Smoking - Chapter 23
Title:: Smoking
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Chapters 1 - 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Our first UK tour. That’s where it all started. If it hadn’t started before, this kicked it all off. I’ve not yet figured out for myself where exactly it started, but I’m pretty sure it was that first UK tour. We went from playing big festivals and sold out clubs of a rather good size to playing gigs at veritable holes in the wall. There were no screaming German fangirls begging for Join Me, there were no Finnish fans who’d been coming to our shows since that first Semifinal gig way back when we didn’t even have a proper demo tape, just “Witches and Other Night Fears”… the only remaining copy of which I still hide at the back of my bookshelf out of pure embarrassment. No. We were nobodies, faces without a name, a random band lucky enough to land a gig in the holes we did manage to play in.
I’ve never been as nervous about anything in my life as I was about that first gig in London. My fingernails and the tips of my fingers were turned into bloody shreds because I was in London, I was in the city I’d dreamed of all my life and never been to, and this was where I wanted to succeed most. It didn’t matter to me that Join Me was number one in Germany, that my face was all over MTV there and in the rest of Europe. It was the UK that I cared about. From the first time I approached Lily to suggest, oh so casually, that we start a band, all I wanted to do was get to England. I was fascinated by everything English; the language, the culture, the music scene… and there we were, actually playing a gig in London. I didn’t care that the club could barely hold our equipment much less a crowd the size we’d been getting in Europe. I didn’t care that we were practically unknown. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted it to be good.
And it was good. Perhaps the whole crowd didn’t know all the words to all the songs, but it didn’t matter. We played well. We played really well. Lily had taken the matter of my nervousness into his own hands - or rather, his mouth - and literally sucked all the nerves out of my body, and I came on stage in a giddy, post-orgasmic state of oblivion, and then the music started and well. I just went from there.
The first time I saw him, he was standing in the midst of the crowd right in front of me, grinning and singing along to the song - Wicked Game, I remember it well - and dancing as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Next to him was a burly, muscled, hairy ginger man, rolling his eyes at him but laughing a long, talking to him occasionally and watching the rest of the band with a look of mild disinterest in his eyes. Ah, I thought, the accomplice. The poor soul dragged along so that the other wouldn’t be so lonely in his pursuits. After Wicked Game, I stopped to get a drink of beer, and whilst I was downing it and lighting up a fag, I caught his eye and smirked at him. He didn’t show any recognition, but he did nudge his chattering friend, who looked up at me immediately.
The beer burned in the back of my throat and I coughed - it wasn’t that his grin had made something weird happen to my insides. Not at all.
I plastered a smug grin on my face and turned to Lily.
“Right, Lindström, you know what to do.”
He nodded, and we launched into the next song, and I forgot all about the piercing blue eyes and the wide grin in the middle of the crowd. I honestly did. I was lost in the music again, my own music, and the voices of the people singing along, and the riff flowing from Linde’s long, slender fingers which were probably still sticky from my own cum. The drums being pounded out by Gas - our new and rather excellent drummer - shook the very bones of my body and the bass-line that Mige was picking out with all his might was threatening to send me over the edge, and the whole thing was only aided by Juska whose fingers were flying over the keyboard, eliciting the sweetest tune that fit over the loud mayhem of the other parts just perfectly.
All in all, the whole thing was a hit, and I moaned into the microphone as usual, dragging on my cigarette and swigging at my beer and relishing everything that was going well and right in my life.
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Bam doesn’t think he’s seen anything like it in his life.
They’re like electricity that he can hear and see and feel, and Dunn’s laughing at him but he doesn’t care because right now, all he can care about is trying to catch those green eyes again and trying to make those peach lips smile at him.
And as if the music itself isn’t hot enough - the thumping bass and the shrill keyboards and the unrelenting riffs from the guitar and the pounding drums all send shivers up his spine, and though he knows the songs like the back of his hand, he’s never heard them like this, they’ve never been so loud and vibrant and personal, and he’s seriously beginning to wonder if he can manage to prevent himself from coming in his pants - and as if the singing wasn’t luscious and sumptuous by itself… the singer…
There are no words. Bam can’t take his eyes off him. He can’t help but follow the lazy sway of his hips in time with the music, he can’t help but take in every movement, every expression, and every gesture… he can’t help but become completely captivated by his every move.
