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James May could only shag to Beethoven.
Well, not only Beethoven. Mozart and Bach and Debussy and other fiddly old chaps who liked to wear ruffs. It was quite limiting.
Anytime Richard wanted a good rough shag behind his local, he had to call Jeremy, because the sound of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 blasting from an alley tended to attract some unwanted attention. And Jeremy was rubbish at rough alley sex anyway because he liked to have candles lit, and he was old and falling apart and couldn’t lift Richard off his feet and fuck the fight right out of him the way that James could.
Jeremy complained – often and loudly – that he could never get a decent shag in the Portakabin because James wouldn’t put someone else’s ear buds in his ears, and his iPod would randomly put on Katy Perry after Einaudi.
And Richard couldn’t go to the symphony anymore, or listen to half of the tracks on Top Gear, or watch dramatic movies at the cinema. He’d get ridiculously turned on and have to hurriedly excuse himself, before wanking furiously to an imagined beat in the loo.
He was watching them one night, cock hard and aching against his thigh, the enthusiastic notes of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 sudden in the hot air. The room was, of course, lit by an obscene amount of candles. James, head down, back arched, was just about the most gorgeous thing Richard or his prick had ever seen. Jeremy was giving it his all, which was probably not a great plan considering he was just about to hit the quiet bit.
“Put your back into it, man,” James panted, sweaty hair hanging in his face.
Jeremy made a rather strangled noise and put his back into it, just as the tempo settled down.
“What are you doing?” James snarled, over his shoulder. Richard and his cock shivered happily; they both rather liked it when James snarled.
“Putting – back – innit,” Jeremy panted. He looked like he was going to have a stroke.
“You’re not even following the time signature,” James said.
“Yeah,” Richard breathed. He squirmed deliciously as Jeremy shot him a rather dark look. “It’s not hard, Clarkson.”
“It’s the bloody beat, you utter pillock. Stay with it,” James growled.
Things had deteriorated rapidly from there, culminating with Jeremy storming out of the room wrapped in a sheet, shouting about musical oppression. His dramatic flounce from the room had been spoiled somewhat when he’d slammed the door on his sheet, fallen noisily over, and screamed “OH MY GOD! I HATE THIS HOUSE!”
Which was fine by Richard, because at this point Beethoven had finished the quiet bit and was now hitting his dramatic stride. Which meant that Richard could snake an arm under James and around to his shoulder and enthusiastically keep time, as it were.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me that I’m better.”
“You’re better,” James said, without hesitation. He said it to the tympani.
The strings revved up and Richard wrapped his hand around James’ cock and set up a counter-rhythm. James let out a massive groan and, with typical good timing, climaxed at the climax. Richard followed on the dying strains.
“Christ,” James muttered, and collapsed.