Sonny Boy Quotes

Here's to the kids. The kids who would rather spend their night with a bottle of coke & Patrick or Sonny playing on their headphones than go to some vomit-stained high school party. Here's to the kids whose 11:11 wish was wasted on one person who will never be there for them. Here's to the kids whose idea of a good night is sitting on the hood of a car, watching the stars. Here's to the kids who never were too good at life, but still were wicked cool. Here's to the kids who listened to Fall Out boy and Hawthorne Heights before they were on MTV...and blame MTV for ruining their life. Here's to the kids who care more about the music than the haircuts. Here's to the kids who have crushes on a stupid lush. Here's to the kids who hum "A Little Less 16 Candles, A Little More Touch Me" when they're stuck home, dateless, on a Saturday night. Here's to the kids who have ever had a broken heart from someone who didn't even know they existed. Here's to the kids who have read The Perks of Being a Wallflower & didn't feel so alone after doing so. Here's to the kids who spend their days in photobooths with their best friend(s). Here's to the kids who are straight up smartasses & just don't care. Here's to the kids who speak their mind. Here's to the kids who consider screamo their lullaby for going to sleep. Here's to the kids who second guess themselves on everything they do. Here's to the kids who will never have 100 percent confidence in anything they do, and to the kids who are okay with that. Here's to the kids. This one's not for the kids, who always get what they want, But for the ones who never had it at all. It's not for the ones who never got caught, But for the ones who always try and fall. This one's for the kids who didnt make it, We were the kids who never made it. The Overcast girls and the Underdog Boys. Not for the kids who had all their joys. This one's for the kids who never faked it. We're the kids who didn't make it. They say "Breaking hearts is what we do best," And, "We'll make your heart be ripped of your chest" The only heart that I broke was mine, When I got My Hopes up too too high. We were the kids who didnt make it. We are the kids who never made it.

Not much comes easy in this world, Sonny. If it does, it's best to be suspicious of it. It's probably not worth much.

I wasn't afraid of you!' Ryan protested. 'I was half intimidated, half infatuated, and I didn't know how to act because of it.' Sin made a face at Ryan and picked up his chips again. 'How could you be infatuated with me when you didn't even know me?' Ryan scoffed and pointed his cheese-covered fork at Sin. 'You're gorgeous and tragic—gay boys like that kind of thing.

You're getting to be a big boy,' I said desperately, 'it's time you started thinking about your future.' 'I'm thinking about my future,' said Sonny, grimly. 'I think about it all the time.

The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called "boy" by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

These boys, now, were living as we'd been living then, they were growing up with a rush and their heads bumped abruptly against the low ceiling of their actual possibilities. They were filled with rage. All they really knew were two darknesses, the darkness of their lives, which were now closing in on them, and the darkness of the movies, which had blinded them to that other darkness, and in which they now, vindictively, dreamed, at once more together than they were at any other time, and more alone.

The boys crept to her side at early dark to sit around her, mournful, with their heads bowed down like they wished they knew how to pray the oldest prayers and pray her well. Harold held a cool cloth to her swollen eye. Sonny made fists and said, 'What was the fight about?' 'Me bein' me I guess.' 'How many was it?"' 'A few.' 'Tell us the names. For when we grow up.

He and his boys up there were keeping it new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness, and death, in order to find new ways to make us listen. For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness.

Denton struck Charley as the kind of man who never wasted energy on extra movement or idle chitchat. He was foursquare Sonny Boy Williamson and Sister Rosetta Tharpe, a Silvertone guitar, older than old school.

Then he gave me the best advice of my life. “Listen, sonny boy. An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold on to one blade of grass and not fall off the face of the earth.” SPRING BREAK Heaven’s Waiting Room