He watches slack-jawed as the tall man moves around the small stage as if he owns it. He’s skinnier than Bam ever thought was humanly possible and when he peels off his shirt, Bam can’t help but gawp at the almost feminine curves of his abdomen, the intricate tattoo over his leather pants slung so low over his waist that Bam is sure he is violating several laws all at once and the pure sheen of his perfect, sweaty skin in the spotlights.
“Dude, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you was about to get a hard on for that Rabbit guy. Snap out of it its not like he’s some kind of God or somethin’…”
Bam almost doesn’t hear him. He just shrugs it off. He doesn’t care about Ryan right now. Maybe that’s mean. Maybe he’s just relieved that he found something that he was more attracted to than his own best friend. Maybe he’s just in shock because when the singer - Ville, Bam remembers is his name - takes the mic out of the stand and walks over to his keyboardist, trailing a long, delicate finger down the side of his cheek and neck and chest, Bam is sure he’s never seen anything, anything as hot in his life.
“Dude, I knew they’d just be some weird faggotty band!”
“Dunn, seriously, shut the fuck up and listen already.”
But Bam isn’t listening anymore either. He’s too busy staring as the keyboardist leans into Ville’s touch, winking, a look on his face that Bam can’t quite place. The knowing smirk on the peach lips is so familiar, Bam is sure he’s seen it a hundred times as he lay in bed at night, the first fateful video of theirs that he ever saw playing on repeat and his hand curled around a painfully hard cock. He thinks he might faint when Ville leans over and sucks the lower lip of the keyboardist into his mouth, and he knows his mouth is open because Ryan’s thrown his head backwards and is laughing so hard he can be heard over the amps at the look on Bam’s face. Suddenly Bam’s back in the real world, the furious guitar solo pounding through his ears as Ville pulls back, grinning, and flounces over to the guitarist, hiding behind veritable sheaths of poker straight blonde hair. The guitarist is staring resolutely downwards but Ville just rolls his eyes at him - and Bam is so close he can see it, he can see every little expression on Ville’s face and they fascinate him because he’s never seen anyone’s face as expressive as his. A long, delicate finger reaches out and lifts the guitarist’s head up by the chin and peach lips pucker up and blow him a kiss. Bam is so close and the stage is so small that he can see the guitarist flush redder than he was before as Ville flounces off, back to his microphone stand just in time to start the next verse.
A million things are racing through Bam’s mind right now, a million thoughts and feelings and desires and he can’t keep them straight and the hectic, all-encompassing music isn’t helping because it’s just offering to help him forget it all. As if it was a river, inviting him to send all his troubles and cares floating away with it as it courses through his veins, and he’s sure the music’s in his veins, it’s so loud and carnal and venereal and sensual and sanguine and a million other physical things, all at once, it can’t help but get inside him.
He stops thinking. He stops remembering that he’s in a club full of a few hundred other people. He stops remembering that he’s never met any of these people before. He stops remembering that though he might be a rising star, there is no way such a deity would ever have heard of him. Deity - yes, that’s what he was, completely charismatic and untouchable and … supreme. It’s the only word for him. Supreme. He’ a pale skinned, green eyed, peach lipped god, or a prince, a prince that everyone wants - for it would take no rocket scientist to work out that all the onlookers are almost as captivated by him if not as captivated by him as Bam is.
And then, all too soon, it’s over. They’ve played two encores and official looking people are starting to clear out the club but Bam isn’t done. He can’t be done.
“Dunn, we’re going backstage.”
“What? BamBam, I know you like them but dude, don’t be a nidiot, how are we gonna get backstage?”
“Just … come with me.”
A few well placed words and hints later and Bam and Ryan are being ushered backstage and Bam wonders if the butterflies in his stomach are normal or not. He wonders if this is even worth the try. Maybe it’s better to stand back and watch from a distance like the rest of the fans. Maybe it’s better for his own mental health to turn around now and get this whole thing out of his head. Because he’s not quite sure just how well he’s going to be able to control himself.
And he really can’t afford to let go of his self-control. Not now. Not around so many people. There are more things at stake here than the state of his sex life and insecurities.
