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Hamburg was not the place for children. That singular fact soaked through the walls and floors, through the music and--most prominent--the smell, sound, and sight of sex everywhere. The taboo floated throughout the streets full of sailors, prostitutes, and homosexuals. It was disgusting and alluring. It was raunchy and magnetic. Every woman who walked by the five English boys entranced them as if they were truly magnetic.
“Ooh, what about her, Paul? Eh?” One of the boys asked teasingly, slinging a guitar on his back with the hopes of the ‘bad-boy-rocker' aesthetic attracting a girl.
The other boy responded with a scrunched nose. “No, Johnny... She’s too chubby.”
George, though, stayed silent while trailing slightly behind the rest of the group. Paul had said he was too young to be in a different country. Too young to play guitar for so long. Every time he urged Paul to let him go, another lame excuse would fall from Paul’s mouth. If he could be seen as anything else besides just a little brother to Paul for just one singular day, he would be the happiest man in the universe. And now because of some miracle, George was in Hamburg, thanks to Paul’s permission. But hey, it was a start. He had been able to drink and smoke like never before, and he had never felt freer.
“What about you, Georgie?” Paul asked.
George looked up at the figures in front of him and snapped out of his thoughts. “Sorry, what?”
“Don’t bother, he’s too busy sulking.” John muttered under his breath, earning both a chuckle from Stuart and a pout from George.
“Was she hot?” Paul questioned. “The bird that just walked by.”
“It’s a bird, Paul. Of course she’s probably hot.” George responded dryly. Conversations like this always reminded the rest of the group that George was just seventeen. He hated being the youngest; he never commanded the same amount of respect, never was taken seriously, and was not as experienced compared to someone like John. And Paul would always pretend to be his mother, constantly worried, scolding, and concerned about the smallest things. It started sweet, Paul showing that he cared. Living in Liverpool, it was a kind of vulnerability you did not see often, but now it felt like his best friend was controlling him and treating him like an annoying younger brother.
Paul snorted, “C’mon George. You must have a type by now. You’re not that young, y’know.”
“Where are we even going, anyway?” George clipped, changing the subject. He knew where the conversation would have ended up. To his relationship status, to his experience with women, and then ending at his virginity, it had happened plenty of times before. And despite navigating through crowds of Germans who did not know a lick of English, he would rather not have this conversation out in public.
“Dinner.” John replied shortly. “I’m getting sick of The Reeperbahn. And when’s the last time you’ve had actual food?”
“Eh--”
John interrupted quickly, “Exactly. I’m feeling kind. And I’m hungry. But still, be thankful.”
George could not help rolling his eyes, but the thought of John splurging just for his band made a smile tug at his lips.
“Oh, Johnny! What about her?” Paul exclaimed and George felt his smile drop as quickly as it came. Was it jealousy he was feeling, or was it just disappointment the conversation had moved away from him so swiftly? Either way, he retreated into his thoughts, to the girl who had walked past just moments ago, to the dingy room he would be sleeping in tonight, to the girl he had tried sleeping with last night, and then finally to Paul, who looked so excited and happy to be talking to John without him.
George was lying in his bed, trying to sleep. Dinner had gone well and it was wonderful to have solid food for once and not have to pay for it. But despite all he tried, he could not sleep. There was something growing under his chest that he could not place. The others were still out at the clubs, trying to find women to sleep with. George had decided to retire to his room early, and seeing how none of the other boys had been back in the two hours that George had been in his bed, none of them had much luck. His thoughts shifted to what the others would be doing right now. John would be doing something idiotic, like getting into a fight or jumping from barstool to barstool just for the hell of it. Stuart would be heading back to the Beatles' living area, either too drunk or too bored out of his mind. Pete would have the highest chance of bringing back a girl; he never acted like a rabid animal compared to the other four. And Paul would be charming with a girl with some of his stupid flirting. There was no way any of that flirting actually worked. George thought to himself. His thoughts shifted more to Paul flirting with him. Certainly all that cheesy stuff would not work on him, but somehow, it worked on every other girl he said all those meaningless words to. How did he do it?
Then he heard loud footsteps climbing the stairs outside. Only one pair. Finally, he could get proper sleep without the interruptions of moans from girls that the other boys would bring back to the room. It was loud and annoying and they bred like dogs. Not the proper environment for George who loved his beauty sleep. George sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. Stuart would come in–slightly drunk–but would still fancy a conversation and a shared cigarette. The door of the room swung open and despite George's expectation of Stuart being in the doorframe, it was Paul.
Paul stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly. It was obvious to George, even in the darkness, that Paul was blackout drunk.
“Oh, George, are you awake? Whatever. This bird, mate. She had to have been a lesbian. I tried everything but she was just not into me. God, she was so hot, too, y’know? And now I’m here and...” He trailed off, muttering curses under his breath, annoyed.
“Ugh.” George groaned, turning on his side in his bed away from him. Did Paul really have to talk about all that right now while he was trying to sleep?