Then it was horn time. Time for the big solo. Sonny lifted the trumpet - One! Two! - He got it into sight - Three! We all stopped dead. I mean we stopped. That wasn't Sonny's horn. This one was dented-in and beat-up and the tip-end was nicked. It didn't shine, not a bit. Lux leaned over-you could have fit a coffee cup into his mouth. "Jesus God," he said. "Am I seeing right?" I looked close and said: "Man, I hope not." But why kid? We'd seen that trumpet a million times. It was Spoof's. Rose-Ann was trembling. Just like me, she remembered how we'd buried the horn with Spoof. And she remembered how quiet it had been in Sonny's room last night... I started to think real hophead thoughts, like - where did Sonny get hold of a shovel that late? and how could he expect a horn to play that's been under the ground for two years? and - That blast got into our ears like long knives. Spoof's own trademark! Sonny looked caught, like he didn't know what to do at first, like he was hypnotized, scared, almighty scared. But as the sound came out, rolling out, sharp and clean and clear - new-trumpet sound - his expression changed. His eyes changed: they danced a little and opened wide. Then he closed them, and blew that horn. Lord God of the Fishes, how he blew it! How he loved it and caressed it and pushed it up, higher and higher and higher. High C? Bottom of the barrel. He took off, and he walked all over the rules and stamped them flat. The melody got lost, first off. Everything got lost, then, while that horn flew. It wasn't only jazz; it was the heart of jazz, and the insides, pulled out with the roots and held up for everybody to see; it was blues that told the story of all the lonely cats and all the ugly whores who ever lived, blues that spoke up for the loser lamping sunshine out of iron-gray bars and every hop head hooked and gone, for the bindlestiffs and the city slicers, for the country boys in Georgia shacks and the High Yellow hipsters in Chicago slums and the bootblacks on the corners and the fruits in New Orleans, a blues that spoke for all the lonely, sad and anxious downers who could never speak themselves... And then, when it had said all this, it stopped and there was a quiet so quiet that Sonny could have shouted: 'It's okay, Spoof. It's all right now. You get it said, all of it - I'll help you. God, Spoof, you showed me how, you planned it - I'll do my best!' And he laid back his head and fastened the horn and pulled in air and blew some more. Not sad, now, not blues - but not anything else you could call by a name. Except... jazz. It was Jazz. Hate blew out of that horn, then. Hate and fury and mad and fight, like screams and snarls, like little razors shooting at you, millions of them, cutting, cutting deep... And Sonny only stopping to wipe his lip and whisper in the silent room full of people: 'You're saying it, Spoof! You are!' God Almighty Himself must have heard that trumpet, then; slapping and hitting and hurting with notes that don't exist and never existed. Man! Life took a real beating! Life got groined and sliced and belly-punched and the horn, it didn't stop until everything had all spilled out, every bit of the hate and mad that's built up in a man's heart. ("Black Country")

Danny-Boy, I want to tell him, unlike you flawless teenagers, we adults can be contradictory fools. We fuck up. Sorry to fall off the Pedestal of Perfection, Sonny-Jim, but all we trying a-do is stop you from fucking up too.

I hadn't told him the news yet, but in that same preternatural way he was always aware of what I was feeling or thinking, he could smell my lies a mile away. He was just giving me time to come to him. To tell him I'd be baking his bun for the next seven and a half months. ''I'm okay." Dex's chuckle filled my ears as he wrapped his arms around my chest from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. "Just okay?" He was taunting me, I knew it. This man never did anything without a reason. And this reason had him resembling a mama bear. A really aggressive, possessive mama bear. Which said something because Dex was normally that way. I couldn't even sit around Mayhem without him or Sonny within ten feet. I leaned my head back against his chest and laughed. "Yeah, just okay." He made a humming noise deep in his throat. "Ritz," he drawled in that low voice that reached the darkest parts of my organs. "You're killin' me, honey." Oh boy. Did I want to officially break the news on the side of the road with chunks of puke possibly still on my face? Nah. So I went with the truth. "I have it all planned out in my head. I already ordered the cutest little toy motorcycle to tell you, so don't ruin it." A loud laugh burst out of his chest, so strong it rocked my body alongside his. I friggin' loved this guy. Every single time he laughed, I swear it multiplied. At this rate, I loved him more than my own life cubed, and then cubed again. "All right," he murmured between these low chuckles once he'd calmed down a bit. His fingers trailed over the skin of the back of my hand until he stopped at my ring finger and squeezed the slender bone. "I can be patient." That earned him a laugh from me. Patience? Dex? Even after more than three years, that would still never be a term I'd use to describe him. And it probably never would. He'd started to lose his shit during our layover when Trip had called for instructions on how to set the alarm at the new bar. "Dex, Ris, and Baby Locke, you done?" Sonny yelled, peeping out from over the top of the car door. "Are you friggin' kidding me?" I yelled back. Did everyone know? That slow, seductive smile crawled over his features. Brilliant and more affectionate than it was possible for me to handle, it sucked the breath out of me. When he palmed my cheeks and kissed each of my cheeks and nose and forehead, slowly like he was savoring the pecks and the contact, I ate it all up. Like always, and just like I always would. And he answered the way I knew he would every single time I asked him from them on, the way that told me he would never let me down. That he was an immovable object. That he'd always be there for me to battle the demons we could see and the invisible ones we couldn't. "Fuckin' love you, Iris," he breathed against my ear, an arm slinking around my lower back to press us together. "More than anything.

