Title: Freak Out in Moonage Amsterdam (1/1) light NC-17 Orlando/Bowie/OMC’s

Author/Email: sandyg   writearts2@earthlink.net
Pairing: Orlando/Bowie/OMC’s

Rating: RPS light NC-17 

Summary: Orlando 1^st person POV stream of consciousness narrative. Orlando travels to Amsterdam for the first time, partakes of Colombian Rain Delight and celebrates his 18^th birthday in a most interesting manner.

Content/Warning: Pot smoking. Sexuality. Groping. Fun. Handsome older rock star and a young hottie find a common ground.

Disclaimer: None of it ever happened. Not one precious sweat splash, semen drop or smoke curl of this tale is true.

A/N: A playful homage to two of my three fave Capricorns... happily I live with the third one! For the CIB Characters in Bloom “Destination Paradise” challenge.

A/N v2: The Van Gogh museum has a lovely website http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/bisrd/top-1-2.html but if you can ever visit there in person do so... it’s amazing.

 

 

It was so totally cool to smoke pot in the open. OK, I knew I acted like a typical Brit tourist but I still thought sitting around sipping a brew and enjoying a little Colombian Rain Delight (or at least that’s what blonde dude who sold me the dope called it) a mega blast. Yea, funky Amsterdam proved just as much fun as everyone always told me so I felt glad I decided to travel here. I loved the museums and the totally different architecture. I hated to sound stupid but the place looked so fucking, well... Dutch... like every art history pic you’d ever seen. Plus the golden people acted extra friendly except when you acted like a stupid Brit, looked the wrong way then stepped off the curb in front of their speeding bikes. Then they dinged their bike bells to death and looked at you like you were totally daft. My mates and I decided being dinged was close to being given the finger but the Dutch were far too civilized for such physical nonsense. After two days here I reminded myself to look left, right, up and down before stepping off a curb. No more critical dinging!

Last night after too much ale my eternally rude mate Dave commented that the Dutch looked like tall, good-looking blonde giraffes. When he made that hilarious observation I almost spit my ale across the pub’s scarred table. Rude bastard!

Our last two nights here had provided great hilarity. My four mates and I arrived in Amsterdam late Thursday night. Once we checked into our cheap but clean hotel we club hopped until poor Walter puked in the street like all the other rowdy, trashed out of their minds Brit kids. We tried steering Walter to the handy canal but his gag reflex wasn’t listening. Fuck, the sick bastard almost spewed all over my new Doc Martins! Yuck!

After supporting Walter’s heaving body we knew it was time to head back to our hotel and pass out.

Yesterday Billy, Gordon and I visited the Van Gogh Museum. They became bored and moved along to shop but I stayed there for hours and stared in mute awe. I had never, ever seen the paintings where Van Gogh, only a year before he shot himself, depicted himself as Jesus and Lazarus. For some reason those portraits freaked me out. Afterward I wandered around the other museums but those profoundly personal images haunted me. His favorite color was yellow... just like me. Brr.

I never, ever wanted to go mad.

After my art encounter I met up with my pals and we enjoyed a surprisingly excellent yet inexpensive Thai meal. Then we performed a cliché act of stupidity; we cruised the legendary red light district along with other drunken tourists. When they saw five young lads staring in awe some ladies waved and winked. Some casually performed acts I knew me mum would frown upon. Others looked bored as I felt although I tried looking impressed. Crazy Walter wanted to sample the feminine wears but we drug him away from temptation. Of course we ended the evening by getting pissing drunk.

Today I had planned on seeing the Anne Frank Museum but I knew it would upset me so I stayed away. I just didn’t want emotional upset on my birthday and if that made me shallow so be it. Instead after taking it easy by haunting the massive weekend street sale I cruised solo tonight. None of my mates wanted to see Bowie with me. Assholes. Imagine leaving me alone on my birthday! Bloody bunch of whiny tossers. OK, sure, Bowie had recorded some crap but I loved him for the early stuff, ha, the stuff he put out before I even drew in my first healthy breath. Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars, yea, how I would have loved to been in that scene. Pretty boys all having fun, getting high and not caring who shagged who. Fantastic.

I also dug the albums Bowie created with Eno. To me they defined icy cold cool. Artistic triumphs all.