But before he has the chance to change his mind, they’re being lead into a small room by a guy in a blue shirt that says Staff across it in huge yellow letters, tucked into his pants all around and clinging to his large beer belly in a way that makes Bam cringe inwardly. There is widespread laughter coming from the room but Bam only has the chance to wonder whether this really is a good idea before the guy with the blue shirt and the beer belly is shoving him and Ryan in the door and introducing them and there are 5 sets of curious and confused eyes on him and there’s no turning back now, all he can do is pray that he’s not too bright a shade of red.
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It started just after we signed our first deal with BMG for a proper album. Just a few words here and there, a well-placed giggle, a flutter of the lashes over his doe eyes. Gradually there was more make up on his face, tighter clothes - leather, pvc, all of it clinging to him in all the right places and just making him even more irresistible than ever.
But it wasn’t until Antto left and we were between a rock and a hard place for a good keyboarder that it got really bad.
I sat by and watched as he flounced all over anything that would sit still for long enough. He was a rockstar and he was certainly acting the part. He started smoking god only knew how many packs a day; he was almost always drunk. He was quick to fall in love and got hurt when he realized the objects of his affections were just looking for a good time, even though that’s all he claimed to be doing. He would spend his time with anyone that came with enough money or enough vodka to buy it.
Helsinki is a small place. The music scene we were caught up in was an even smaller place. Everyone knew everyone and everyone partied with everyone and when you’re in Finland, you party hard. I should have seen it coming; after all, he’d always loved partying, and he’d known most of the people on the scene well before we got our deal. We had connections everywhere; maybe that was why we got the deal in the first place.
Juska just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Antto left to do his own thing and Ville was desperate to get another keyboarder. He said that our keyboard tracks gave us something other bands didn’t have; we couldn’t do without them. Ville saw him from across the room in a crowded party and he leaned over to me and whispered in my ear,
“Do you know who that guy is? The pretty one, over there.”
Not only was it a shock to hear Ville call someone pretty, it was rare for him to even ask about someone he liked before sitting on their lap and kissing them anyways, without even saying hello. That was just how he was. He’d never had issues with self-confidence. He oozed it from every pore of his body. What he wanted to do, he did, and if you didn’t like it then it was tough.
It was to the point that he didn’t care what he did with anyone anymore. It didn’t matter who they were or what they had between their legs, not after he’d had a few drinks. He just wanted affection. He even kissed me once or twice in the middle of the party before I pushed him off and reminded him where we were.
“See his hands? Look. Think he’s a keyboardist?”
“I dunno, Ville, go ask him.”
He did just that, flouncing over, plopping himself in the guy’s lap and striking up a conversation. I could hear the high-pitched, geeky giggles from across the room. I wanted to break the fingers that curled playfully around his wrist. I wanted to slap him across the face when he giggled at Ville’s giggles. I wanted to rip him to shreds when, after half an hour of mindless and blatant flirting and knocking back the shots, he went in for Ville’s lips - they had raspberry gloss on, I know, because Ville’d made me taste them before we left home to see if it was an acceptable taste - and I was ready to cut his tongue out of his face when he stuck it down Ville’s throat.
When, 5 minutes later, Ville dragged him by the hand over to meet me, however, I plastered on a drunk smile and shook his hand vigorously.
“Lintti, meet our new keyboardist.”
I grit my teeth as I grinned and welcomed him to the band, and silently imagined just how I’d kill him if I could get my hands on him and get away with it.
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My first time with a man was … shall we say… somewhat unsatisfactory.
He was hot, and he was a good friend, and he was drunk, and he was more than willing; and I was drunk, horny and looking for something that Linde wouldn’t give me.
So, I let him fuck me. We were drunk - very drunk - it was at a big party and we’d ended up in someone’s bedroom with a bottle of vodka and relatively fewer clothes on than we’d turned up in.
We were used to making out; we did it all the fucking time. At band practice, at gigs, when we were sitting around and there was nothing better to do.
He was almost like another Lily. Except he didn’t sleep in my bed.
In fact, I began to think he was better. Because he wanted me. I liked people that wanted me. I wanted to be wanted. Lily never showed a sign; he just lay back and took it.
Or didn’t take it, as the case may be.
So we were drunk, and I told myself that I wanted something from him since Linde wouldn’t cave.