Someone behind me coughed. Then Max stepped forward and said: "Um . . . sir? If I may ask . . . what is your . . . Combat score? Sir." Razberry snickered again. "Seven," the elder said proudly. "Yes, sonny boy, I've smashed a few zombies in my time. I once beat a zombie upon the head with a stick. Rest assured, I'll teach you all you need to know!" "I'm sure," Max said. "Did that zombie die?" asked a girl. "Well, no," said Urf. "But it became very, very angry." Someone groaned. There were a few more snickers.

For Dylan, this electric assault threatened to suck the air out of everything else, only there was too much radio oxygen to suck. “Like a Rolling Stone” was the giant, all-consuming anthem of the new “generation gap” disguised as a dandy’s riddle, a dealer’s come-on. As a two-sided single, it dwarfed all comers, disarmed and rejuvenated listeners at each hearing, and created vast new imaginative spaces for groups to explore both sonically and conceptually. It came out just after Dylan’s final acoustic tour of Britain, where his lyrical profusion made him a bard, whose tabloid accolade took the form of political epithet: “anarchist.” As caught on film by D. A. Pennebaker’s documentary Don’t Look Back, the young folkie had already graduated to rock star in everything but instrumentation. “Satisfaction” held Dylan back at number two during its four-week July hold on Billboard’s summit, giving way to Herman’s Hermits’ “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” and Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” come August, novelty capstones to Dylan’s unending riddle. (In Britain, Dylan stalled at number four.) The ratio of classics to typical pop schlock, like Freddie and the Dreamers’ “I’m Telling You Now” or Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual,” suddenly got inverted. For cosmic perspective, yesterday’s fireball, Elvis Presley, sang “Do the Clam.” Most critics have noted the Dylan influence on Lennon’s narratives. Less space gets devoted to Lennon’s effect on Dylan, which was overt: think of how Dylan rewires Chuck Berry (“Subterranean Homesick Blues”) or revels in inanity (“Rainy Day Women #12 & 35”). Even more telling, Lennon’s keening vocal harmonies in “Nowhere Man,” “And Your Bird Can Sing,” and “Dr. Robert” owed as much to the Byrds and the Beach Boys, high-production turf Dylan simply abjured. Lennon also had more stylistic stretch, both in his Beatle context and within his own sensibility, as in the pagan balalaikas in “Girl” or the deliberate amplifier feedback tripping “I Feel Fine.” Where Dylan skewed R&B to suit his psychological bent, Lennon pursued radical feats of integration wearing a hipster’s arty façade, the moptop teaching the quiet con. Building up toward Rubber Soul throughout 1965, Beatle gravity exerted subtle yet inexorable force in all directions.

The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn’t segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn’t work the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called “boy” by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

Of course Sasha chose that moment to open the door. "Cam? Oh. Shit. Sorry." Cam met Sasha's liquid gaze and forgot all about his friends at his knees. "Hey." "Hey, yourself." Sasha ventured farther into the room. "Is this a private party, or can anyone play?" "Depends," Sonny quipped from the floor. "Do you have lopsided balls? We're doing an in-depth analysis here.

Sonny was a spiky ray of light to those lucky enough to be close to him, but life had taught him to play his cards close to his chest.

Wow. I didn't think I'd ever see you like that." Cam trembled; he couldn't help it. He felt like his body was not his own. "Like what?" "So..." Sasha seemed to search for the right word. "Involved, maybe? On-screen, you all seem kinda cold. I guess I figured you'd done it all before." Cam took a moment to gather himself. A phrase came to him, and he allowed himself a wry grin. "It's not the same. That's work, even if it's one of my friends. This is real sex.

