Bangbangbang

Pause ...

Bangbangbangbangbang

"Brian?!"

Jerry.

Again.

Despite the day's monumental turn of events – despite everything – and as proof that the human male can only fight the post orgasm go-the-fuck-to-sleep enzyme for so long, we had each fallen into a deep slumber.

"Fuck off!" I croak groggily, sliding an arm across Curt's chest and laying my head on it.

BANG! B-BANG! BANG! B-BANG!

"Brian, I need to speak with Curt. It's important."

"What the ..." I mutter, lifting my head and yelling, "What the hell would make you think Curt Wild would be in my room?!"

"Very funny," he snaps back. "Would you please just open the stupid bloody door?"

Before I can tell him fuck off again – I do so relish mistreating him – Curt jumps out of bed, stark bollock naked, looks back at me grinning, and goes for the door.

"Sure thing, Jer," he says, opening it.

"Jesus Christ," Jerry mutters as he bolts past him into the room.

"What's wrong?" Curt asks, innocently. "Never seen a naked man before?"

"In Brian's room?" He snorts. "Too many to count."

Curt crawls back into bed, pulls up the sheet and joins me in leaning against the fancy padded headboard, lights himself a cigarette, and reaches for my hand, holding it out on the top of the blanket.

"Well aren't you two just the picture of wedded bliss," Jerry says.

"Nah," Curt says, "that's that other fic."

"-What is it, Jerry?" I snap. "What excuse could you possibly have for interrupting me – us – twice, in our private time?-"

"-You do realize it's barely an hour before the show?"

This startles me – as I had genuinely lost track. But then … this hasn't exactly been a normal, uneventful day, either.

"And I will be ready in time! When am I not?! And by the way, don't pretend this," I add, flicking my thumb back and forth between Curt and myself, "isn't what you want."

"Ya," Curt nods, smiling, "isn't this totally the press's wet dream? Us two, in bed," he says, gesturing toward the floor, "with giant purple dildos on the floor!"

Jerry spies it, a meter off, and snaps his head away in disgust.

"Well seeing as we are in Italy" Jerry says, "where, as in most countries outside England, homosexuality is still illegal, I don't think that's advisable."

"Homosexuality?" Curt asks with mock anxiety, turning to look at me, "is that what we just did?"

"Shut up," I say. "So what is it, Jerry? What's so bloody stupid important all of a sudden? State your case, quickly. We've barely an hour to the show."

Jerry reaches into his coat and tosses a set of papers onto the bed.

"Curt's contract," he explains.

Curt dives on it. "What about it? What's wrong?" He lives in fear of being kicked off the tour, and as a result, fired by his record company.

I grab it from him and flip pages, quickly scanning.

"Jerry, this is … this is absolutely the standard contract all my opening acts sign … only you've underlined and circled some sections, for some reason … accommodations, food, the bus ..."

"As your opening act," Jerry says, "and as a strict part of the contract, may I remind you, Brian, that Curt is supposed to be traveling and sleeping in the tour bus, with his band, nightly. He isn't entitled to hotel privileges. Certainly not these balcony king-suites he and his band have been renting these last few weeks. Not that he's even been using his, apparently ..."

"We slept on the bus," Curt interjects quickly, "me, my whole band, every night, the first, what … five, six weeks? We ate take-out every day; we never touched the spread back stage-"

"-There's also been," Jerry interrupts, looking at me as if Curt isn't in the room, "these last few weeks, a positively obscene amount spent on five star restaurants, drink, and other excesses I'd rather not know about."

I pull myself up.

"This is ridiculous! We are swimming in cash! The cash that I earn on a nightly basis by selling out every show all over the world! I will be damned if we aren't going to travel in utmost style and comfort!"

"You are entitled to that, yes," Jerry snaps, "seeing as you are the only bone fide rock star in this room-"

"-Curt is a genius!" I bellow, gripping his hand.

Jerry stops and clears his throat, barely keeping his eyes from rolling.

