Quinton was in love. He hated it. Him, the stud, all moony over a dusky skinned piano player with a fey look and an ethereal air.

He had first met Willie a year ago at a gregariously mixed party filled with every sexual and political persuasion from across town. Six months ago a 'date' took him to Kelly's and he saw Willie again. There he was at the piano, front man for this avant guard jazz trio. They played Kelly's during the week, the Blue Note on weekends.

At first Quinton was sure it was the music that got to him. That was partially true. He found himself dropping by Kelly's and the Blue Note more and more, with or without a 'date'. He searched out the only album the group had made, bought it, played it constantly. He found himself falling asleep listening, picturing Willie on the blue lit stage of the Blue Note. He knew for sure what had happened -- and couldn't believe it, fought it, when he started having other visions of Willie. Willie in his bed. Willie across the breakfast table, nude, smiling. The ideas aroused Quinton. He finally gave in and let fantasies fill his mind as his cock filled his hand. He masturbated. He dreamed of Willie and woke in the morning exhausted, as if he had been in a marathon sex session. Which, in a way, he had been.

Each time it happened Quinton swore it wouldn't happen again. He'd put the record away, plan to go out, not to Kelly's or the Blue Note. But somehow he'd find himself back watching Willie, going home alone, jacking off again.

When he started daydreaming about Willie he knew he had to do something. He found out where Willie lived, went to visit Willie at home, no plan, no preliminary contact at either of the clubs.