I was still in my twenties. And here’s what I thought would be the worst: that no one else would every know me young. I would always be this age or older, from now on, to any man I met. No one would ever sit back and remember how young and frail I was at his bedside, at eighteen, reading to him in that dark room with the piano playing downstairs, and again at twenty-one, how I held the flap of my coat against the wind and held my tongue when a handsome man called me by the wrong name. What I would miss- and it occurred to me only then, with his brown eyes on me - was the unchangeable, the irreplaceable. I would never meet another man who’d met my mother, who knew her untamable hair, her sharp Kentucky accent, cracked with fury. She was dead now, and no man could ever know her again. That would be missing. I’d never know anyone, anywhere, who’d watched me weeping with rage and lack of sleep in those first few months after Sonny was born, or seen his first steps, or listened to him tell his non-sense stories. He was a boy now. No one could ever know him again as a baby. That would be missing, too. I wouldn’t just be alone in the present; I would be alone in my past as well, in my memories. Because they were a part of him, of Holland, of my husband. And in an hour that part of me would be cut off like a tail. From that night on, I would be like a traveler from a distant country that no one had ever been to, nor ever heard of, an immigrant from that vanished land: my youth. - The Story of a Marriage

Still writing tales?” he said. I told him yes and he nodded once, returning his attention to the snake. Very few of the boys I grew up with had finished high school, but they accepted that I was a writer. I was merely doing what other men did—following in my father’s footsteps. Sonny was a plumber. The son of a local drunk was the town drunk in two towns. Sons of soldiers joined the army. That I had become a writer was perfectly normal.

For Sonny, the problem with America wasn't segregation but the fact that you could not, in fact, segregate. Sonny had been trying to get away from white people for as long as he could remember, but, big as this country was, there was nowhere to go. Not even Harlem, where white folks owned just about everything an eye could see or a hand could touch. What Sonny wanted was Africa. Marcus Garvey had been onto something. Liberia and Sierra Leone, those two efforts had been a good thing, in theory at least. The problem was that in practice things didn't work out the way they did in theory. The practice of segregation still meant that Sonny had to see white people sitting at the front of every bus he took, that he got called 'boy' by every other snot-nosed white kid in sight. The practice of segregation meant that he had to feel his separateness as inequality, and that was what he could not take.

«Non volevo portare quella parte di me qui in studio,» affermò Sonny. «Negli ultimi tre anni sono stato attivo solo con un ragazzo e lui è tutto per me. È personale, sai? Devi tenere qualcosa per te stesso altrimenti non hai niente per cui tornare a casa.»

«Pratica? Vuoi che ti scopi prima di filmare la scena?» Matthew scrollò le spalle. «Forse. Male non farebbe, vero? Sonny mi ha raccontato che non gira mai una scena con qualcuno che non ha mai visto da vicino e nudo prima delle riprese.» Kai non faceva fatica a crederci. Sonny era disponibile a qualsiasi cosa, ma sempre, sempre, alle sue condizioni. Nessuno diceva a Sonny cosa fare. Kai prese il suo drink e studiò Matthew al di sopra del bordo del bicchiere. Erano seduti sul piccolo divano e si sfioravano. Kai riusciva a percepire il calore del suo corpo ed era allettante… invitante, ma chissà perché l’idea di saltargli addosso e scoparlo sul tavolino da caffè non gli sembrava opportuna. Così tanto giusta. O forse non abbastanza giusta. Kai non voleva infilarsi dentro Matthew e passare alla scena successiva. Voleva fare qualcosa… di più. «Forse dovremmo prenderla con calma.» Matthew fece un sorrisetto. «“Con calma”, tipo, uscire insieme?» «Uscire insieme?» Kai roteò gli occhi. «Mi riferisco al sesso, cazzone. Andare dritto al sodo potrebbe non essere positivo. Non l’ho mai fatto prima.» «Okay.» Matthew sembrò rifletterci sopra. «Allora, forse, “con calma” dovrebbe essere come uscire insieme. Tipo, baciarsi, fare petting e tutto il resto. Immagino che non abbia senso provare a scopare se non riusciamo a fare bene la prima parte.»

