***

So they had this contest in one of the American fan rags. You had to pick the one thing you loved best about Paul (cause it’s fucking always Paul, isn’t it?) and write about it, like one of those one-hundred-words-or-less thingies, and they were going to print the best letters and the winner gets, I don’t know what all, a signed copy of Meet the Beatles or a lifetime supply of pimple cream or maybe a blow-up Macca love doll, complete with realistic working vinyl bits. And, sure enough, they got a million fucking letters, and every one of them was all on about the big Paulie eyes or the lusherly Paulie eyelashes or the shiny flufferific Paulie hair (which is no different than the George or John or Ringo hair when you get right down to it, except it’s darker and there’s a prettier bloke standing under it.) A few of the more imaginative little birdies even picked his nose - that’s a funny, in case you didn’t get it - and that’s alright, too, I reckon, ‘cause it is quite a fab little nose, nice and straight, looks good from any angle, all that sort of thing.

But no one picked his mouth.

Shouldn’t really be surprised, actually. They’re all twelve-year-olds and virgins and have no idea what makes this man so bloody sexy, what puts him over that line between cute-as-a-button and dead fuckable. Because Paul’s mouth isn’t pretty or cute or sweet or awww. Paul’s mouth is sex. What it looks like. What it feels like. What it tastes like. What he can do with it.

Christ, what he can do with it.

So I wrote a letter of my own.

Dear Beatle People (wrote me). I pick Paul’s mouth as what I love best. I love the way it curves up at one corner when he’s thinking dirty thoughts. I love the way it pouts when I won’t touch him exactly where or when or how he wants me to. I love how it feels, all soft lips and greedy tongue. I love how it trembles under mine when he comes in the middle of a kiss. I love how innocent it makes him look, no matter what he’s doing, no matter what he’s saying, whether it’s And I love her or P.S. I love you or Oh, Jesus, John, yes, oh, right there, love, oh my fucking God —! But most of all, Beatle people, I think I love how perfect and full and rosy Paul’s mouth always looks. Especially when he has something in it. Like a ciggie, or a pencil, or my dick. Yeah. Especially my dick.

Anyroad, I just want to say I think Paul’s mouth is fab and gear and gorgeous and could drive a bloke half-mental with lust, and I love Paul and his mouth very, very, very, very, very, very, very much. And I hope you print my letter and I win, but I don’t need the Macca love-doll, as I have the real thing and his bits work just fine.

I even signed it.

They didn’t print it.

Huh. Fancy that.

***

And it does drive me half-mental, you know. No. Not even half. His mouth fucking turns me to jelly. His mouth is the reason I can be sitting next to him or singing with him or just bloody standing ten feet away and suddenly want him, a huge sudden WANTING so intense it makes me fucking weak in the knees. A WANTING that turns my matey big-brother affection into a desire to throw him down on the nearest flat surface and fuck him ‘til he can’t walk.

Does he know? What it does to me when we’re sitting in a press conference surrounded by hot lights and thick questions and he’s smoking a cigarette? Nibbling a knuckle? Sucking on a pen cap? Biting his bottom lip?

Surge of heat straight southward, that’s what it does, son. And I’m starting to think he knows it. Why else would he do it most when I can’t do anything about it?

Bloody tease.

***

So I get up this morning - ok, afternoon - and everybody’s gone. No Paul, no George, no Ringo, no Brian or George M. Not even a bloody bodyguard in sight. Last man standing, I am. Like that Twilight Zone. Curse the perils of lying in.

So I wander outside feeling rather lonely and left-out and slightly peeved and there’s Paul, flopped out in one of the lawn chairs. He’s wearing his bathers and some towelish robey-thing that looks like a big terrycloth monkey crawled up on his shoulders and died, and under that another layer of something fuzzy and stupid-looking, and he should look stupid as well, you know, all zonked out like that, getting too much sun - no matter how many times he gets burned, he never learns - with his stupid fuzzy animal thing half-buttoned down his chest and his belly-button peeking out the little V at the bottom and his legs spread a little, all hairy thighs and knobbly knees, and his fingers in his—

Oh. Oh, bloody hell.

And would you get a load of that face, now? Why, whatever could be giving you such a blissful look, dear Macca? Those fingers are no accident, I reckon. What are you really sucking on in that pretty, twisted little head of yours?

It bloody well better be me, mate.

Or maybe I’m sucking on him. Been known to happen, after all, and sometimes he bites his hand just like that while I’m doing it, to kill the sounds. They’re even sexier, the sounds, all muffled like that, long, beautiful fingers stuffed in that mouth, mimicking what I’m doing down below…

Christ, it’s hot out here.

Christ, I’m hard for him.

Christ, why’s he fucking always doing this to me, making me want him in places and at times when I can’t do a bloody thing about it?

I slip into the chair next to him. I stare at that perfect face and I’d swear on my bloody life it’s a little bit smug, a little bit knowing, that he’s not asleep and dreaming at all but fucking posing for me, teasing me, telling me I know you really want to, John old son, but you can’t, you just can’t.

The hell I can’t.

Can’t do all that I’d like to, maybe, but I could bring him off. I could just reach over - like this - and sort of slide my hand down - like this - and give him a little rub. Like this. And he moans, softly, so softly I can barely hear him even though we’re inches apart, and I can feel that he’s half-hard already, hard and hot and twitching under my hand.

Knew I was right about those dreams.

So I do it again, because those bathers are awfully tight and it must be getting bloody uncomfortable in there, and what kind of selfish bloke lets his best mate suffer a massive hard-on in tight quarters without trying to lend a hand? Not old Jock Lennon. So I keep rubbing, and pressing, and squeezing, and now he needs those fingers in his mouth, because his moans and groans are getting louder by the minute, and come to think of it, I’m getting a bit vocal myself and could use a third hand to stuff in my own gob, seeing how one’s working on Paul and the other is taking care of things closer to home.

God, I wish I could kiss him.

He comes without ever waking up, a dreamy, composed, slow-motion sort of come like I’ve never seen before, and Christ, it’s the hottest fucking thing, so hot I stop wanking myself just to watch him. His breath catches just a bit and his hips lift just a bit and he pushes hard into my hand, once, twice, three times, and then he stops and it feels like he’s melting into my touch, just a long, slow, sleepy climax that ripples through him and drops him just as he was, sprawled boneless and blissful in his chair.

I’m frozen, watching him. Christ, I’m still hard and Christ, I want to come, I do, but I don’t want to move, don’t even want to breathe, I want to just look at him a while longer, just the way he is right now, and if I move I’ll spoil it, I’ll never get it back.

Then he cracks an eye at me. He smiles. He sort of looks me up and down. And then, very carefully, very deliberately, he closes his lips around his finger.

And sucks.

And I come without another stroke.

***

I showed Paul the letter last night. He laughed. He blushed. He preened a bit. Then he read it again.

“Well, it’s no wonder they didn’t print it,” he said finally, handing it back.

“Eh?”

“It’s two hundred and twenty-eight words.”

“Huh. Fancy that.”