Part Five. . .Govinda. . .Chapter Eight

The METRO was late - not the first time, not the last. Peter Fey waited grumpily on the station platform, trying to read his vertically folded Post, raising his head occasionally to peer down the naked tracks. A light touch on his sleeve; he turned. A black, high, whip-thin, wearing black livery. Possibly the handsomest man of color Peter had ever seen. Not handsome as an imitative white, with delicate features, straight nose, thin lips. But handsome as a black man, a Bantu mask: bold brow, fluted nose, sculpted lips. "Mr. Fey?" he asked softly. West Indian accent. Peter nodded, startled. "Sir, Douglas is waiting outside in his car. He respectfully requests the pleasure of Mr. Fey's company. We're driving into town, sir. Into Lafayette Square. Would Mr. Fey care to join us?" "Mr. Fey would," Peter grinned. "With gratitude. Lead the way." "Went by your place too late," I explained when Peter got in. "Larry was just setting out on his morning jog, and said you might still be here. So we stopped by on the off-chance." "Glad you did. God knows when that METRO would've been along - or they might suspend service entirely, How have you been, Douglas?" "No complaints whatsoever." "And David?" "Wonderful. No other word for it. That boy grows lovelier by the day, if I have to say so myself." "I'll say it, if you won't." "Nice to hear we're of the same thought," I smiled, putting a hand on Peter's knee. I leaned forward, pressed a button that lowered the glass partition separating the passengers in the back from the driver up front. "Jean," I called, "just to make it official, I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine, Peter Fey. Peter, this beautiful man is Jean, and I don't know what David and I would do without him." The driver turned briefly from the car wheel to show a flash of smile. "Mr. Fey, sir," he called. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Nice to know you, Jean," Peter said. "How are you going - Rock Creek Park?" "Right, sir. Then onto Adams Mill Road and down Connecticut Avenue. Deliver you to your door." "Beautiful," Peter said, having no doubt whatsoever that Jean and I knew exactly where he worked. "A bit of air conditioning would be in order, I think," I told Jean. "Better put it on exhaust." The glass partition slid up noiselessly. He leaned back against the leather upholstery, took a pigskin briefcase from the backseat jacket pocket. "First time of the day," I said as the large rubber cock flopped out of the case. "I'd better pass," Peter said. "I'm not much of a games player." "Try this one," I urged. "Genuine latex rubber. Absolutely. I got it a never-mind way. You'll like the feel of it." In a moment they were both heaving contentedly, lolling back in the sealed passenger compartment, cooled, grandly watching the world flash by. "Better than the METRO," Peter murmured. As inconspicuously as possible, Peter tried to rearrange his swelling cock so that it wouldn't show. It only made it all the more obvious thrusting a huge bulge in front of his pants. As the car continued moving forward, Peter noticed from the corner of his eyes that I saw him dropping his right hand from the window ledge to his crotch. Wondering if the younger man was trying to hide something, I turned quickly to look at him. Underneath the delicate trouser material he could make out the cock. The flesh was fat and thick and it was sculpted like a giant mushroom extending outward from a great column. It was with keen interest that I went closer to unbuckle Peter's belt and take off his pants. Nothing yet because he wore jockey shorts underneath, although I thought I saw a heavy mound there. After moving Peter's body sideways and looking, I was certain. Then down came the jockey shorts, and oh, yes, man, it was there! It was one of the thickest cocks he'd ever seen in his life and it wasn't even hard. Even soft it was fat and luscious. Now I was looking at Peter's cock, hard-throbbing meat, thick, red ... and close-up, and the sight of those balls made him wild with desire! "Oh, Peter!" I grabbed his thighs, the exposed foreskin enveloped a little slit just an inch from his wet lips. But he hesitated. For I had never sucked cock this way before in his memory, but he could see this and he was scared. Wanting it so badly, I tried to make the plunge! "Go ahead, it'll taste good!" said Peter. "I should tell you that I've wanted this for so long!" I opened my mouth! He moved his lips slightly. "Riding along is like your life, and the great reward is having your cock sucked while you are enjoying your work. I will do it, and if you like it, I will do it many times again for you." Peter pulled the chubby piece of cock all the way out of his pants, and gripped his hand around it firmly. Then Peter scooted his ass forward and up to make the penis more easily serviceable. I placed my mouth on the head of the cock, the saliva drooling down my chin and