The first time I saw Bowie was at Earl’s Court with my older sister Sam. I was 13. What a riot; my fantastic Mum drove us into London, dropped us off and went to enjoy dinner with a friend. Bless her for trusting her children in the big, bad city. Sam and I had a blast even if I hated watching a show in a nasty impersonal barn. That’s why tonight for my birthday I couldn’t wait to see Bowie perform in a small old theater turned concert venue. I planned on squeezing up close and admiring the view.

Of course I couldn’t confess to my mates that I wanted to admire the view. Smiling I sucked in another long toke. I didn’t think they would quite understand the concept. All right, fey Billy would but he also played his sly preferences close to the vest. I thought he would come with me but he just hated Bowie’s music. Dedicated dance bitch. I swear that if Saint Madonna appeared holding a bag of shit he’d let her throw the mess on his head.

Whee, the mental image made me giggle. Man, this stuff was potent! After a little more pot frankly I wouldn’t care if Bowie performed with a marching band. Actually hell, that might be plenty fun. Ha!

I was close to blasted. Did they... excellent. They served bar snacks here. Time for a quick dinner.

 

OK, turn left here... there it was. Chatting fans, most dressed in fantasy gear, milled around outside of the old theater. I politely drifted among them, fetched my ticket from the will-call, (bless Mum again for letting me have a credit card) walked in and headed for the bathroom. OK, I was really going to do this act. I ducked into a stall and dug into my jacket pocket. My fingers fussed with a tube then my left hand held out the small pocket mirror. I’d never worn eyeliner before tonight, well, except for stage make-up and then someone else did the work. A Bowie concert on my 18^th birthday seemed like a cool place to test out the new look but I wasn’t performing the act in public. No fucking way.

OK, here goes. My shaky fingers tentatively applied a black stroke against my eyelid.

Shit. Now that wasn’t even close to straight. Grabbing toilet paper I tried blotting the black blob off but I smudged the gooey stuff worse. Well what the fuck, go for it. I smudged a blob on my other eyelid and blinked. Ha, I looked like a pretty Robert Smith. All I needed was smeary bright red lippy and I’d be set. Goth boy a go-go.

As it was I merely had a shimmery purple lip gloss with me. I slowly ran my fingers across my lips. Wow, in my wasted condition my strokes felt sooo fucking sexy. I added three thick coats because it felt killer to tease my sensitive lips. Wooo. Feeling rash I rubbed a little of the lip color under my cheekbones.

There. I held out the small mirror and grinned at the surprising view. Damn, I was actually... pretty. Very pretty. Quite fucking hot. The boy looked good enough to eat.

All right. Confidence crafted from pot, ale and celebration knocked over my last shy boy nerves. Time to greet the world. As I strutted out from the stall I fluffed my long curly hair around my face.  A few other guys glanced at me. A few did more then glance. A few actively smiled and not in mockery. Interesting. I must look as hot as I felt and I felt like a bad-assed super nova.

OK, time to weasel my way up front. Dodge, gently shove, push, duck. I kept flashing my big stoned smile and murmured “Pardon” to anyone who glared at me. Luck smiled back on me and guided me to the stage’s edge just to the microphone’s left. Cool, a six-inch space beckoned to me. Hell, I was skinny. Standing sideways I tucked in, desperately trying not to shove the two tall blonde Vikings defiantly holding down the center spot. The dude next to me owned fists that could probably crush walnuts and... erm, other offending boy nuts. Gulp.

Oh shit, guess my entrance wasn’t seamless. Big fists turned, stared down at me then a true smile washed over my face. Next a stream of Dutch confused me.

I smiled back and helplessly shrugged. “British?”

The tall blonde looker instantly switched to English. “Hello, Englander. I just said you look very pretty tonight for Bowie. I feel sure he’ll be happy to see you.” He ended with a sunny stoned laugh.

OK, let’s hear it for happy Vikings. I flashed him a dizzy smile. “Why that’s right decent of you. Thanks. I also feel sure he’ll appreciate seeing two lovely guys such as yourself standing before him.”

“You are a sweet young tease. What’s your name?” One long finger poked my chest.

“Orlando.”

