...No, I do not think that mic stands really have genders, and no, I don't think they're even alive at all. But this insane, pitiful idea came to me when I was watching Michael Jackson stroke his mic stand while singing live.

If you wanna know the vid, it's called Michael Jackson - Dirty Diana, and it's on youtube, posted by the user michaeljackson. The mic-stand-stroking part is around 01:35 of the vid. And please don't get mad at me because I'm using something like this for inspiration. D:

I was seriously considering just deleting this whole file, but decided that there might be people who actually find this amusing rather than just plain stupid.

Please, go easy on the flames :'0

Disclaimer: I guess for once, I own everything in this story. I give credit for inspiration to what I mentioned above, though (it feels kinda weird, not admitting that what I write belongs in some way to someone else o.o)

--Sanded Silk--

It didn't start when he picked her out of the millions of different microphone stands being displayed around her. It didn't start when he carefully lifted her out of the box and set her on the ground, making sure she stood sturdily before stepping back to admire the way she glinted smoothly in the dim stage lights. It didn't start when he used her in his first ever concert, or his second, or his third.

It started during one particular concert, somewhere at the peak of his popularity in pop culture. The only light in the whole room was a blue one, shining down from above his head. He was wearing a completely unbuttoned dress shirt, and heavy black leather pants belted far too loosely, with thick silver buckles connecting the leather straps wrapped loosely around his thighs. His ample dark curls shined under the wash of blue light. An intense part of the song finished, and he had just stepped away from her to do one of his signature dizzying spins, before he turned back to her. He stopped, letting the bass and the guitar play their suddenly-quiet solo, and walked slowly up to her.

Suddenly, instead of grimacing inwardly at the crowd's crazed cheering and at his embarrassingly suggestive lyrics, she caught herself trying to catch glimpses of his bare chest, caramel-brown and lean, and found herself staring hungrily at his barely-visible hips, trim and flexible, as he walked almost suggestively up to her. She noticed the way the blue light curved and spilled over the perfect dents and bumps of his slender stomach. A jolt of fear and confusion shot through her, and she forced herself to turn away her gaze.

His hot, hot hand grabbed her suddenly, right under the microphone, and if she were able to move, she would have jumped. He brought the lower half of his body uncomfortably close to her. His thigh brushed her, then his knee. He shifted his weight smoothly from leg to leg as he stepped closer, his eyes half-closed, his body coming nearer and nearer. The hand that wasn't clamped around her lowered slowly, then pressed into her, his fingers in line with the middle of his thigh.

Then, to her utter shock, he slid his hand slowly up her silver length, pressing the vulnerable area between his legs alarmingly close to her. First the silver buckling of his belt was pushed slowly against her, then the black leather of his pants. His hand kept going up. He breathed a slow, pant-like breath into the microphone, squeezing another round of intoxicated screaming from his audience.

He began to sing again, but made no move to detach the microphone from her and go sauntering around the stage, as he usually did. He rocked his hips to the beat, and she wished like hell that she could jump out of his grasp. But at the same time, she didn't want him to step away from her, to release her. She felt his sweat-coated chest slide against her, felt his hand slide up and down more rapidly, and inwardly shuddered--half from nervousness, half from pleasure.

Finally--suddenly--he let go of her completely. He detached the microphone and strode across the stage, pointing out at his audience as he sang with his usual attitude-filled voice.

She sighed in relief. The heat of the stage was hundreds of times more sufferable than the heat of her singer's hands. As he danced fluidly to the music, singing into the microphone breathlessly, she ripped her gaze from him and forced herself to focus on the unnaturally bouncy hair of one of the girls in the crowd. Her mind raced hopelessly, and in no time, she wasn't seeing the bouncy hair at all. The feel of his hands clamped around her and his chest sliding against her--it all crashed through her repeatedly in overwhelming waves. She stood there rigidly, like the mic stand she was, and endured the images and sensations flying through her mind for the remainder of the concert.

-o-o-

After the concert, the stage lights were turned on, but as low as possible, to avoid blinding the stage crew and the performers. She still stood where her singer had left her--right smack in the middle-front of the stage, facing the now-empty seats that previously seated half a million butts. The lights and the absence of a crowd relaxed her--and tonight, the absence of her singer relaxed her especially. A stage worker suddenly picked her up and began to walk offstage. Suddenly, a commotion rose to his right. A curtain had fallen. He set her down hurriedly so that she was facing the backstage door, and hurried off to help with the curtain.

As she watched them struggle with the heavy curtain, she heard the backstage door open and close, and heard an all-too-familiar voice. Though every inch of her being was screaming at her not to, she turned her gaze and saw her singer walk through with his stringy lead electric guitarist, deep in conversation. To her anxiety, they began to walk towards her, unaware of the fallen curtain. The guitarist, his bony cheekbones working, was chiding the singer for overworking.

"...and next week's concert will keep you busy enough. You should really get some rest, James."

Her singer--James--rolled his eyes. "Allan, I know. But there are calls I need to make; I need to talk with the manager, and with the idiot who owns the concert hall where next week's concert is. He better make sure the floor's clean this time, or God help him..."

The mic stand smiled to herself. Next week's concert hall--ah, she remembered that place well. While dancing, James had nearly broken his back and ankle when he slipped on a stray piece of plastic wrapping. The veins in his throat were dark against his skin when he roared his displeasure at the hall's owner, who was old and refused to take any responsibility.

Allan sighed. "Well, get to your hotel room and make those calls. Don't stand around here looking half-dead. Makes us feel even more tired than we already do."

"Well, sorry," James drawled sarcastically, and followed the fake apology with a long, luxurious sigh. "If all of you insist, I'll head out right now. But first let me pack up."

"No," Allan said firmly. "I'll make sure the stage crew takes care of that. You get to your hotel room. Now."

"Yes, mother." James turned around to leave, then caught sight of his mic stand and stopped cold.

"Argh, now what-?" Allan followed James' gaze, and both stood there staring at the mic stand for a moment.

"You know, your rivals are going to be all over your little incident with your mic stand," Allan reprimanded, forgetting his resolve to make James get some rest. "Critics are gonna be all over this too. What were you thinking, grinding and sliding on that poor piece of metal like that?"

"I don't know what came over me," James said, rubbing his hand through his head of thick curls, slightly embarrassed. "I got really into the song, I guess."

"For the love of your reputation, try to refrain from doing something like that onstage again. There were 10-year-old girls in the crowd--think on that next time you perform. Jeezus, the singer I'm working under is developing a fetish for mic stands..." Mumbling to himself, Allan walked away, shaking his head.

"Ehehe," James laughed embarrassingly to himself, then gave the mic stand another hard stare. She stiffened, and focused intensely on the stage workers as they continued to struggle with the curtain.

Finally, he turned his stormy-blue eyes away from her and, yawning, headed for the backstage door. "Erk. Good luck with the curtain, guys," He said through the enormous yawn to the crew members as he passed them, and they grunted their thanks without looking up.

A/N: Soo, please tell me how I did. Can't really comment on anything right now, except for the fact that I may have offended some MJ fans by seeming to mock him after his death. If you think so, I'm really sorry; I just needed somewhere to dump this idea on for a bit. I might not even continue this story, so please don't get too mad at me... D:

Umm, yeah. R&R please!

--Sanded Silk--