my head falling and dropping, up and down on the tool. He took a firm grip around the column as he moved his hand up and down vigorously in order to increase the wild sensation. I licked around the meatus as Peter admired my lips, which were quite sensual and pleasant. On impulse I moved my head away. Still on my knees, I moved around to try and look up at Peter. He was smiling with satisfaction as he looked down. His cock was now standing far out. It had swelled to really marvelous proportions: a long, thick organ with a grand purplish head that was the same thickness as the wrist. Later, I learned, this made it easier to handle than those that came to a great fat head. "Fuck me, fuck me, you delicious man." As Peter's slave I had to take a lot of abuse. Peter increased the cadence slightly even as my auburn ass pushed wide trying to get positioned over the monstrous organ guiding it to its target. He kept pushing very gently. Peter's hands reached to hold the waist, using his grasp to hold me firmly as his penis continued slipping inside. I was literally panting with desire at the sight of more than twelve inches of cock suddenly going into the rectum. The sight of this meat disappearing up the ass was erotic beyond belief, and he suddenly was thankful for the two of us meeting like this. I was grateful for this opportunity and fine attitude between us. My body felt like a pool of water. Peter made me feel as if I could easily float as liquid on the floor of the car. In and in the meat went. Further and further until Jean's knuckles tapped against the glass to announce their arrival on Connecticut Avenue and Peter's departure. "Hasn't it been wonderful?" he said amiably. "Happy to have had this chance for a bit of togetherness with you." "Thank you," Peter said. "The other thing I wanted to mention is our joining your J-O Club. David and me. How might that be managed?" "No problem," Peter told him. "You need a sponsor. I'll be happy to put you up. And two seconding sponsors. I'll get Charles and someone else. Then it's just a matter of filling out forms; banking references, and so forth. Meanwhile, I'll get you temporary cards until our board meeting in July. How does that sound?" "Excellent," I said, restored to good humor. "Give you a stack of references, if you like. Clubs all over the world, you know." "I'm sure there'll be no problem," Peter said. "The application form is brief: age, birthplace, and personal history - that kind of thing. What branch of service were you with, Douglas?" He looked at the large rubber phallus. It had been placed back in the case, with its fat, white head protruding. I set the case carefully aside then I leaned forward to press another button. It released the lid of a small, lighted bar inset into the rear of the front seat. "Refreshments!" I cried gaily. "Cleanse the nasal passages and the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart. Shakespeare. Almost anything you might want here, Peter. Name your poison." Fey gazed with admiration at the neat set of small crystal decanters and glasses, the aluminum thermos of ice cubes, the silver knife and stirring spoon. And, on a small cutting board, one fresh lemon and one fresh lime. "A little early in the morning for me, Douglas," he said. "But you go right ahead." "Nonsense," I said sharply. "Never too early. What would you say to a spicy Bloody Mary, icy as a witch's tit, with a squeeze of lime?" "You're right," Peter said. "It's never too early." I laughed, and set to work. Peter crossed his legs, savored the last sweet moments, enjoyed the chilled, filtered air, looking indolently out the window, and scorned the drivers and passengers in the small, dusty cars they passed so effortlessly. He even saw roadside workers and, in the distance, men wheeling barrows and carrying loads. "The fools," he said idly. "What?" I asked, pressing a tall, frosted glass into his hand. Peter sniffed the tangy scent of the drink, smelled the musk of their sex, the cool perfume of the new car and its leather upholstery. "I was just thinking," he said, "that heaven must be like this." "More like hell," I said, smiling thinly. "No fun in heaven, I do assure you. Well - " he lifted his glass. "Haw bon ching d'how yin sak." We both sipped at our drinks. "What was that?" Fey asked. "Your toast?" "Means, 'May all your troubles be little ones.' Or something like that." "In what language, Douglas?" I thought for a moment, frowning. "Damned if I know," I said finally. "Can't remember. Or I may have made the whole thing up. I'm capable of that." "I'm sure you are," Peter said, sipping his drink and wanting this fantastical ride to go on forever. Deciding that I had put too much lime into the Bloody Mary; it had a bitter, puckering taste. The remainder of the ride was made in silence. As we were coming down Connecticut Avenue to Lafayette Square, I asked, "What did you decide about that stray boy of yours?" "Word does get