“Orlando? Ahh, a name for the poets. I am Rutger and my friend is Brian.” Brian leaned over and fluttered his fingers at me. Rutger smiled again. His powerful fingers brushed against my shoulder. “You come all this way to worship Bowie?”

I nodded in reply. “It’s my birthday today so... I’m celebrating.”

“What a wonderful way to celebrate. Happy Birthday, fair Orlando.” Rutger leaned close and shocked the piss out of me by kissing my lips. Yea, he smelled like an exotic herbal blend. Once he finished kissing me he turned to laugh with his friend or, duh, probably his boyfriend.

I suppressed my excited laughter. All right! Ha, if I played my cards right I might enjoy a little post concert action snuggled between two older Dutch beauties. How wild! These dudes looked like they could teach a naive boy a few succulent tricks. I had no problems with that concept. They were tall, toned and tawny so I really savored the idea of going Dutch tonight. Yea, it was my birthday and I wanted to savor new experiences.

After I shrugged off my winter jacket I playfully undid the first three buttons on my white cotton shirt and loosened my black tie. Bowie’s previous album was entitled “Black Tie, White Noise” so I wanted to look the part. Moreso I wanted Bowie to see me looking the part.

A joint sudden appeared before my eyes courtesy of Rutger’s large fingers. “Thanks!” I sucked in and passed it back. Shit, I certainly hoped I could remember where my hotel was... well, if the night went right then I’d have no worries there, eh? Muscular Rutger could carry me anywhere he wanted and tonight I’d let him do just that to me, ha, along with other interesting acts.

Pre-concert music bounced against the smoky air. My lean body swayed and loosened. Suddenly the Sonic Youth tune, couldn’t remember the name, ended in a jarring crash. Cool. Here we go!

The audience’s attention raptly fixed on the waist-high stage. A lone spotlight shone on the mike stand as band members slowly ghosted from the wings. Wait... what the fuck! Did I see Eno back there? Or was the pot fooling me? Eno? Ha, next I’d hallucinate Mick Ronson onstage, yes, he who had given Bowie a mock blow-job on TV waayyy back in like ’74. I remember seeing the pictures and drooling. Too bad he wasn’t around anymore.

A monumental roar from the audience drew my tattered attention to the main man. Bowie had suddenly appeared, poof, there he was. Wow. I cheered my lungs raw.

The generous welcome made Bowie smile. He looked as suave and gracious as ever; man, when I hit 48 I prayed I looked so sexy. Maybe I would; perhaps it was a Capricorn trait. I knew Bowie celebrated his birthday just five days ago. Hard to believe that he had 30 extra years on me. The dude must have a Dorian Gray portrait stashed away somewhere!

Bowie’s tight, slim lined black raw silk suit defined cool. Killer. After basking in the cheers and applause he raised his graceful hands like a benevolent Messiah. The audience obediently quieted down. “Thanks, dear friends. I hope none of you are too upset but... tonight we’re going to run through my new album “Outside.” I coerced one of my old friends into helping me out.” Eno bowed and playfully waved from behind his keyboards.

The answering roar nearly ruptured my eardrums. Bowie laughed and shook his head. “I guess that means you approve then. Wonderful. And along the way I might throw in a few tunes long neglected or mistakenly retired.”

Shit, did I really just cheer that loud?

Bowie’s curious gaze instantly whipped down to me. One thin finger aimed at my skull then he laughed again. “How sweet; I think my young admirer in the front approves.” Turning he gestured to the band and they roared into “Rebel, Rebel.”

Suddenly hands patted my back like I had won a fucking award. Bowie had spoken to me. I felt like the chosen one. Feeling free I impulsively unbuttoned my white shirt and yanked the tails from my snug black trousers. Yes!

My blonde bud Rutger hugged me close and copped a sexy feel of my ass. Oh this concert was going to be a blast. I happily swayed against him. We exchanged knowing smiles. No language barrier there, eh?

Whew, I had never danced so hard in all my life. Luckily I had perfected the technique of dancing while watching the action. I wasn’t missing any of this wild show. When Bowie played his new stuff the audience lapped it right up and never ceased moving. The notes felt inventive, intense and somehow fresh and cutting-edge. Weird lyrics though... dark and strange detailing art murder. Creepy yet enthralling. I liked, oh I liked.