«Posso chiederti una cosa?» Kai, che stava cercando di infilarsi i jeans, alzò lo sguardo. La pelle umida di sudore rendeva il compito più complicato rispetto a quando ne era sgusciato fuori in preda alla lussuria. «Certo.» «Compreso Jon, sono stato solo con quattro persone.» Kai si strinse nelle spalle. «Quindi?» Matthew si morse il labbro inferiore. «Quindi niente. Ho solo pensato che potresti chiederti perché faccio schifo a stare calmo e a mantenere il controllo. Pensi che si vedrà sullo schermo?» Kai si abbottonò i jeans con cura eccessiva. Lui e Matthew avevano quasi la stessa età, ma all’improvviso si sentì più vecchio… molto più vecchio. Da quando era diventato quello che conosceva tutte le risposte? «Gli spettatori del porno vedono ciò che vogliono vedere. Non dovresti preoccuparti di questo.» «Non pensi che sia un cretino?» «Cosa? No. Ho perso il conto dei ragazzi con cui sono stato. Pensi che sia una puttana?» «No.» Matthew si accigliò. «Perché dovrei pensarlo?» «Appunto.» Kai infilò la testa nella maglietta. «I numeri non significano nulla a meno che tu non glielo permetta.» La risposta che aveva rubato a Sonny sembrò rassicurare un po’ l’altro e il lieve bacio che ne seguì completò l’opera. Cavolo, questo ragazzo è troppo carino

«Quindi? Qual è la differenza? Sonny, Zeb, Cam… ti ho visto pomiciare con tutti loro. Perché per me è diverso? Si tratta di me? Sì, deve essere così. Tu puoi baciare i tuoi amici quanto ti pare, ma io sono solo una puttana, giusto? Un bel culo che puoi martellare durante una scena.» La scelta di parole dell’altro colpì nel segno. Le sue convinzioni crollarono e per Kai fu come ricevere un pugno nello stomaco. «Non sei un bel culo.» «Davvero? Allora non trattarmi come se lo fossi, cazzo, o come se fossi una puttana. Se pensi davvero che bacio chiunque come bacio te, allora non mi conosci affatto.» «Ma non sei nemmeno gay.» «Non ho mai detto di esserlo.» Lo stomaco di Kai si ribaltò. «Balli in un locale gay. Sei un pornoattore gay. Come fai a non essere gay, cazzo?» «Perché devo esserlo per forza?» Matthew lanciò le mani per aria. «Sai cosa? Non devo spiegare nulla. Sono stanco e tu sei uno stronzo. Vado a casa, Kai. Ti auguro una buona vita.» Matthew iniziò a voltargli le spalle. Kai gliene afferrò una. «Te ne stai andando? Sì, è davvero un comportamento molto maturo.» «Maturo? Mi stai prendendo in giro?» Matthew si scrollò dalla sua presa e lo spinse forte. «Ho baciato la mia migliore amica per salutarla. Sì, quando ero un ragazzino ho fatto lo stupido con lei, ma sono cresciuto. Forse è ora che lo faccia anche tu, idiota.»

«Lui viene con me.» Kai ruotò su se stesso. Levi si trovava a pochi metri di distanza, a lato della carreggiata c’era il suo pick-up, il motore girava al minimo. Con il rumore delle autopompe dall’altra parte della strada, nessuno lo aveva sentito accostare. Sonny inarcò un sopracciglio e fissò Levi con un atteggiamento di sfida che non sembrava del tutto amichevole. «Il mio cavaliere dall’armatura scintillante?» Levi gli porse la sua giacca. «Sali su quel dannato pick-up. Voglio portarti a casa.» Nemmeno Sonny poteva rifiutare quell’offerta. Salì sul veicolo, si mosse sul sedile anteriore e baciò la guancia del suo uomo. Levi lo guardò come se fosse l’unico ragazzo al mondo e insieme se ne andarono. Kai li guardò allontanarsi mentre avvertiva nel petto una sensazione dolceamara di calore. In qualsiasi modo fosse finita la serata, lui sarebbe andato a letto da solo e poteva biasimare soltanto se stesso

«Levi e io facciamo delle cose insieme che non facciamo con nessun altro. Che io non ho mai fatto con nessun altro. Forse dovresti farlo anche tu. Trova qualcuno con cui condividere qualcosa di speciale. Separa la tua vita sessuale reale dallo studio.» Cam aprì la cassa. Avrebbe mentito se avesse affermato di non essersi mai posto delle domande sulla vita sessuale di Sonny e Levi. Sonny era piuttosto dominante ed esigente per essere un bottom e Levi amava avere il controllo. Erano un mix interessante e lui ci aveva riflettuto sopra parecchio. Ma la scelta delle parole di Sonny lo distolse da qualunque pensiero vietato ai minori e non in senso positivo. L’amico parlava sempre di sesso vero come se ci fosse un altro mondo là fuori, lontano dal porno, un mondo che lui aveva dimenticato.