"While I do believe that is debatable, it is also entirely irrelevant to this discussion, Brian, which is about the fact that it is very clearly laid out in the contract he signed that he and his band do not have 5 star hotel, restaurant and drink privileges."

Curt turns to me, looking worried.

"I don't wanna cause trouble. We can go back to the bus, no problem. As buses go, it's actually pretty fucking nice-"

"-No!" I snap, "bollocks!" I turn to Jerry. "I repeat: we are swimming in cash!"

Jerry crosses his arms.

"Of course we are, Brian, and as you know, that cash is allotted for a whole host of other, insanely expensive things, such as renting those giant stadiums that you sell out each night – do you imagine they come free? And paying off promoters and police and code inspectors; the cost of private jets – holy shit – just the fuel alone to criss-cross the world! The baggage, the excess taxes, the transport trucks and vans, the visas and permits, the staff in each city, need I go on? The insurance on this whole bloody thing! Which, need I remind you, when we added Curt to the bill, nearly doubled!"

"What?!" Curt cries, "Why?" He pleads, looking quickly from Jerry to me.

"Why do you think?!" Jerry snaps.

I jump out of bed and walk quickly towards him, a finger poking his chest.

"How dare you walk in here making demands and insulting Curt!-"

"-I am only demanding that he abide by the contract!"

"Curt and his band are my guests on this tour, Jerry, do you understand? They are electrifying audiences all over the world – like no other opening act I've ever had! Not even close! You've seen it! We're even selling out in fucking Russia! In Turkey, for fuck's sake! Yugoslavia!"

He points.

"The contract."

I dive on it. "Fuck the contact!" … and tear it in two, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. "Here's what you're going to do!" I shout. "First thing, you're on the phone to my accountant, and we're re-drawing the terms! Not only are Curt and his band getting full hotel and meal privileges – fuck the stipend, but we're upping their take – doubling it!"

I'm right in his face. He stares back, steely eyed. He speaks calmly.

"Well now I can see you have completely lost your mind."

"Have I, Jerry? Maybe I need a new manager then, starting tomorrow, perhaps?"

He harrumphs.

"I've got my own legally binding contract."

"And may I remind you that I have a set of the highest of high powered sleezeball solicitors in the entire industry – which is saying a lot! - who are eager and expert at finding loopholes, remember? It was the number one reason you hired them! I could easily have you cut loose tomorrow, if I wished it, and you know that that is no idle threat. Or perhaps you would prefer to simply have your hotel privileges revoked? Spend the next several weeks on the tour bus? Because that can definitely be arranged."

He's incensed, but I can also detect the subtle down shift in his eyes, the deflation of his chest.

"He'll never agree to it," he says, quietly, meaning my accountant and Curt's contract, ignoring every threat I've just made.

I grin in his face.

"Of course he will. You know why?"

He sighs in exasperation.

"Why, Brian?" he says in a sing-songy, sarcastic voice, "because 'money talks'?"

"Well, yes, there is that, plus the little matter of me having made you wealthy, and even a bit famous, yourself, you shan't forget. But mostly it's because I know you, and it couldn't be clearer to anyone that knows you – or anyone who doesn't, that you are every bit as addicted to the money and the fame – let alone the ego stroke - as me."

"Oh, please," he snorts. "No one can compete with you there."

"Perhaps not, but then I am the rock star, here, Jerry. You see how this works? Between you and me, I am the number one selling, multi-platinum times about thirty rock star, and in fact, genuine world wide, rock n roll superstar."

"A God," Curt quietly says behind me.

I turn, and climb back into bed next to him, taking his hand.

"Without me, Jerry, you. are. nothing. That is indisputable."I pause to let it sink in. "While without you, I'm still a God." I shrug. "It's just a simple fact."

His eyes bore into mine. It's not a look I haven 't seen dozens of times before - he wants to strangle me - but he also knows that every single word coming from my mouth is the cold, unassailable truth.

