There was Pike Matton who was in somesortof band with somekind of sound to them. He played guitar, of course -- what the fuck else would he play? The strings were plucked strummed slammed ripped by his prying, frenzied fingers that traced up and down the neck like wringing out a chicken neck. It was dirty. Nasty. Their first track had a tan tshirt feel to it. He had an air about him, one that said a lot, said he wasnt into you unless you drank cheap beer and were a Dragonfly fan. The kind of guy I wanted to fuck but he’d rather beat the living shit out of me for even thinking of getting between the sheets with him, in all honesty that turned me on more than anything that the guy couldve provided in the bed room. There was a half-empty bottle of local shit they call beer that he kicked mid-solo out into the audience -- it hit the lip of the bar and shattered into oblivion spreading it contents all over bystanders who wooooed at the display. The guy next to me pissed his pants: Im not too sure of the cause, couldve been the bottle and he just happened to be the biggest pussy in all the city or it might be the fact that I threatened to slice off his nuts if he so much thought about washing away all that I had been building up in him since dinner three hours ago -- either way it didnt matter I got what I wanted: a piss soaked stud who’d shit in my hat if I wanted; we rushed back to the special guest bathroom and I fucked him in the stall while he cried, disgraced by the state that he’s in. His weeping sounded like a Sun O))) cover of a Chelsea Wolfe cover of a Black Sabbath song that was being played from a tape found in a dead half-mexican runaway from the Valley who’d been on Peyote as the song jostled girlish in the soon-to-cadaver-mule’s bowels during his death thralls. Oh yeah and whatever fucking band Matton was in was playing some shitty neo-Punk song or whatever the fuck it’s called. I came and went back to band; I never saw the guy again. What was I talking about? O yeah, Matton -- he was hot, literally, Dave Grohl couldnt sweat like this fucker. I wonder what his underwear smells like. About around having that thought or just before it or just before the set was over, I completely lost all interest in him sexually. He was dried meat, now, left out in the sun and coated in flies, wasp, dead fairies. The band was okay, I’d hear better, still ok tho, but for a free show it wasnt half bad. With the last song Pike switched guitar for mic. Half the place cleared, which still makes no fucking sense to me. Whatever. Besides, what I came for was the drummer. He was a coworker of a friend and I at least had a shot with him -- true he was straight and taken but I’ve sweet talked married men into my bed before so why the hell should he be difficult? Plus he had an ass built for my cock: round, fat yet small enough to pack in the trunk of my car. That man had a tight hole, let me tell you. We talked, two weeks later Im fucking him at some party were they’re playing this bands’ cds and as I coat whatever-the-fuck-this-guy’s-name-is’s face with my load the very same song that Im listening to right now live is playing through the thin walls and it occurs to me that the only thing that me and this guy who’s now sucking my dick both in the past’s future and the current past, the latter of course in my mind, have in common is this band. I remember there was this cute couple of fags on the couch Harry got for this place a few years back: one of them kept rubbing the other’s back lovingly and it was distracting as hell -- I just kept staring. . . . . So. . .um, yeah, the band, yeah the band played about six songs I think, I dont know, in all honesty I dont give a flying fuck about this band's history, what it is or what it was or even their songs really, they’re something like a punk grunge garage band that made like chicken clucks with the vocalist jumping around during the song, which we all walked in on. There’s too much shit in the system to tell what’s going on. People I went with: if you’re reading this Im not really sorry, about, like any of that night. Also Im not paying you back. And dude, what’s your face, guy I fucked, the one who smoked a bowl with the Volta, yeah you, um sorry I guess? if you’re reading this, which you’re not, but yeah, like, I’d fuck your guitarist and I’d fuck you again if yer up for it, so I guess...call me? sure yeah, call me if you wanna hook up again. Whatever.