Somewhere along the lines, though, between shucking clothes and swigging vodka, the messages got crossed and somehow I found myself on my hands and knees in front of him whilst he thrust into me, no lube, no prep, nothing but a condom that had been in his wallet for god only knew how long which he only remembered at the last minute.
That didn’t hurt at all.
Somewhere amongst the pain and the alcohol, I passed out before it was over. I woke up the next morning being poked in the side by Jussi, from the 69 Eyes, who I knew had also been at this party, though I didn’t know why, smirking at my skinny, naked, red and sore ass and asking me if I’d had a good time on his bed last night.
He was sworn to secrecy. I hobbled out of his house and into a taxi and cringed at the thought that the first time I’d properly met Jussi, I had been naked and spent on his bed, and he hadn’t even had a thing to do with it.
The next time I woke up naked and spent on his bed, just a few weeks later, however, he had everything to do with it. And I began to realize just why the stereotypical gay man was so promiscuous.
If I was going to be sold as sex incarnate, I was going to bloody well have a lot of sex.
And at that point in time, I didn’t care who I got it from. I’d been fucked over by girlfriends too many times to care about a steady partner.
I just wanted sex. A lot of it. In all different shapes and sizes. And I was going to get sex. And if anyone - even Linde - had a problem with it, they could suck it.
When I told the reporter, that one evening, that I was a bisexual man without homosexual experiences, both Linde and I knew it was a blatant half lie. I was a bisexual. I knew it well now and I had almost no problems with it anymore. It wasn’t like the first time I hooked up with Lily when I was in a state of emotional turmoil. I knew what I was and I was going to embrace the liberty that gave me and fuck everyone who didn’t like it.
I was a bloody rockstar. And I was bloody well going to act like one.
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“Hello, sweetheart. Who’re you?”
The backroom is dark, dank and dusty; the club isn’t very big and it’s very old and falling into a sad state of disrepair. The old, yellow tinged fluorescent light overhead blinks and makes a buzzing sound, as if it’s just about to give up all attempt at forcing out the little light it’s managing to. Beer cans are strewn across the floor, beer cans and bottles of cheap Californian red wine. Five full ashtrays crowd the small table in the middle, and the room is hazy with smoke. Ville’s green, green eyes are the only bright thing of the room and Bam feels like a tiny little fly on a summer night, helplessly attracted to them even though he knows if he gets too close he’s going to get burnt to a crisp and dried to the glass in a black smudge of bug guts and gore.
Ryan snorts beside his star-struck friend and rolls his eyes.
“Just ignore him, Villie, he’s just met his God. I’m Ryan Dunn, that drooling thing is Bam Margera. We’re on Jackass… maybe you know it, from MTV? Anyways, this little shit has this mancrush on you and he dragged me to see you guys - not that you aren’t fucking awesome, which you are - and then he just had to come meet you whilst he had the chance. Did I mention that he has a permanent hard on for - OW.”
Bam suddenly snaps back to life and elbows his friend in the chest.
“Shut the fuck up, asswipe.”
Ville smirks, his green eyes twinkling, and Bam has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself on the ground.
“I’m not sure I know who you lovely creatures are.”
“Jackass? No? Well. Basically, I get paid shitloads of money for skateboarding off of roofs, and shitdick here gets paid to do other stupid things like, I don’t know, say… jump into a sewer system in a thong, and MTV stick it on national television and its this big deal.” Bam shrugs. “You’re not missing much if you haven’t seen it. Just us making fools out of ourselves.”
From the other side of the room, there’s a crashing of instruments as the drummer and the bassist look up from their game of chess to see what the deal is near the door. An excited stream of Finnish and some more crashing later and they’re at Ville’s side, grabbing Bam and Ryan’s hands and shaking them profusely. Ville’s eyes twinkle even more, like those few stars that struggle through on cloudy nights and seem all the brighter for all the darkness that surrounds them, and explains that his friends apparently know who they are very well.
“So, sweetheart,” Ville says, after Gas and Mige have talked and laughed and given and received compliments and finally left again to finish their game, and wraps a tattooed arm around Bam’s taught shoulders. “Would you and your friend like to stay for a drink? Get a bit more acquainted? I’d love to hear more about this intriguing show of yours. It seems as if I’m the only person in the room - besides Lily - who doesn’t get MTV.”
