It was cloudy over London and raining. The limousines traveling to and fro the poshest neighborhood in the City were slow and arrogant. Elton John was in one of them, and he craned his head out of the tinted window for a look at a homeless man.

The derelict was huddled under a plaid blanket that looked thick enough to suffocate a cape buffalo. He was moving a little, and before Elton cruised on by, he saw a hopeful head peer up at him. Then he was gone.

Elton’s limo made its way through a maze of small, narrow streets. The driver was a Polish man named Roman, tall and thin, definitely not Elton’s type. He smoked as he drove, and kept one hand casually on the wheel. Every now and then he attempted to engage Elton in conversation. Elton was polite but noncommittal. The driver finally gave up, concentrating on the view through the front windshield.

After another ten minutes of slow driving, they reached Elton’s mansion. It was cheek-and-jowl with other tremendous mansions, each of them celebrating their owner’s wealth and power. Elton John felt relief at being home. It was tiresome going to the studio every day to record a new song. Make no mistake, he loved it, but after two hours straining his vocal cords he longed to return to his husband and get a sloppy blowjob. Better that than anal sex.

Elton’s husband was standing in the doorway as the wind lashed viciously and Elton approached. Elton was wearing one of his favorite pairs of eyeglasses, big and pink, with octagon-shaped lenses. He raised a hand companionably to his husband, who smiled in a sensitive, simpering manner back at him.

The man was old. Elton was old, too, but he was half-disgusted by his husband. The man was a good companion, though, and useful for keeping the bed warm. Now, gripping his husband’s hand, Elton led him up the stairs to his private movie theater.

24 hours a day, a gay porn video was playing. The current scene was a 69 between two barely legal boy teens. Elton was sucked into it from the instant he walked in the room. His husband slid his hand between his own legs. He played with himself while waiting for Elton to react. Elton turned to him and arched eyebrows and exclaimed: “Can’t you wait? Are you always this horny?!”

Elton’s husband wilted a little. He hung his head. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” he said to Elton. “I just got carried away.”

Elton, arrogantly dismissing his lover, strode out of the gay movie room and up the stairs. There were dozens of small tapestries hung on the wall, each costing thousands of pounds. Flowers were everywhere, set down by docile small servants from the Philippines. “The brown people,” Elton’s songwriter-partner called them. Elton smirked. Docilely, his husband followed behind, dragging his feet.

On the wall leading to the bedroom, there was a charity poster for AIDS relief and research. Elton was most proud of the work he had done in this endeavor. As he passed the poster, Elton’s husband whined, “Do you always have to chastise me like this? I’ve done no wrong.”

Elton John paused. His eyeglasses swiveled on his head. “Fuck it, man. I’m tired of coddling you. You’re a big, gay baby.” Flamboyantly, Elton flounced into the bedroom, followed by his old lover.

The bedroom was huge. It had a king-sized bed and above it was a reflective mirror where they could watch themselves during fucking. (He hated the word “love-making.”) There were multiple dressers shoved against the bare beige walls, and a walk-in closet led to a fabulous collection of shoes and outfits that made lesser men drool.

Elton sat on the bed and faced his husband. His look was half-determined and half-regretful. Inclining his head slightly, he said, “I want to fuck someone else. If he’s better than you, I want to replace you with him. Comments?”

Elton’s husband was dismayed. “But — no, Eltie baby, I love you.”

Elton stared stonily. He gestured with one limp hand that was smooth and uncalloused and had never experienced hard labor in his life. “I’m sorry. It’s the way it has to be. In fact, the young stud is due to arrive in ten minutes. I have to primp myself. Please go.”

Head hanging, Elton’s husband left the room. Elton went to the small, en-suite bathroom with its hundreds of skin-care products and selected a thick woman’s hairbrush. He began stroking his hair back with soft, feeble strokes. Feeling sexy again for the first time in decades, and determined to keep the good feeling going, he put down the brush and contemplated his husband.