"And that means, very simply," I continue calmly, pulling the sheet up and closing the deal, "that if you love the money and the fame – if you crave it in your bones like I know you do - and if you intend to continue to ride this gravy train - then it's really very simple: What I say, goes. Period. End of story."

"Fabulous," he says dryly, gulping back whatever he wishes he could actually say, and turning towards the door.

"So we are in agreement, then?" I call after him. "No more bus, and no more takeout, and those guys get a big fat raise?"

"I shall speak with the accountant!" he snarls.

"And you will make it happen." A statement, not a question.

"Yes!" he snaps, ripping open the door, and slamming it shut.


Curt, having nervously sucked down almost the entirety of his cigarette in the two minutes that took, looks at me, wide eyed.

"Wow." he finally says. "Far out."

I laugh.

"Seriously," he continues, "that was intense."

"Was it? I don't even notice with Jerry anymore. It seems every conversation with him these days is like that." I turn and climb up, swinging my knees over his hips to straddle him, crouching over the soft silk sheet and taking the dead cig from his hand. "In other words ..." I say, whispering in his face, "I always get what I want."

"It's hot," he deadpans.

"You think so?" I laugh.

"Yes."

We kiss.


"Thanks for the raise, by the way," he says, "you just practically made me rich."

"Hardly. You were getting a pittance to begin with."

He takes my hand.

"You didn't have to do that though, Brian."

"I know. I wanted to. You deserve it. And I meant what I said – I do think you're a musical genius."

He grins.

"Love is definitely blind."

I stop.

"Love?!" I deadpan, with derision in my voice, pulling back to look at him with a straight, scornful face. "Who the hell said anything about love?!"

There's a half beat, just a flicker, in which his face falls, in which he believes for a moment that I've somehow already turned on him, that I hadn't meant what I'd said to begin with ...

"Oh, God, Curt," I plead, laying my hand on his cheek, "I was … I was kidding."

He can't be unaware of my reputation as a heartless, icy-veined bastard with an endless string of bitter ex-lovers, the type who run straight to the press with monstrous stories ... hence it's not, perhaps, an unreasonable conclusion to have jumped to.

No matter … the look on his face has already passed – he's figured it out without me telling him.

"I know," he says, trying to laugh. "Y'just freaked me out for a sec, that's all."

I'm haunted, though, by the look of what such a thing would do to him, by the hollow, pained expression so evident – even for a millisecond – in his eyes, bearing in mind how unspeakably betrayed he was from a young age by those who professed to love him.

"I'm so sorry. I was just being an arsehole. You know I love you madly, Curt. I'm a bastard about a lot of things, but I swear I would never lie about that. Not to you. I couldn't."

He sighs. He takes my hand from his cheek, and holds it between his.

"I know."

"At this point in my life - and I admit I've learned this the hard way - it's honestly not something I take lightly."

His face spreads slowly into a soft, shy smile.

"Well … I guess you just figured out my secret, then."

"Your secret?"

His eyes sparkle.

"That I don't, either."


We kiss ... slow, sweet, and easy. I run a hand up into the thick matte of unwashed hair and round the back of his head and pull him closer, savoring the gritty, ever present Detroit/American scent, the flavor and texture of him post sex and post cigarette, and climb further into his lap … where I bump into the hardness.

"Dirty boy," I whisper.

He gives me a faint pout.

"I told you it was hot."

I smile into his mouth.

"So it turns you on, watching me abuse Jerry?"

He pulls down the sheet, and brings my hand towards him.

"It turns me on when you get your way."

"Ya?" I say, caressing him. "You understand, though," I whisper, brushing against his lips, "that I always do …?"


He's sitting, face tilted upward, quietly watching mine as I rise, hang onto the high headboard, and, with his guidance, carefully lower in his lap. He feels warm and full inside my body, tight if not quite deep. Our lips slide together and pull apart as I writhe, slowly, rhythmically, teasing my nipples along his open mouth, grazing them against his face, running my erection up his torso. At a certain point, he silently maneuvers me round to face the other direction. The rise and fall is easier this way, and the gentle, and then not so gentle bounce off his thighs makes for deeper, less strenuous access, and also affords him full reign over my body.