Bam tenses at the touch; Ryan notices it and smirks behind his ginger beard, throwing himself down on the tattered couch in a preemptive motion. Bam rolls his eyes at him and looks up at the man whose face has haunted his dreams.
“I’m guessing we’re staying,” he says, controlling a nervous giggle and wondering if there’s some kind of medicine he can take to poison the butterflies in his stomach to stop them from making him want to throw up.
“Good, sweetheart, good. I really couldn’t have finished off all this beer by myself.”
A cat-like grin, a quick dart of a pink tongue to peach lips and a small wink and Bam is lost again, staring like he’s never seen another person before.
Ville’s eyes twinkle like a spider whose net is shaking with the weight of a new catch, another helpless, twitching insect to prey and gorge himself upon.
Genre:: Drama
Fandom:: RPS Vam, Villinde, Dugera, Lindunn, others.
Rating:: R
Summary:: A story, reaching back to the beginning like a twisted, curling whisp of smoke from a slow burning fire.
Disclaimer::Most characters are property only of themselves; I own the storyline and the writing. This is a work of ficiton; treat it as such.
Links
Chapters 1 - 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Our first UK tour. That’s where it all started. If it hadn’t started before, this kicked it all off. I’ve not yet figured out for myself where exactly it started, but I’m pretty sure it was that first UK tour. We went from playing big festivals and sold out clubs of a rather good size to playing gigs at veritable holes in the wall. There were no screaming German fangirls begging for Join Me, there were no Finnish fans who’d been coming to our shows since that first Semifinal gig way back when we didn’t even have a proper demo tape, just “Witches and Other Night Fears”… the only remaining copy of which I still hide at the back of my bookshelf out of pure embarrassment. No. We were nobodies, faces without a name, a random band lucky enough to land a gig in the holes we did manage to play in.
I’ve never been as nervous about anything in my life as I was about that first gig in London. My fingernails and the tips of my fingers were turned into bloody shreds because I was in London, I was in the city I’d dreamed of all my life and never been to, and this was where I wanted to succeed most. It didn’t matter to me that Join Me was number one in Germany, that my face was all over MTV there and in the rest of Europe. It was the UK that I cared about. From the first time I approached Lily to suggest, oh so casually, that we start a band, all I wanted to do was get to England. I was fascinated by everything English; the language, the culture, the music scene… and there we were, actually playing a gig in London. I didn’t care that the club could barely hold our equipment much less a crowd the size we’d been getting in Europe. I didn’t care that we were practically unknown. I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted it to be good.
And it was good. Perhaps the whole crowd didn’t know all the words to all the songs, but it didn’t matter. We played well. We played really well. Lily had taken the matter of my nervousness into his own hands - or rather, his mouth - and literally sucked all the nerves out of my body, and I came on stage in a giddy, post-orgasmic state of oblivion, and then the music started and well. I just went from there.
The first time I saw him, he was standing in the midst of the crowd right in front of me, grinning and singing along to the song - Wicked Game, I remember it well - and dancing as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Next to him was a burly, muscled, hairy ginger man, rolling his eyes at him but laughing a long, talking to him occasionally and watching the rest of the band with a look of mild disinterest in his eyes. Ah, I thought, the accomplice. The poor soul dragged along so that the other wouldn’t be so lonely in his pursuits. After Wicked Game, I stopped to get a drink of beer, and whilst I was downing it and lighting up a fag, I caught his eye and smirked at him. He didn’t show any recognition, but he did nudge his chattering friend, who looked up at me immediately.
The beer burned in the back of my throat and I coughed - it wasn’t that his grin had made something weird happen to my insides. Not at all.
I plastered a smug grin on my face and turned to Lily.
“Right, Lindström, you know what to do.”
He nodded, and we launched into the next song, and I forgot all about the piercing blue eyes and the wide grin in the middle of the crowd. I honestly did. I was lost in the music again, my own music, and the voices of the people singing along, and the riff flowing from Linde’s long, slender fingers which were probably still sticky from my own cum. The drums being pounded out by Gas - our new and rather excellent drummer - shook the very bones of my body and the bass-line that Mige was picking out with all his might was threatening to send me over the edge, and the whole thing was only aided by Juska whose fingers were flying over the keyboard, eliciting the sweetest tune that fit over the loud mayhem of the other parts just perfectly.