The music slowed then various strains slithered into the “Heroes” intro. Fuck, I loved this song! Bowie had released it in 1977, the year I was born. Perfect!

As I rolled my head on my neck I reverently mouthed the lyrics.

Bowie sang, swayed and seduced us all. He slowly prowled along the stage’s edge. Twisting sharply he pointed down at me again and sang to me. “Cause we’re lovers... and that is a fact...yes we’re lovers... and that is that.”

Huh? I stopped dancing and locked stares with his intense gaze. He winked, danced back and soared into the next lyrics.

Wow.

My cock leapt in excitement. Fuck me. Bowie... had... just, what, praised me? Told me he wanted me? As he sang Bowie kept playfully glancing at me. My fuzzy brain just whirled in shock. My fingers automatically accepted the new joint passed to me.

As I stared in dazzled glee the Man Who Sold the World belted out the final chorus. Bowie let the determined band build up to a new high. Suddenly he darted to me, ducked down and plucked the joint from my stunned fingers. His lips took practiced hit. Long fingers passed the herbal wrap back to me. We touched.

My lips happily sucked in Bowie essence. Seeing my bigger than earth smile Bowie leaned further down. The handsome man’s unique eyes hovered inches from mine. His low voice darted into my ear. “How old are you?”

My lips somehow stuttered out the truthful number. “It’s my 18^th birthday today.” Fuck, why didn’t I lie? Wait, hold on, I’m 22!

Too late. A rueful smile answered me. “Delicious. So young. Too young. Stay beautiful, my darling one. You are a glittering young star.” Elegant fingers ruffled through my long hair.

I stood there staring like a perfect young idiot. Once again hands ran across me. Someone hugged me from behind.

As “Heroes” wound down I felt like God had backhanded me into the heavens. I felt floaty and light. I danced, toked and welcomed the many hands claiming me. I had become more than a mere audience member. The man touched me. I became a celestial cherub. Beautiful but too young. Oh well.

Rutger threw his Dutch reserve to the North wind, reached down and casually unzipped my tight trousers. He obviously had decided that I wasn’t too young. His massive fingers coaxed my already excited cock from my briefs. As I swayed in glory he massaged, fondled and squeezed me into juicy nirvana. I kept moving even as I shot my pearly stream toward the stage. Interesting. Everything made clear transcendental sense.

Bowie had called me beautiful. Wow.

After two dynamic encores before Bowie walked to my side of the stage. I thought he was exiting so I merrily clapped my hands over my head and shook my hair. To my amazement Bowie lunged down and pressed his thin lips to mine. When he freed my stunned lips words brushed my ear. “Farewell, oh divine young beauty. If only we had met before... but alas, I am happily married now.”

The moment turned to me. I grabbed it. I leaned up, held his sweating head close to my own wet face and offered the legend a reverent open-mouthed kiss. He accepted my offering. The heady moment froze, extended and melted into fragrant memory. Bowie’s darting tongue savored mine then he vanished.

Kissed by the Thin White Duke.

Happy 18^th, Orlando!

A laughing Rutger pulled me close and licked Bowie’s taste from my lips. I leaned into his embrace and decided I needed... sex, lust... yea, intense physical celebration. Now.

The next morning I crawled out from between Rutger and Brian’s powerful relaxed bodies and held my aching head. Shit. Definite pot hangover... all the joys of a splitting headache without an upset stomach. When would I ever learn?

But hell, David Bowie had kissed me on my 18^th birthday. Granted Rutger and Brian had kissed plenty more of my naked anatomy but they weren’t Bowie. Damned cute though and extremely sweet; they respected my wishes not to go too far with me. I just wasn’t ready for certain aspects yet. But nice to know that if I visited Amsterdam again I had a place to crash and brawny cuties to cuddle.

What a smashing birthday! Trouble was who I could tell... Sam? No. Not my friends either; I called and left a message at the hotel saying I was fine and spending the night with someone I met. When my mates teased me, which I knew they’d do, I’d just smile and keep me mouth shut. I certainly wasn’t revealing any gender facts.

This entire special event was for me alone. A boy needed his secrets, right?

Absolutely.