around," Peter smiled. "That's Friendship Heights for you. Well, first we were going to call the hospital. I thought the boy was diseased and dying. But he's looking better now. Sometimes he eats, sometimes he doesn't. He disappears for days, then comes back. An outside boy. A rover. So wild, he's attractive." "Marvelous creatures, boys," I said. "So independent. Have you found out his name yet?" "No, not yet," Peter said. "We've tried everything on him, but can't get anywhere." "Why don't you call him 'Ben'?" I said suddenly, completely serious. "Good, straight, stand-up name: Ben. And you say he's a rover." "All right, then," Peter laughed. "'Ben' sounds like a good name to me. But he's hardly civilized." "Still," I said, "he'll warm right up to you before you know it." Mark, sweaty and peevish, came trudging from the tennis court. He searched about and finally found David sitting at an umbrella table alongside the swimming pool. He was watching a gang of tots thrashing about in the shallow end. He was wearing a striped shirt and sunny shorts of white pique. His lips gleamed. "You look so calm, cool, and collected," Mark said. "Dammit, don't you ever sweat?" "Not in public," David said lazily, showing his teeth. "How did the lesson go?" Mark muttered something. He slumped into a wrought iron chair, thrust his thick, bared legs under the table. He put his head back, squinted up at a pellucid June sky. "Why did I do it," he demanded of God. "Spend Charlie's money on tennis lessons? I don't even like the damned game. And golf lessons. And therapy. And clothes I don't need." "Doesn't he complain?" David asked. "No," Mark said shortly. "That's what's so maddening." David regarded him gravely. The young man was wearing a light eyeliner. It gave him a vaguely Italian appearance. A face on a temple frieze: richly luminous hair, brilliantly carmined mouth, and a chalky complexion. "Mark," he said softly, "it's such a silly way to get your lover's attention: spending him into bankruptcy." "I want him to be aware of my existence," the other man said stiffly. "No sex life? You two, I mean? At all?" "Zero. I forget how long it's been. No, I don't. Almost five months. And the last time he was so drunk, he couldn't do anything." "He must be a very unhappy man." "What has he got to be unhappy about? A good job. I keep a nice place for him. I'm a reasonably good lay. And he's unhappy? Screw him. I want some happiness, too." David was silent. "A little love, companionship, understanding," Mark went on furiously. "All that shit. And what do I get? A stick in the eye." "Have you tried?" "Tried? You mean with Charlie?" "I meant with other men." "A few one-night stands," Mark said morosely. "With local talent. Not very satisfying. There's got to be something better." "Perhaps there is," David said. Mark looked at him. "I'll take anything," he said. A barked laugh. "Oh, God, I smell like a goat. Let me grab a shower. Then we'll have a drink or two and some lunch. You wait here for me." "I'll come along," David said. "All right. If you want to." In the deserted locker room, Mark Starr stripped off his soaked tennis outfit, shirt, briefs. He stood naked in athletic socks and white sneakers. He pulled off the wig of tight blond curls. His natural hair was short, brownish, sweated to his scalp. "You're a long one," David said, staring at him. "Look at these bones, will you?" Mark said, peering down at himself. "I look like something out of a concentration camp or something. And that fish-white belly!" "Don't keep putting yourself down," David advised. "You've got a good body. Very elegant." "Charles says I'm built like a ballpoint pen." "I like your body," David said. "I'll get that shower now," Mark said. "I'll come along." "It's steamy." "I don't mind." "All right then." David leaned against the jam of the shower room door, ankles crossed. He lighted a cigarette. "Leave the curtain open," he said. "So we can talk." He watched Mark Starr stand directly under the hard spray. The stream plastered his hair, ran over his closed eyes, his small, hard pectorals. It poured over his ribs, across his groin, made rivulets down his long legs. He began to soap himself busily. "What did you mean?" he yelled. "I said there's got to be something better, and you said perhaps there is." David shrugged. "Whatever you want," he said. "What do you want?" "A little fucking love," Mark said. "Is that so much to ask for?" "No," David said. "Not so much. Do you dream of sex? Fantasies?" "Of course. All the time. Don't you?" David didn't answer. He looked around for an ashtray. "Throw it on the floor," Mark called, rinsing the suds away. "Someone will clean it up." He turned off the shower, came padding out. He led the way, dripping, back to the locker. He began to scrub his short hair dry with a pink towel. David took the towel from Mark's hands and dried his back slowly. Mark turned. David continued to wipe his chest, torso, stomach, below. The