All in all, the whole thing was a hit, and I moaned into the microphone as usual, dragging on my cigarette and swigging at my beer and relishing everything that was going well and right in my life.
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Bam doesn’t think he’s seen anything like it in his life.
They’re like electricity that he can hear and see and feel, and Dunn’s laughing at him but he doesn’t care because right now, all he can care about is trying to catch those green eyes again and trying to make those peach lips smile at him.
And as if the music itself isn’t hot enough - the thumping bass and the shrill keyboards and the unrelenting riffs from the guitar and the pounding drums all send shivers up his spine, and though he knows the songs like the back of his hand, he’s never heard them like this, they’ve never been so loud and vibrant and personal, and he’s seriously beginning to wonder if he can manage to prevent himself from coming in his pants - and as if the singing wasn’t luscious and sumptuous by itself… the singer…
There are no words. Bam can’t take his eyes off him. He can’t help but follow the lazy sway of his hips in time with the music, he can’t help but take in every movement, every expression, and every gesture… he can’t help but become completely captivated by his every move.
He watches slack-jawed as the tall man moves around the small stage as if he owns it. He’s skinnier than Bam ever thought was humanly possible and when he peels off his shirt, Bam can’t help but gawp at the almost feminine curves of his abdomen, the intricate tattoo over his leather pants slung so low over his waist that Bam is sure he is violating several laws all at once and the pure sheen of his perfect, sweaty skin in the spotlights.
“Dude, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you was about to get a hard on for that Rabbit guy. Snap out of it its not like he’s some kind of God or somethin’…”
Bam almost doesn’t hear him. He just shrugs it off. He doesn’t care about Ryan right now. Maybe that’s mean. Maybe he’s just relieved that he found something that he was more attracted to than his own best friend. Maybe he’s just in shock because when the singer - Ville, Bam remembers is his name - takes the mic out of the stand and walks over to his keyboardist, trailing a long, delicate finger down the side of his cheek and neck and chest, Bam is sure he’s never seen anything, anything as hot in his life.
“Dude, I knew they’d just be some weird faggotty band!”
“Dunn, seriously, shut the fuck up and listen already.”
But Bam isn’t listening anymore either. He’s too busy staring as the keyboardist leans into Ville’s touch, winking, a look on his face that Bam can’t quite place. The knowing smirk on the peach lips is so familiar, Bam is sure he’s seen it a hundred times as he lay in bed at night, the first fateful video of theirs that he ever saw playing on repeat and his hand curled around a painfully hard cock. He thinks he might faint when Ville leans over and sucks the lower lip of the keyboardist into his mouth, and he knows his mouth is open because Ryan’s thrown his head backwards and is laughing so hard he can be heard over the amps at the look on Bam’s face. Suddenly Bam’s back in the real world, the furious guitar solo pounding through his ears as Ville pulls back, grinning, and flounces over to the guitarist, hiding behind veritable sheaths of poker straight blonde hair. The guitarist is staring resolutely downwards but Ville just rolls his eyes at him - and Bam is so close he can see it, he can see every little expression on Ville’s face and they fascinate him because he’s never seen anyone’s face as expressive as his. A long, delicate finger reaches out and lifts the guitarist’s head up by the chin and peach lips pucker up and blow him a kiss. Bam is so close and the stage is so small that he can see the guitarist flush redder than he was before as Ville flounces off, back to his microphone stand just in time to start the next verse.
A million things are racing through Bam’s mind right now, a million thoughts and feelings and desires and he can’t keep them straight and the hectic, all-encompassing music isn’t helping because it’s just offering to help him forget it all. As if it was a river, inviting him to send all his troubles and cares floating away with it as it courses through his veins, and he’s sure the music’s in his veins, it’s so loud and carnal and venereal and sensual and sanguine and a million other physical things, all at once, it can’t help but get inside him.
He stops thinking. He stops remembering that he’s in a club full of a few hundred other people. He stops remembering that he’s never met any of these people before. He stops remembering that though he might be a rising star, there is no way such a deity would ever have heard of him. Deity - yes, that’s what he was, completely charismatic and untouchable and … supreme. It’s the only word for him. Supreme. He’ a pale skinned, green eyed, peach lipped god, or a prince, a prince that everyone wants - for it would take no rocket scientist to work out that all the onlookers are almost as captivated by him if not as captivated by him as Bam is.