The man was ruinously old. There was no getting around it. He no longer excited Elton like he once did. It was time to shake things up a bit, get them agitated like electrons hit by a wave of pulsating, powerful energy. Yes. Elton nodded in the mirror. Yes.

He pissed standing up by the toilet, then flushed. Gripped by a sudden sense of paranoia, he jerked his head to the doorway, sure his husband was watching. But there was no one there. Relieved and vaguely annoyed with himself for his suspicion, Elton washed his hands fastidiously and turned off the tap. There were flowers and gold coatings everywhere here. It pleased him to be capable of living a life of luxury after growing up unremarkable in a country that prized wealth above all.

Downstairs, his husband was crying to himself on the sofa, watching an American soap opera. The bitchy star was having a fight with her husband. Elton’s husband saw himself in the husband’s role and Elton as the bitch. It was horrible. One fat tear leaked out of his gay eye and spilled on the floor like a boulder made out of icy water. Quickly, Elton’s husband glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps. Elton! His darling was here!

Elton’s husband made to get up, but Elton breezed right by him without noticing. The doorbell rang. Elton rushed in a deliriously excited panic to get it. The boy! The young stud was here! With great anticipation, Elton threw open the door to see a super-thin, awkward goth-teen in black makeup (but thankfully no lipstick). Elton kissed him on both cheeks and ushered him into the mansion.

Knowing what was expected of him, Elton’s husband put on his coat and left in a fit of lingering despair. His hopeless, hunched-down shoulders were the last Elton saw of him. The door closed on the retreating figure in the rain.

Elton turned to the gay youth and beamed. “What’s your name again?” Elton inquired politely.

“Rog.” The boy’s gay lisp was even more pronounced than the typical homo’s.

“Rog. That’s brilliant, absolutely a brilliant name. I shall call you ‘Roger’ and you shall call me ‘Eltie-baby.’ Alrighty?”

The goth nodded, not showing very much emotion. “Could I have a drink?”

“Of course, Roger!” Elton beamed. “Orange juice, Coca-Cola?”

“Scotch on the rocks,” the youth grunted. He waved a hand like he was ordering a waiter around. “And please hurry. I’m desperate for some alkie.”

Elton, feeling a little annoyed (but why should an arrogant beautiful youth surprise him?), hurried out of the room to get the drink. When he returned with it in hand, Roger was naked, his leather jacket slung over the armrest of the sofa, his shoes off with brown socks poking out of them. Roger had an erection (he was small, Elton noted sadly) and was stroking himself off with one hand. “C’mere, you old punter,” Roger lisped commandingly.

Elton couldn’t wait to ravish him.

As Elton leaned over the couch to get a kiss, the naked goth-boy lunged up and grabbed him around the throat with both hands. “Gee-awww!” Elton croaked out, startled. Roger swung him around and threw him on the red couch. Elton landed with a gasp. Out of control now, Roger began beating Elton with both fists. Elton was too old to resist properly, and too gay; he just threw up his hands feebly and took the blows like a coward. Roger was enraged, out of his right mind. With a powerful, lucky punch, he took Elton in the mouth. Elton tasted blood and for the first time felt he might die here.

“Help! Police!” Elton John screamed in a very homo way. Roger cupped his hand over Elton’s mouth, silencing him. To his pleasant surprise, Elton saw that the boy had a boner. It was delightful to see that he could still turn someone on, but he was fearing for his life, and the fear outweighed the delight.

After pressing down hard on Elton’s reddish enflamed lips, Roger began turning the music idol’s head solidly to the right. Turn, turn, turn… OMG, thought Elton, it hurts very much. He tried screaming but the hand over his mouth was too strong.

Suddenly, Elton’s neck snapped and he sagged limply forward, dead. Roger’s erection wilted at the sight, but he screamed in triumph anyway. He went upstairs to loot bundles of loose cash from the old fag’s bedroom before scooting away into the rainy night with his ill-gotten loot. THE END.