Di tanto in tanto, scartabellava i resoconti scarabocchiati per cercare di monitorare il suo stato d’animo di mese in mese, anno dopo anno, ma era passato del tempo e al momento era un po’ spaventato da quello che avrebbe potuto trovare. Era davvero diventato un tale maniaco che era felice solo se si scopava il mondo? Cavolo, sperava di no. Poteva anche essere un pornodivo, ma nella vita c’era altro oltre il sesso. Doveva esserci, perché, il Signore lo sapeva, lui non aveva niente. Almeno, niente che contasse. Ricordò in parte le parole di Sonny. “Sesso vero… quello durante il quale qualcuno ti guarda come se fossi tutto il suo mondo. Nel porno non ti capita, Cam.

«Dagli un bacio, Levi. Gli tirerà su il morale.» Cam aprì un occhio. «Levi non bacia.» Il sorriso di Sonny era compiaciuto. «Bacia me.» «Davvero?» Cam guardò Levi che sembrava divertito. «Non pensavi che baciare fosse da stupidi?» «Cosa posso dire?» Impassibile, Levi si strinse nelle spalle. «Sonny mi ha logorato.» Sonny sibilò tra i denti. «Non ci è voluto molto a persuaderti.» Cam assimilò lo sguardo ardente che Levi aveva lanciato a Sonny con emozioni contrastanti. L’evidente affetto tra i suoi amici gli scaldava il cuore ma, al di là di tutto, era geloso. Desiderava la stessa cosa per se stesso, non da loro, ma da Sasha. E, peggio ancora, sapeva che quel tipo di rapporto era stato a portata di mano prima che Jon Kellar e il suo impero del porno si mettessero in mezzo

«Non cercare risposte nel sesso. Lì non ne troverai più.» «Oppure, chiama almeno il tuo amico misterioso e invitalo,» scherzò Sonny, anche se la sua energia pazzesca sembrava essere svanita mentre Cam stava vomitando l’anima in bagno. Cam si sedette sul bracciolo del divano mentre guardava Levi che balzava su Sonny e lo inchiodava al letto con un braccio. Nel suo cuore sapeva che Levi aveva ragione e il messaggio di fondo lo colse di sorpresa. Aveva cercato conforto da Jon nel peggiore dei modi e dove l’aveva condotto tutto ciò? A reggere il moccolo ai suoi due migliori amici.

«Hai girato qualcosa, oggi?» «Sì.» Con uno scatto degno di un gatto, il ballerino balzò oltre lo schienale della poltrona ormai vuota di Jon e si lasciò scivolare sul cuscino. «Un merdoso filmetto di seghe con Jay e Nico. Diavolo, era così forzato, cazzo.» «Perché lo fai, allora?» sbottò lui. Irrazionalmente, sentiva il dovere di difendere la professione che aveva iniziato a detestare. «Pensavo fossi soltanto un ballerino.» «Soltanto un ballerino?» ritorse Sonny. «Io non mi limito a essere soltanto qualcosa, stronzo. E forse dovresti rispondere alla tua stessa domanda. Sei tu che ti tormenti per una scena di sesso passivo che, chiaramente, non vuoi girare. Forse dovresti preoccuparti più di te stesso che di me. Sembra che tu stia per ricevere un assaggio della tua stessa medicina.»