And then, all too soon, it’s over. They’ve played two encores and official looking people are starting to clear out the club but Bam isn’t done. He can’t be done.
“Dunn, we’re going backstage.”
“What? BamBam, I know you like them but dude, don’t be a nidiot, how are we gonna get backstage?”
“Just … come with me.”
A few well placed words and hints later and Bam and Ryan are being ushered backstage and Bam wonders if the butterflies in his stomach are normal or not. He wonders if this is even worth the try. Maybe it’s better to stand back and watch from a distance like the rest of the fans. Maybe it’s better for his own mental health to turn around now and get this whole thing out of his head. Because he’s not quite sure just how well he’s going to be able to control himself.
And he really can’t afford to let go of his self-control. Not now. Not around so many people. There are more things at stake here than the state of his sex life and insecurities.
But before he has the chance to change his mind, they’re being lead into a small room by a guy in a blue shirt that says Staff across it in huge yellow letters, tucked into his pants all around and clinging to his large beer belly in a way that makes Bam cringe inwardly. There is widespread laughter coming from the room but Bam only has the chance to wonder whether this really is a good idea before the guy with the blue shirt and the beer belly is shoving him and Ryan in the door and introducing them and there are 5 sets of curious and confused eyes on him and there’s no turning back now, all he can do is pray that he’s not too bright a shade of red.
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It started just after we signed our first deal with BMG for a proper album. Just a few words here and there, a well-placed giggle, a flutter of the lashes over his doe eyes. Gradually there was more make up on his face, tighter clothes - leather, pvc, all of it clinging to him in all the right places and just making him even more irresistible than ever.
But it wasn’t until Antto left and we were between a rock and a hard place for a good keyboarder that it got really bad.
I sat by and watched as he flounced all over anything that would sit still for long enough. He was a rockstar and he was certainly acting the part. He started smoking god only knew how many packs a day; he was almost always drunk. He was quick to fall in love and got hurt when he realized the objects of his affections were just looking for a good time, even though that’s all he claimed to be doing. He would spend his time with anyone that came with enough money or enough vodka to buy it.
Helsinki is a small place. The music scene we were caught up in was an even smaller place. Everyone knew everyone and everyone partied with everyone and when you’re in Finland, you party hard. I should have seen it coming; after all, he’d always loved partying, and he’d known most of the people on the scene well before we got our deal. We had connections everywhere; maybe that was why we got the deal in the first place.
Juska just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Antto left to do his own thing and Ville was desperate to get another keyboarder. He said that our keyboard tracks gave us something other bands didn’t have; we couldn’t do without them. Ville saw him from across the room in a crowded party and he leaned over to me and whispered in my ear,
“Do you know who that guy is? The pretty one, over there.”
Not only was it a shock to hear Ville call someone pretty, it was rare for him to even ask about someone he liked before sitting on their lap and kissing them anyways, without even saying hello. That was just how he was. He’d never had issues with self-confidence. He oozed it from every pore of his body. What he wanted to do, he did, and if you didn’t like it then it was tough.
It was to the point that he didn’t care what he did with anyone anymore. It didn’t matter who they were or what they had between their legs, not after he’d had a few drinks. He just wanted affection. He even kissed me once or twice in the middle of the party before I pushed him off and reminded him where we were.
“See his hands? Look. Think he’s a keyboardist?”
“I dunno, Ville, go ask him.”
He did just that, flouncing over, plopping himself in the guy’s lap and striking up a conversation. I could hear the high-pitched, geeky giggles from across the room. I wanted to break the fingers that curled playfully around his wrist. I wanted to slap him across the face when he giggled at Ville’s giggles. I wanted to rip him to shreds when, after half an hour of mindless and blatant flirting and knocking back the shots, he went in for Ville’s lips - they had raspberry gloss on, I know, because Ville’d made me taste them before we left home to see if it was an acceptable taste - and I was ready to cut his tongue out of his face when he stuck it down Ville’s throat.
When, 5 minutes later, Ville dragged him by the hand over to meet me, however, I plastered on a drunk smile and shook his hand vigorously.
“Lintti, meet our new keyboardist.”
I grit my teeth as I grinned and welcomed him to the band, and silently imagined just how I’d kill him if I could get my hands on him and get away with it.
