A Cappella 1

When I tell people I'm a high baritone I get very little respect. Some people fawn over tenors, loving the smooth croon in their voices, relishing the fact that they can be angelic without being quite androgynous. I admit, there are times when I love a good tenor voice. When I wake up too early in the morning and want someone to sing me back to sleep, I long for the pure sweetness of a tenor. Other people, and I proudly join this group 23/7, crave the depth, the manliness, the power and the enviable darkness of the bass voice.

When a man goes down for a low C, and I hear a pure note within a beautiful rumble, I shiver and nearly fall into ecstasies. I see girls, even those who usually love the tenors, give a meek glance of arousal to the source of a low voice. It's the same glance you see on their faces when they giggle over smooth skinned Aryan boys for years and then see a hot Latin man. Tenors are cute, and basses are hotly sexy.high baritones just have no range. Still, my voice is pretty, strong, and always on pitch, and when I'm not using it to seduce, I love it.

When I arrived at school as a freshman on the last day of August, I knew my first extracurricular priority was to enter into my university's intricate world of a cappella. I stared at the beautiful and undeniably collegiate stone walls around me and saw not the politicians they had borne, but instead, the greatest undergraduate singing scene in the world and the most gorgeous male voices that would ring out from those very walls countless times in the next year.

I'll spare you, my dear, lovely reader, the details of moving in and the first few days of dorm life. They were certainly important to me in terms of learning to adjust and live with peers, but you don't care about that, do you? No, no, love, you can read any book or listen to your best friend kvetch for hours and get the full perspective of those aspects of the psyche. So, I'll cut back to the singing. A few days into school, all of the groups performed in one long, nearly suffocating concert. Each time an all-male group climbed to the stage my mouth dried up to the point where I never thought I'd be able to produce another note again. The blend of their voices was perfect, into what the Natyasastra might have called a Rasa, a flavor, of sex and pulchritude. Whether their notes went up or down, I consistently moved straight up.

I had mentioned to my roommates that I was gay, but squirming in your seat to hide a hard-on during Randall Thomson's `Alleluia' is embarrassing in any situation. One group especially caught my eye and ear, well, two did, actually. One was a co-ed jazz group whose music was so intricate that I was blown away, but intriguing singing without the flood of intriguing eyes and lips can't compete. The other group, the Hound Dogs, seduced me in my seat with their pure aesthetic. Their vibrations were not only those of resonating sound waves, but also of large groups of horny, gay college boys. Although the Earl's Boys, another extremely talented group, caught me with the uniformity of the homosexuality in the group, the Hound Dogs, well, there was something very special about them. Although they had quite a few straight boys, their perfection in sound was unparalleled.

For their second song, a soloist stepped front. His head bore a chiseled face, a strong profile, full lips, deep blue eyes and feathery black hair. The group began to `oo' behind him and then a voice broke forth from his throat. Well, breaking forth is the wrong phrase. It was as if it had been there all this time and we were only now allowed to taste it, as if hearing it too soon would be like seeing Zeus, lethal to any mortal. It was the deepest, most resonant bass voice I had ever heard. I realized that tenors were angels and this man was Lucifer: his angelic voice had simply fallen and it had fallen oh, so low!

My roommate was giving me such strange looks as I verged on standing straight up. I looked like a child who needs to go to the bathroom. My solid cock pressed against my already too-tight jeans and my attempts to hold it down with the hand in my pocket were futile. My face twisted in pain and yearning. My jaw tensed with repression as I held back my urge to rush the stage and see if my dick could find what it was in this man's throat to make every sound from it so flawless. Physically I could not orgasm, but my mind, my hormones, and every urge was repeatedly stroked, squeezed and consumed by this man's voice, and they erupted as his song reached a climax as great as any ejaculation I had ever experienced.

I `rushed' all of the all-male groups; the term usually only applied to fraternities is used for a cappella here. I would have been satisfied by any one. Each coven of young men thoroughly bewitched me until I met the next group. Shapely forearms twitched as strong hands beat out pitches for me to sing. The tones dominated me as each one seemed to command a reply. And I replied without cracking, smiling through each audition, avoiding eye contact with the smirking, sparkling eyes that judged me. My last audition was with the Hound Dogs. I stepped into the small basement in which they

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were holding the auditions, and immediately all the men stood up to shake my hand. Their handshakes were firm, warm, welcoming and held just long enough to tease me. I watched their eye contact for glimmers of possibilities. I remember reading somewhere that gay men hold eye contact longer than straight ones do, and I've managed to pick up on the look. I'd spotted about 4 possibilities in the group of 16 when I was faced with a pair of deep blue eyes, and a tempting smile. He spoke only his name, `Ben,' before retiring to a couch. My face flushed, his speaking voice was as sweet as the one with which he sang. And Ben? Ah, me, the most benevolent of all names. Amazing how a man who could so easily be intimidating had suddenly become amiable. Turning instantly to the able man sitting at the piano to avoid the smoking stare from Ben's eyes, I performed my solo and then began pitch exercises. We got to blending, where I was to try to match

the tone of another voice in the group. The pitch, sitting at the piano, which he had a knack for delicately caressing, searched the crowd of men in the group and pointed to the back couch, "Ah, Benjamin, why don't you come up here?" Ben pointed to himself and raised his eyebrows with an inquisitive look, then smiled and hopped over the other men to stand before me.

"All right, now you're both going to sing My Country,Tis of Thee.' Billy," the pitch addressed me, "try to watch Ben's mouth, imitate his vowels." I was instantly unsure whether to be thrilled or scared under the pressure. Either way my heart was beating twenty times the tempo. The pitch gave us a starting note and before I could think myself into trouble, I was starting at Ben's lips, singing along with them, losing myself in his voice and in the appearance of his moist, hungry mouth. Saliva glistened on the inside of his lips, his tongue soft and agile behind them. His teeth were nearly perfect and shone with the wetness that coated them. I couldn't help my own mouth.with every new shape of his mouth, mine fell in synch, as if I were kissing him over the inches that barely separated our lips.

His hot breath caressed the skin above my lip and cooled the saliva that rested to the outside of my mouth. I felt myself moving in towards the lips, making his my own, nearly embracing them with my own. The song instantly became personal. While I knew I was singing at a reasonable volume, I felt that I was singing into Ben and Ben was singing into me. I was so close to him, I was nearly kissing him, and I swear I would have had we not called out "Let freedom ring!" The other boys seemed to notice nothing as I backed away from Ben, but when I looked back up at the bass God, he was staring softly and curiously into my eyes. "Oh, damn," I thought "He knows, he knows so damn early on and that'll kill it." I gulped, nodded, shook hands with all of them again and headed out.

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