«Per la precisione, cos’è che pensi che io non sia in grado di affrontare?» L’altro scrollò le spalle. «Sei un top egoista. Per te un passivo non è altro che un bel pezzo di culo, un buco da sfondare per soldi. Ti sei mai fermato a pensare alla persona che strapazzi sul set?» Lui rispose con un verso di derisione, senza riuscire a trattenersi. «Siete voi twink a chiedere quella merda.» «Già, perché ci pagano per quello, è ciò che il pubblico vuole. Questo non significa che ci piaccia sempre. Lo hai mai chiesto? Ti è mai interessato?» «Cosa ti rende tanto informato su di me?» «Ho visto il modo in cui lavori. Gli altri twink potranno anche pensare che sei uno stallone, io però credo tu sia uno stronzo. Non ho paura di te. Farò il video, ma se credi che ti permetterò di maltrattarmi come hai fatto con Diego la scorsa settimana, ti sbagli.» Anche se Levi era sorpreso per l’astio che sentiva nella voce di Sonny, sapeva che quella critica non era del tutto infondata. Il ragazzino aveva ragione ad accusarlo di non fermarsi mai a pensare alla persona attaccata al culo che stava fottendo. Per Levi, quello era lo scopo del porno: non si trattava di niente di personale. Per lui era davvero soltanto un lavoro. «Già, bene. Non sforzarti troppo per colpa mia. Qui dentro è pieno di bottom che sarebbero felici di prendere il tuo posto.» «Vero,» replicò il ballerino. «Ma non me lo perderei per niente al mondo. Fidati, non importa quello che dice Jon, Rex ti si sbatterà a morte. E io mi godrò ogni strillo che uscirà da quella tua bocca arrogante.»

«Beh, potrà sembrarti buffo, ma sono stanco morto.» Sonny fece per uscire dall’auto. Si bloccò con la mano sulla portiera. «Se cambi idea, il mio appartamento è il numero ventiquattro.» «Idea su cosa?» L’altro scosse la testa. «Se vuoi liberarti di ciò che ti tormenta. Non devi stare per forza da solo. Non so perché cazzo mi interessi, ma è così. Mi trovi qui, se cambi idea.» Sgusciò fuori dal veicolo e si allontanò prima che lui potesse formulare una risposta.

So we made some big plans to be Sonny Boy’s band and sat down to some good barbecue in a place I’d been eating in all my life in the black part of town. We ordered sandwiches, coleslaw, and some sodas. While we waited, someone asked Sonny Boy whether he’d known Robert Johnson. “Knew him?” Sonny Boy asked incredulously. “Boy, Robert Johnson died in my arms!

We both look up as Katherine, Connor, and Dad enter the kitchen. Kiernan tries to be polite and stand, but I’m on the outside of the bench, and the table has him wedged in, so the most he can manage is a half crouch, which looks terribly uncomfortable. I grab the back of his shirt and tug him back down to the bench. “Dad, Connor, this is Kiernan. Katherine, you’ve already met.” “He’s changed quite a bit in the past thirteen years, however,” she says. “And I suspect that I’ve changed even more in the past five decades.” Kiernan returns her smile. “It’s good to see you again.” Dad steps forward and shakes Kiernan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” “My privilege, Mr. Keller.” “It’s Harry, please. You saved my daughter’s life, so I think we can dispense with the formalities.” I’ve rarely seen Kiernan blush, but he does now, and then he nods. “Harry, then. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Connor follows Dad’s lead and steps forward to take Kiernan’s hand. “I’m Connor Dunne. And you can call me Mr. Dunne.” There’s a slight twinkle in Connor’s eye, so I think he’s joking. But whether he meant it that way or not, Kiernan laughs. “The hell I will, sonny boy. You need to show your elders the proper respect, or I’ll take you behind the barn and give you a good strapping.” Connor snorts. “No barn, and I’d love to see you try.

Connor follows Dad’s lead and steps forward to take Kiernan’s hand. “I’m Connor Dunne. And you can call me Mr. Dunne.” There’s a slight twinkle in Connor’s eye, so I think he’s joking. But whether he meant it that way or not, Kiernan laughs. “The hell I will, sonny boy. You need to show your elders the proper respect, or I’ll take you behind the barn and give you a good strapping.” Connor snorts. “No barn, and I’d love to see you try.

Dat der ‘ouse ain’t me ‘ome, sonny boy. You’ll ne’r trap me in an ‘ouse. And anyways, what youngen doesn’t like knockin’ down sandcastles? It’s every boy’s dream t’ knock down a giant sandcastle. I ‘av a lot o’ fun buildin’ ‘em and knockin’ ‘em down. If I didn’t knock ‘em down, the tide ‘ll take ‘em. Nothin’ lasts ferever.” “Then where do you live?” asked Jack very much relieved. “Me, sonny boy, lives in a very quiet place where de silence is me windows,” answered the leprechaun.