His hands are a blur. Up and down they go. They hold a perfect rhythm, accelerating as needed, as wanted, teasing off for a spell, gunning forward in an instant, regulating the heartbeat of the beast he steers. He keeps his wrists loose but his eyes are locked with a feverish focus, knowing that the pleasure of his subjects depends on him. His skinny tie bounces and flails like a fish on the floor of a boat. Beads of sweat the size of marbles roll off his brow and settle into his saturated bandana. In a flourish, he throws his head back, casting off a stream of droplets that pattern the ceiling like a constellation of humid stars. Were a murder to occur, this milkiest of milky ways would be the first piece of evidence that the lawyer from The Staircase would study.

Frankie Borelli, formerly the pizza boy, came out last night. Call it a bar mitzvah of beats, a quinceañera of quake, a communion of cadence. He burst onto the stage, took his stool, picked up his sticks, stepped upon the bass pedal, and set the night ablaze. Meanwhile, I stood in the wings, quietly masturbating into a rippling curtain, beating my meat in time with his strokes.

I never stood a chance. He was wearing eye-liner. I’ve put makeup on him before, but usually it’s a little rouge and some lipstick; my hands aren’t steady enough to delicately pencil dark lines upon the lids of my baby baboon. I’d fumble and gouge his eyes out, and then we’d be relegated to a life of me holding my little blind baby’s hand, whispering descriptions of the world in his ear, playing “open wide, here comes the airplane” during meals as I spoon feed him my dick.

After the show, we hugged. It was a top-hug, where our bodies stood like an A-frame house because we couldn’t bring our hips together due to the tentpole I’d pitched behind my fly. He said we should save it for after I’d met his parents, and then he led me to them. Just kidding– they were all together, enjoying a family group hug, and I imposed myself by ducking into the middle of their embrace. Frankie’s parents are old-fashioned and still believe they’ll become grandparents the “typical” way (i.e. Frankie will marry a nice Italian girl from Long Island, they’ll buy a house near the water, and they’ll conceive children through heterosexual intercourse. BORING!) The reality is that Frankie and I will experiment with in vitro fertilization, using my sperm and his eggs. It probably won’t take but Frankie’s body is full of surprises.

Soon, the party moved to a bar across the street. To the surprise of no one, Frankie continued to bask in the adulation of his new fans. At first, I sulked. These fair-weather fans hadn’t cheered his name prior to last night; they hadn’t lifted him upon their shoulders as I had, except with me he’s upside-down, hooking his legs around my neck. But in a spell, I was past it. I watched like a proud father as an adoring crowd sung his name for all to hear. They had discovered what I had known for months: Frankie is more than a cameraman; he’s more than a tripod, although he is also a tripod; he’s more than a succulent rose in a Swiss meadow on a spring morning.

He’s my little drummer boy. And a star.