two young men were close, staring into each other's eyes. "I'm dying for a cold drink," Mark Starr said. "Aren't you?" David was driving him crazy with desire as his hand massaged and squeezed his buttocks. Mark's rear started to shake as he got closer to an orgasm, but David didn't allow him to come yet and he shivered like he had a chill as he slowly returned to normal. His cock began to stiffen and engorge as he pulled a bit on it. He could almost see it straighten out as it was a few inches longer now, a tad larger in girth, as it stretched up to his navel. David hovered over it again, his mouth beckoning the tip and pleading with it to grow, and it responded becoming almost ten inches long, swollen, pulsating and the small hole where the milk would escape became larger and ready. He sucked and massaged gently with his hands and mouth and felt Mark moan slightly beside him. In a few minutes he sucked, tongued, and pulled the cock further into his mouth. Mark felt the shaft of his prick tingling and David's licking seared the tip of the penis from the inside. The only thing able to extinguish that flame was the soft, smooth inside of David's mouth. "I want to suck your asshole!" Mark drew his feet back until his head was level with his ass. Then he grabbed his legs underneath the calves and pulled them back, lifting his ass off the floor and thrusting it up toward David's lowering mouth. He spread the cheeks with his hands. David made a preliminary dart with his tongue this time then pressed his warm mouth against Mark's asshole. David closed his eyes. His free hand massaged Mark's groin where his organ of magnificent ten inches was throbbing in tense anticipation. David took his mouth away, and noticed a succession of pearl drops as they appeared on the deep slit of the wet, glistening cock head, and they found their way down the huge, swollen urethral shaft. "It's your turn, Mark!" David said, "let me get down here so you can taste my monster!" David was already stony hard and pulsating as Mark took the giant, rosy helmet in his mouth, sucking gently at first, caressing David's bull-like testicles and making him moan with delight. His mouth lathered the pubic area, his hands moving David's cock and balls which until seeing them this evening, naked, had always been a beautiful sight in a provocative bulge in his summer pants. David moved away. He rolled Mark over so that he was kneeling on the floor with his body bent over the soft cushions of the bench. He knelt between Mark's legs and leaned his stomach forward until his pelvis crashed up against Mark's groin. He could feel David's enormous cock slap against his thighs, his brain filling with horror as he imagined what was coming next. "No!" he cried. "You can't fuck me with that thing. Nobody's ever done that to me before! I'm sure I couldn't take a rod as big as you've got! Please, David." Mark was pleading and begging, all this exciting David even more. Mark felt the gigantic prick slap again and again. He saw that David was smiling at him. It was a strange but a genuine smile. He started to notice the fear drain out of him. It was a strange fear, grabbing on to the cock he realized David was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of the situation. David's upper torso tapered to his slender waist where the navel seductively indented amid the well-muscled abdominals - all this culminating excitingly into his husky legs. The pubic hair was now moist with his sweat and from beneath and at either side of the monumental, though soft, cock Mark could glimpse both of David's huge, bulbous nuts in a smooth, hairless sac in which they were hanging. Before giving himself to David, Mark inspected his heavy testicles and weighed them in the palm of his hand. God, they were beautiful! He sucked them in his mouth one by one and David murmured, "That's so good, baby - oooooh, that feels great! Would you mind kissing me for a little bit? And play with my asshole until I get really hard." Mark's answer was to push up on the back of David's thighs so his knees were up to his chest and suck the organ while fondling the ass. Mark realized that more than fear itself was gripping him, and knew that he had been captured. He tried to control his sphincter as David's column sent a bountiful stream merely dribbling swiftly out of his slit into Mark's asshole and down his crotch, soaking the bench and dripping onto the tiled floor. He started to shake as he got close to cumming. With a solid gush, he shivered like he had a fever, and as David slowly returned to normal, he bent over and licked Mark on the chest. He was soaked with perspiration. The elegantly appointed living room of the old Beekman Place was lumped with over-stuffed chairs and couches, rickety end tables, puffy hassocks, chipped china figurines, wooden lamps with fringed satin shades and, over the fireplace, a large steel frame holding a portrait of a Bannister boy in the