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Description
John ambled slowly through the little shindig they’d thrown for their media established American “rivals”, The Monkees. John had actually delighted in their show, one of those funniest things he’d seen coming over the pond. He glanced over at where he’d left Paul, George, Micky, and Peter. He’d pegged them for sun drenched California hippies and he was right. Peter and George were deeply immersed in discussion of eastern philosophy. Paul, on the other hand, had seemingly already one upped John on the bet they’d made earlier in the day, and was practically wrapped around the Monkee’s fuzzy headed drummer. Micky seemed content enough, if not a tad oblivious. Paul smirked at him. John huffed. He noticed the Monkees guitarist, Mike, a long cool drink of water, leaning hard against the wall, making awkward chit chat with an already blitzed Ringo. Not much luck there.

Then the idea struck him. Davy Jones, “the cute one”, a Manchester Boy picked to wet girls panties just as bad as his sweet Paulie. That would twist his knickers. He found him posted up talking to some bird, a sister’s cousin of someone’s friend no doubt, chain smoking and making jokes. He took him by the arm and led him away to an empty side room, the girl making a face but not daring to protest. Who would, he was John fucking Lennon, after all.

“What’s up mate?” Davy asked, utterly confused by the sudden interruption. John starred down at him. He was certainly more beautiful than the grainy image on the tv made him appear. He was more boyish than Paul, but had the big eyes, long lashes and rosy red lips that made John a bit weak in the knees. John sighed. No one ever believed the rumours and loose talk about him anyway.What was one more?

John leaned in and kissed Davy, watching as his eyes widened in shock. And then a split second later, found himself just as shocked when Davy pressed back. He felt like electricity was shooting through his veins.

“You Piccadilly whores.” John and Davy broke apart. Paul was leaning in the door way, grinning from ear to ear, his finger looped in Micky’s love beads. “No really, we’ve talked it over, and perhaps we should clear some of these extras out and have a little fun with our “rivals?”

Description
John ambled slowly through the little shindig they’d thrown for their media established American “rivals”, The Monkees. John had actually delighted in their show, one of those funniest things he’d seen coming over the pond. He glanced over at where he’d left Paul, George, Micky, and Peter. He’d pegged them for sun drenched California hippies and he was right. Peter and George were deeply immersed in discussion of eastern philosophy. Paul, on the other hand, had seemingly already one upped John on the bet they’d made earlier in the day, and was practically wrapped around the Monkee’s fuzzy headed drummer. Micky seemed content enough, if not a tad oblivious. Paul smirked at him. John huffed. He noticed the Monkees guitarist, Mike, a long cool drink of water, leaning hard against the wall, making awkward chit chat with an already blitzed Ringo. Not much luck there.

Then the idea struck him. Davy Jones, “the cute one”, a Manchester Boy picked to wet girls panties just as bad as his sweet Paulie. That would twist his knickers. He found him posted up talking to some bird, a sister’s cousin of someone’s friend no doubt, chain smoking and making jokes. He took him by the arm and led him away to an empty side room, the girl making a face but not daring to protest. Who would, he was John fucking Lennon, after all.

“What’s up mate?” Davy asked, utterly confused by the sudden interruption. John starred down at him. He was certainly more beautiful than the grainy image on the tv made him appear. He was more boyish than Paul, but had the big eyes, long lashes and rosy red lips that made John a bit weak in the knees. John sighed. No one ever believed the rumours and loose talk about him anyway.What was one more?

John leaned in and kissed Davy, watching as his eyes widened in shock. And then a split second later, found himself just as shocked when Davy pressed back. He felt like electricity was shooting through his veins.

“You Piccadilly whores.” John and Davy broke apart. Paul was leaning in the door way, grinning from ear to ear, his finger looped in Micky’s love beads. “No really, we’ve talked it over, and perhaps we should clear some of these extras out and have a little fun with our “rivals?”