Your heart pounds in your chest so hard you swear it's gonna fucking explode at any moment. Your ears ring and you can barely hear anything above the noise in your head except the screams of the crowd outside. They're still hoping they can get you out for one more number, but it's over, man. That's all for tonight. Your body couldn't handle another number, as good as it felt to be out there playing for them tonight—playing with them, your band. With Dave. Sometimes you think you could go out there and play and never stop until it fucking killed you, and if it did then it would be one hell of a way to go out.
But not this night. Tonight you're done, and your skin is soaked with sweat from head to toe, your hair hanging limp and damp in your eyes as people blur by you, wanting to talk, to touch you and tell you how good you are, you're the fucking best. Yeah, sure, thanks, thank you. Cool. You nod and try to be polite but you just wish they would get out of your way, because the only thing you want—the only thing you need right now—is a shower. There's one down the corridor and if you can just make it there you know you'll be all right.
Finally you make it, shutting out the well-wishers and groupies and crew if only for a few moments. Undressing doesn't take much more than a thought. You're already down to your shorts and your sneakers, t-shirt shed long ago as the sweat from your performance had begun to weigh it down. The cold water hits your skin and it's a blessing, a cure, a shock back to reality as it slowly begins to cool your steaming flesh. You just let the water pour over you as you keep your head beneath the spray, feeling your pulse slow gradually to a less frantic beat.
You used to have other ways of coming down after a show. But now there's only this, the cold shower, your only friend and savior. Drink can't help you anymore, neither can the pills. You're not going back to that place again, two days in a coma and two months after that shitting charcoal, and how many months since then trying to prove to the world that you're a better man for it all?
Dave is somewhere out there with the others, kicking back with a glass of whiskey, and you can taste it on your tongue just like you can taste him, too, or at least imagine how he tastes since you've never had the chance to find out for real, as much as you'd like to. You bet he tastes like Crown Royal and cigarettes and lots of other things that are bad for you, but so hard to resist.
Always so hard to resist.
Someone else out there surely has some pills that would take you down, or some powder to make you fly the rest of the night. And just as surely there are girls who would gladly help relieve your tension, the ache inside that started to grow as soon as you started to think about Dave, but you know they wouldn't help, not really. Not for long. Better to take care of matters yourself, because you can trust your hand better you can trust some crazy chick who did who-knew-what (to who-knew-who) to get backstage.
Soap helps slicken your palm; you keep thinking about Dave and it's not long before you're hard and ready. You think about the sight of him on stage, the joy of watching him every night from your place behind him, feeling the energy flying between you both. You think of the way he teases you, almost constantly, his little jokes and flirty looks.
"You can look at me while I sing this to you, Tay," he teases sometimes, and you love it even as it kills you because it's just a joke to him. At least, you're pretty sure that's all it is. Sometimes you imagine catching him alone, backstage, after a show. You imagine pinning him to the wall, telling him to look at you while you tell him how much he drives you crazy.
"You can't tease a man forever," you'd tell him. "Something's gotta give." And then you'd show him just what you mean. You'd kiss him and keep him trapped there until unwilling lips finally parted, your demands for entry unable to be resisted forever. You'd press your crotch against his, knowing he'd feel how hard you were for him. You'd wait until you'd start to feel him get hard, too, because you know he would (it's your fantasy, so of course he would). He'd get hard and you'd feel it, and you'd press your hand against his cock and ask, "Is that for me?"
He'd swallow hard, looking at you, and maybe he'd be ashamed by how much you're turning him on. "Tay," he'd start, but you'd silence him with another kiss, because talk is all you've heard for too long. You don't want to hear anything now except him moaning against your mouth. And then, finally, he'd be touching you back; he'd be grasping your shoulders and you'd no longer need to keep him trapped with your arms, because he'd stay where he was willingly. His body would be hard and firm, and your mind would be filled with all sorts of ideas of what you'd like to do with him. You'd like to trace his tattoos with your tongue, swirling it over every line and curve of ink. You'd like to take his cock in your mouth and show him just how well a man knows how please another man. You'd like to feel him inside you, filling you, pounding you until he came, crying out your name.
But for now you would just keep kissing and touching, grasping, grinding together, the thin material of your shorts against his jeans, and even with the fabric between you, the friction and the heat would become too much. You'd have been wanting it for too long and now you'd have it, you'd have him. You'd rub up against him harder, panting, thrusting, and he'd be holding you so tight you'd feel his fingers biting into your flesh. The next thing you know he'd be coming against you and you'd cling to him, gasping, "I'm gonna come too, oh God, Dave..."
And then you shudder as the orgasm rocks you out of your fantasy. The water washes away the stickiness in your hand but it can't wash away the images in your brain. No, they're always there when you need them. They're always there, whether you want them or not.
So you finish up your shower as fast as you can, then, before anyone can start to wonder where you are or come looking for you. It's time to put on that after-show show for the band's sake, shake all the right hands and say all the right things, and yeah, maybe joke around with Dave like you two always do about how "close" you are and make them wonder a bit about just where the joke ends and reality starts. And you know exactly where that line is. At least for now you do.
But you don't know if you can hold to that line forever.
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