Noticing George’s movements, Paul sat on the edge of George’s bed with a furrowed brow, the mattress dipping where he sat. “You’re such a prude.” He slurred, pointing at George with annoyance, but his eyes lit up at the cigarette he was holding.
“I’m not a prude. You don’t want me doing anything.” George responded, handing Paul the cigarette despondently. It was not like he even wanted it anymore.
“Because you’re only seventeen, Geo. I remember when I was that young. Eh, uh, y’know.” His voice trailed again, watching George’s unpleased face in the dark.
George replied, “You only say that because it makes John happy.”
Paul retorted defensively, “I say it because it’s true.”
George turned onto his stomach, his arms hugging his pillow. He was going to stay like this and ignore Paul until he either fell asleep or Paul went away. Instead, Paul crawled onto bed, next to George, his arm resting on George’s waist, and the cigarette magically disappearing somewhere behind him.
“I’m sorry, Georgie. Truly.” Paul apologized, his whisper velvety in George’s ear. “Please don’t be mad. I just get worried.”
Paul’s fingers started making circles on the stretch of George’s stomach that was exposed from his avoidant position. They stayed like that for a few minutes, the silence thickening the air between them and the stench of alcohol strong enough to make George drunk just from breathing. George stayed torn. He could forgive him, and Paul would most definitely not change and keep babying him. Or he could keep ignoring him, and the others would come home to Paul spooning him while he slept.
Then Paul offered quietly, “I could make it up to you.”
“How?” He asked curiously.
Something then shifted in the air, and Paul’s hand traveled to George’s stomach. His hand was warm compared to the cold German chill in the room. The heel of Paul’s hand applied a little bit of pressure to his abdomen, causing George’s stomach to flip and for his breath to hitch.
“You’re...You’re drunk.” George mustered. Suddenly the room was too warm, and a sweat started to form on his brow. He felt claustrophobic—Paul was too close, and he was doing whatever he pleased.
“George. Let me make it up to you.” Paul responded, still so close to his ear and avoiding answering that yes, he was very drunk.
George countered, “It’s queer.” Usually, the threat of seeming homosexual made Paul immediately stop anything he was doing, no matter what it was. They lived in Liverpool, and Liverpool was not the safest place for gay people by a long shot. How could he go back to his mother after being a queer in a foreign country?
“Shh... We’re in Hamburg, for Christ’s sake, George. You've seen worse on the streets.” Without confirmation from George, Paul turned him to be flush with his front side. George could feel every little movement by Paul, and what scared him the most was that he did not hate it.
Swallowing that thought of slight contentment, George rolled his eyes and harshly remarked,
“Paul, I can feel your--”
“Shuddup.” Paul blurted, moving his hand from George’s stomach to his groin and again, he pressed the heel into George. The pleasure just from that simple action shot up George’s spine.
“Jesus…” George exhaled. This could not be queer, Paul was just helping him out. Helping with a problem Paul himself was causing. Nonetheless, though, that was what friends did. And maybe this was a lesson on how to act in bed, Paul loved turning everything into a lesson. Whatever it was, it was getting harder and harder for George to argue with Paul.
George could not resist bucking his hips into Paul’s hand before asserting, “I’m not a bird, Paul.”
“I know, Georgie.” Paul responded before unbuttoning George’s pants. They had been wearing their clothes for days straight now. They did not change and they could not wash their clothes because of their living situation, so now he was in bed with Paul wearing dirty leather trousers and a rumpled dirty black t-shirt. That did not bother Paul, though, and he snaked his hand down into George’s pants, listening intently on George.
George hissed at the contact, the heat of the room growing even warmer and warmer, and the movement of Paul’s hand was almost unbearable. “Paul…” George moaned breathily. It was a little too late for George to protest anymore, and it felt good so why would he?
“You always do everything I say, so I should do something for you.” Paul kept his hand wrapped around George, stroking at a deliberate pace before adding with a slur, “Is this good?”
George nodded his head. It was better than good; it was everything George had wanted and more. “Yes, it’s good Paul. It’s… It’s good…” His voice trailed, lost in the sensation of Paul pressed behind him and Paul’s hand down his pants.
As Paul sped up his movements, George threw his head back against Paul’s shoulder. “God… Fuck… Paul.. I’m so–”
All it took was a small kiss to his shoulder for George to spill over as Paul held him in his hand, seemingly just as pleased with himself as George was with him. Paul let George regain himself before sitting up and looking for that cigarette he had lost. George stayed where he was, his mind racking for the meaning of anything that had just happened.
“You’re cute, by the way.” Paul teased.
“No I’m not.” George deflected.
Paul found the cigarette with a grin on his face as he searched his pockets for a lighter. He lit it, and lazily let the smoke fall from the end of the cigarette and his mouth whenever he took a drag.
“You forgive me, Georgie?” Paul asked, genuinely concerned.
Paul really was like an older brother to George, he supposed. He could not stay mad at him for too long. “Yeah. I guess so.” He smiled, making a mental note to clean himself up later. “Now get outta me bed.”