uniform of a newspaper carrier of the Midwest of 1886. "This place looks like an old theatre." I said. "But I like it; suits my purpose. Now here's what we've been waiting for!" Jean, wearing a white mess jacket, came in smiling from the dining room. He was carrying a silver tray with four tall glasses filled with a bubbly pink liquid, each garnished with slices of lemon and orange and a stalk of fresh pineapple. "You'll like this," I assured them. "You've heard of a Singapore Sling? This is called a Harvey Wallbanger. Rum, brandy, cointreau, sugar, bitters, nutmeg, and this and that." "Creme de Curacao, sir," Jean murmured. "White." "Ah yes, Creme de Curacao. But no opium this time, Jean - right?" They both laughed. When they all had their drinks, Jean gone, I said, "That business about opium - don't let that give you the jeepers. Silly joke. Well - here's to our heart's desires." They sipped. "Delicious," Larry said. "What a flavor! Even without opium, I can see how it could become habit-forming." "Why did you mention it, Douglas?" David rebuked him. "Now the Peter and Larry will be wondering all evening if they've been drugged." "Not me," Peter protested. "I always put opium in my drinks. Keeps the ice from melting." "What happened, you see," I explained, "was that we found Jean in Port-au-Prince. He was a busboy at our hotel, and steering tourists to a fake voodoo ceremony. All staged, of course. Cost twenty dollars a head, including a drink they claimed contained opium. Absolute fraud, you know. No opium in it. I know. Though they do have some very interesting drugs down there. Hallucinogens." "Did you ever go to a real voodoo ceremony, Douglas?" Larry asked breathlessly. "I'd say yes, dear," I smiled. "Wouldn't you agree, David?" He asked, turning suddenly to his companion. "Wasn't that genuine?" "I believe it was," David said. He looked down at the snake bracelet and amulet on his bare arm and chest, twisted it so the sapphire eyes glittered out. "I was quite impressed." "You were indeed," I laughed. "For two whole days! But that business with the headless chicken was just a mechanical trick, of course. I could have done that." Peter looked up from his drink. "Speaking of tricks, I'd still like to know how David did that mind reading stunt over at our place. I haven't figured that out yet, but you said it's a trick." "Well, it is and it isn't," I said slowly. "Not mechanical though. Oh no." "Do another magic trick, Douglas," Larry urged. "Please do." "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes, but perhaps we have time for a little one. Larry, think of a number between one and ten." "All right." "Got it?" "Yes." "What is it?" "Six." "Six," I repeated thoughtfully. "Very good. Now would you walk over to that vase on the mantelpiece, lift it, and read the slip of paper underneath?" Larry rose obediently, went to the vase, retrieved the note, and read it aloud: "The number you have chosen is six." He gasped, turned to me. "How do you do it?" he demanded. "How do you do it?" "Oh, I know how that one's done," Peter said, grinning at me. "You prepared ten notes, one for each number. They're concealed all around the room. Then, when Larry told you which number he selected, you merely directed him to the note with number six on it." "Is that how it was done?" I said with an ironic smile. "Take a look around the room, Peter. Pick up everything: odds and ends, lamps, and telephones. Behind pictures, under cushions. Everything, everywhere. See if you find another note." Peter went about busily, lifting, peeking, pushing, and searching. He didn't find a thing. "Douglas," he said slowly, shaking his head. "You never cease to amaze me." "Delighted to hear it, my dear," I cried, clapping him on the shoulder. "Now let's see what tricks Jean has prepared for us." They filed into the high-ceilinged dining room. I got them seated, and opened a bottle of white and a bottle of red wine, both Amontillado, both chilled. Then a beaming Jean carried in an enormous black iron pot and placed it on a trivet in the center of the table. He began to serve them, working rapidly and dexterously with spoon and fork. It was, I explained, "a kind of bouillabaisse and ratatouille, with shrimp, clams, vegetables, hot chilies, and saffron rice. "And something else," Larry said, testing. "Tortillas and chilaquiles." After his first nibble of rice, Peter said, "You use imported saffron. A different flavor from the powdered stuff we use. Am I right, Douglas?" "We do use the imported, that's true, Peter, but I suspect there's a flavor you can't identify. One of Jean's special herbs or spices. His grandfather sends him a packet every now and then from Port au Prince. The flavor is unusual, isn't it?" The iron pot was seemingly bottomless, and Jean assisted Larry and Peter to second helpings, and thirds. Though David and I ate sparingly, blaming their diets. More bottles of chilled wine were opened, and Jean brought