, while John’s were occupied. He let those hands roam down John’s back, and all the way down to his bum, where Paul could grasp a cheek in each hand and squeeze. This did create a reaction in John: a rather immediate one. He bucked up, pushing his hands down into the mattress until he was hovering a bit over Paul, and he glared down into Paul’s face with an almost demonically sexual expression. This made Paul smile. He loved it when John got wicked. Now he was in for it! And didn’t he look forward to it!
So that’s how he wants it! The devil in John announced, although only John could hear it. Paul felt the challenge, however, and it thrilled him. John dug his knees down in the mattress, firmly between Paul’s two legs, and then roughly lifted Paul’s legs up in one strong movement. Once Paul’s legs were up, Paul bent them at the knees. He could feel John’s pubic hair rubbing up against his anus. This was exciting. John, meanwhile, had grabbed the lube from the bedside table and then held Paul’s wrist while he pushed out a healthy amount of the unction into Paul’s hand.
“Prepare me,” John growled at Paul, who obediently rubbed his hands together to spread the lube and warm it up, and then, as John muttered impatiently, he began to cover John’s cock in the jelly while overtly pumping to increase the erection. John moaned with pleasure, but then impatiently snatched Paul’s hand away when he was ready to fuck Paul up his ass. This was what he was thinking: I’m gonna fuck that man up his ass, and I am going to show him once again that he is my property. John’s territorial drives always came to the forefront just as he was plunging his penis into Paul’s rectum. He liked to imagine Paul, utterly vanquished, finally giving up his sovereignty to him while mewing like a kitten. John’s limbic brain was entirely satisfied by that image, and in those few moments of conquest John felt utterly in charge.
Paul felt the tip of John’s cock rubbing against him, and then John’s finger opening his passage. Paul groaned in a kind of mixture of pain and pleasure as this happened, and the pain and the pleasure intensified ever more with each push and stroke. When not in the throes of sex, but sometimes afterward, Paul thought it was odd that he kind find sexual satisfaction in pain, but he supposed women must have felt much the same way when he fucked them. But these were thoughts that would occur to him randomly when he hadn’t lost control of his libido. In this particular moment, his libido was in complete control.
John had found a warm, tight place, and he sensed that Paul had relaxed and was starting to enjoy the sensations, so he began the age-old rhythmic rut, and his toes curled and his eyes seemed to move up into his head as he abandoned himself to his urges. He could hear Paul’s huffs and moans along with his own - in fact, they were actually harmonizing even as they fucked - and this only assured John that his partner was enjoying being ridden, just as he was enjoying the ride. It was only a moment later when John felt the tension building to that magical place - that place where you teetered for a moment praying you’d fall over the age into the orgasm, rather than drop back the other side, to be frustrated. This time, as always happened for John when he was fucking Paul, he went straight over that edge and down into a throbbing, aching, pulsating, tingling orgasm, and somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Paul’s half-smothered cries. In that moment of perfect connection they might suspend themselves in that throbbing place for a few seconds before letting it all go.
John pulled out just in time to spend his jism into a waiting towel. Then he collapsed back down on to Paul’s chest, their individual sweat combining and becoming one as each of their racing hearts gradually stilled.
Paul had felt the orgasm coming and had just thrown himself into it. He always felt like he was falling into a vortex of sensation, and along with it came flashes of darkness and light in confusing patterns. It was freeing and frightening at the same time to lose oneself so thoroughly in the arms and heart of another human being.
Several moments went by before either of them spoke. John first had to find the energy to pull himself off Paul, and he finally flopped backwards on to his back and then heaved a giant sigh. The cool air immediately began to evaporate his sweat, but he missed the warmth and wetness of Paul’s skin. Without thinking, he reached his hand out to find Paul’s hand, and then he grasped it until both of their knuckles went white. Paul squeezed back. It was their way of saying it to each other without actually having to say anything quite so corny to each other in real time: you’re my everything.