He pulls me back against his chest and chews on my lobes, yanks my hair and and licks the sweat off my neck, whispering nastiness and tormenting my nipples as he ignores … and then doesn't ignore, my aching cock.

I raise slowly … and then drop, squeezing on the down stroke and landing hard on his balls. It's his all time favorite sexual recipe – deep house – the intense pleasure of the tight, rapid, forceful and complete embedding of his cock – there is no other sensation like it in the world – ending each time with that exquisite pinch of pain. Well, perhaps not pain. His balls are hypersensitive at this point, yes, but I'm not digging my nails into the pair, as he's sometimes asked me to do, or slapping them, as he's learned he loves during oral. This is more a certain yummy discomfort – the biting exclamation point at the end of the sensual sentence from the slight crushing each time I land, indeed, each time I aim for them, which, with a hand on either hip, he is actually helping me to do.


It was the original elephant in the room between us, some months back now, that he didn't want to acknowledge, or admit to, that was so obviously there. The hidden, previously dormant desire that he both craved, and also dreaded and as it turns out, felt deep shame over. Because ... who likes pain? Wants it? Seeks it out? Sick people, he'd been told. Indeed the root of it in his life lay in the hospital – otherwise known as the mental institution – where, starting at age 13, he was kept as a 'patient' for over a year against his will. One day a staff member he'd fancied, a handsome, but none-too-friendly orderly, gave him a sponge bath, and was rough about it. Much to his humiliation, and having no control, at that age, over his own libido, it made him hard - one of the very first times he'd ever been hard - and the man cruelly mocked him for it, but roughly jerked him to a thundering climax, anyway.

For days afterwards he was sore – the man had squeezed and rubbed him too hard, with a dry, calloused hand, without soap, lube or even spit - but the orgasm that resulted was so intense he couldn't stop thinking about it, and masturbating over it, even as the man publicly mocked him and told him that only 'psychotic faggots' liked pain.

Which didn't stop him from seeking Curt out for his next sponge bath, nor the next, nor Curt from letting him, only to have the whole thing happen again, each time. Thankfully he was discharged from the place shortly thereafter, but it all left him with a deep sense of confusion and shame, and as well as an equally deep craving he felt he had to keep hidden.

All of which is why I so delight in our pain play – edgy and rough, but always consensual, with no residual shame – I won't allow it.


That he would reveal this side of himself to me, that he would have even told me these stories at all, let alone allow me to attempt to rewrite his past by engaging in a revisit of these very sensations, says more about his level of trust in me than anything, I believe.

Which is why, despite my past behaviours, I don't feel like I could ever betray it.


Meanwhile, in his lap, faster and faster I grind, tightening my grip, and landing ever harder, driven all the while by his sheer, naked need, his insanely sexy grunts, pleadings, and gasps; by the fingernails digging into my hips.

It's intense, what we're doing. Sick, some would say. Dirty and perverted. Of course it is.

And I love it.

Surely it would be wrong for Curt Wild and Brian Slade to engage in vanilla, housewife-approved sex?


Delicious as it all his, he's reached his end point. I know this because in an instant and without warning, I'm thrown off his lap and tossed forward onto my elbows. He falls out, momentarily, in the process, which is such a shock – all I can feel is lube and cool air where he'd just been - before slamming back home, lunging and bucking with all his pent up lust and might, so that I'm forced to grab the footboard now, clinging tight, hanging on lest I be fucked straight off the bed – flying across the room and cracking my head open on the door.


Quickly, the wave approaches ... so powerful that my eyes roll completely forward and back in my head, before I let out a great gasping shriek.

Behind me, he hammers away through it, and then, some seconds along, comes with a shout and a gasping lunge, himself.


An upward glance at the clock reveals that we are just under 22 minutes from showtime.