in a glass bowl of salad: endive and hearts of palm. The salad also tasted faintly of the strange Haitian spice. As usual, I dominated the conversation, rumbling with laughter as he told them of his adventures and misadventures in the far corners of the world. Much of what he related seemed to come as a surprise to David, for he reacted with as much interest and fascination as Larry and Peter. Once he said, "I never knew you had been there, Douglas." And once he chided him gently, saying, "I wish you'd have told me you were going there; I'd have insisted on coming along." Later, the table candles burning low, espresso was served, with cheese, fresh fruit, a strawberry tart, Spanish brandy. "Who do we have to thank for this marvelous meal, Douglas?" Larry beamed at him. "You or Jean?" "It was a joint enterprise, dear," I said expansively. "Jean loves to cook as much as I do. We're always puttering about, trying this and that. New combinations of seasonings and herbs and spices. Always something new and different. Isn't that right, David?" "And I love it," he said, showing more animation than Peter and Larry had seen before. "I get bored so quickly." "Indeed you do," I fondly. "And I hate to cook," David said, looking at Peter Fey. "I'm not at my best in the kitchen." "Oh, boy!" I shouted. "And none of us will embarrass you by asking in which room you are at your best! Eh, Larry? Eh, Peter?" They nodded wildly. Both Peter and Larry seemed to be feeling the effects of the wine, food, and brandy. Peter had loosened his ties and unbuttoned his collar. Larry had kicked off his shoes, and insisted that Peter reach down the back of his shirt and give him a rubdown. He did, then turned to David. "And may I offer you the same service, dear?" he said with a silly giggle. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not very itchy right now." "So I noticed," he said, a remark that seemed to him and to Larry the height of sophisticated wit. Then nothing would do for them but to call Jean in from the kitchen for acclamation. Larry kissed him on the cheek. Peter shook his hand fervently. Both assured him that he was a cook and houseman nonpareil. "And driver," I added. "And private secretary." "And everything," David murmured. And Peter and Larry insisted that Jean have a glass of brandy. They urged him to pull up a chair to the littered table. But though he accepted the brandy, with thanks, he insisted on remaining standing. He was a lithe willow of a man, with stretched arms and legs, tight hips, and a lilting grace. He was so black he was almost blue, and his soft, suede skin seemed to contain him as completely as a line drawing. Those handsome features were never still, but moved in secret smiles, wry grins, and portentous frowns, shocked wonder. After his first swallow of brandy, he snapped his fingers with delight. Jokes were told, anecdotes related, Friendship Heights gossip exchanged, and Jean sang a calypso ballad, improvising a verse for each of the diners. It was a bravura evening, and he bowed modestly and retired to the kitchen with the plaudits of his audience still resounding. Then they were back in that gloomy living room, a fresh bottle of brandy with them to chase the shadows and hold back time. "Got to get going," Peter said, gazing blearily at his watch. "Got to go home. What does it mean when the little hand's on one and the big hand's on nine?" "Nonsense," I said heartily. "Shank of - and all that. Right, Larry? Right, David?" "Got to," Peter said muzzle. "Stay much longer, and stay forever." "Stay forever if you like," David said.

"Break It To Me" - Brenda Lee

Could hide what's on your mind? No matter how I tried I just couldn't be so blind We've been close but people grow, And they sometimes grow apart There's just one thing I ask you If you've had a change of heart... CHORUS: (And)Break it to me gently, If ya have to, then tell me lies Break it to me gently, At least leave me with my pride Try to spare my feelings If the feelings have to die Break it to me gently, If you have to say goodbye I'm not ashamed to admit I really hurt inside After all these are my feelings, Why should I make them hide? But I won't hold you back, There'll be no pulling on your sleeve Just let me down easy, And go softly when you leave... CHORUS: (And)Break it to me gently, If ya have to, then tell me lies Break it to me gently, At least leave me with my pride Try to spare my feelings If the feelings have to die Break it to me gently, If you have to say goodbye You always knew that you had my heart It's still yours, if you wanna take it But when you go, as I know you must, Be gentle with your breaking CHORUS: (And)Break it to me gently, If ya have to, then tell me lies Break it to me gently, At least leave me with my pride Trust me and my feelings If the feelings have to die Break it to me gently, If you have to say goodbye Break it to me gently, If you have to say goodbye, Goodbye, goodbye...