--------------
My first time with a man was … shall we say… somewhat unsatisfactory.
He was hot, and he was a good friend, and he was drunk, and he was more than willing; and I was drunk, horny and looking for something that Linde wouldn’t give me.
So, I let him fuck me. We were drunk - very drunk - it was at a big party and we’d ended up in someone’s bedroom with a bottle of vodka and relatively fewer clothes on than we’d turned up in.
We were used to making out; we did it all the fucking time. At band practice, at gigs, when we were sitting around and there was nothing better to do.
He was almost like another Lily. Except he didn’t sleep in my bed.
In fact, I began to think he was better. Because he wanted me. I liked people that wanted me. I wanted to be wanted. Lily never showed a sign; he just lay back and took it.
Or didn’t take it, as the case may be.
So we were drunk, and I told myself that I wanted something from him since Linde wouldn’t cave.
Somewhere along the lines, though, between shucking clothes and swigging vodka, the messages got crossed and somehow I found myself on my hands and knees in front of him whilst he thrust into me, no lube, no prep, nothing but a condom that had been in his wallet for god only knew how long which he only remembered at the last minute.
That didn’t hurt at all.
Somewhere amongst the pain and the alcohol, I passed out before it was over. I woke up the next morning being poked in the side by Jussi, from the 69 Eyes, who I knew had also been at this party, though I didn’t know why, smirking at my skinny, naked, red and sore ass and asking me if I’d had a good time on his bed last night.
He was sworn to secrecy. I hobbled out of his house and into a taxi and cringed at the thought that the first time I’d properly met Jussi, I had been naked and spent on his bed, and he hadn’t even had a thing to do with it.
The next time I woke up naked and spent on his bed, just a few weeks later, however, he had everything to do with it. And I began to realize just why the stereotypical gay man was so promiscuous.
If I was going to be sold as sex incarnate, I was going to bloody well have a lot of sex.
And at that point in time, I didn’t care who I got it from. I’d been fucked over by girlfriends too many times to care about a steady partner.
I just wanted sex. A lot of it. In all different shapes and sizes. And I was going to get sex. And if anyone - even Linde - had a problem with it, they could suck it.
When I told the reporter, that one evening, that I was a bisexual man without homosexual experiences, both Linde and I knew it was a blatant half lie. I was a bisexual. I knew it well now and I had almost no problems with it anymore. It wasn’t like the first time I hooked up with Lily when I was in a state of emotional turmoil. I knew what I was and I was going to embrace the liberty that gave me and fuck everyone who didn’t like it.
I was a bloody rockstar. And I was bloody well going to act like one.
-----------
“Hello, sweetheart. Who’re you?”
The backroom is dark, dank and dusty; the club isn’t very big and it’s very old and falling into a sad state of disrepair. The old, yellow tinged fluorescent light overhead blinks and makes a buzzing sound, as if it’s just about to give up all attempt at forcing out the little light it’s managing to. Beer cans are strewn across the floor, beer cans and bottles of cheap Californian red wine. Five full ashtrays crowd the small table in the middle, and the room is hazy with smoke. Ville’s green, green eyes are the only bright thing of the room and Bam feels like a tiny little fly on a summer night, helplessly attracted to them even though he knows if he gets too close he’s going to get burnt to a crisp and dried to the glass in a black smudge of bug guts and gore.
Ryan snorts beside his star-struck friend and rolls his eyes.
“Just ignore him, Villie, he’s just met his God. I’m Ryan Dunn, that drooling thing is Bam Margera. We’re on Jackass… maybe you know it, from MTV? Anyways, this little shit has this mancrush on you and he dragged me to see you guys - not that you aren’t fucking awesome, which you are - and then he just had to come meet you whilst he had the chance. Did I mention that he has a permanent hard on for - OW.”
Bam suddenly snaps back to life and elbows his friend in the chest.
“Shut the fuck up, asswipe.”
Ville smirks, his green eyes twinkling, and Bam has to bite the inside of his lip to keep himself on the ground.
“I’m not sure I know who you lovely creatures are.”
“Jackass? No? Well. Basically, I get paid shitloads of money for skateboarding off of roofs, and shitdick here gets paid to do other stupid things like, I don’t know, say… jump into a sewer system in a thong, and MTV stick it on national television and its this big deal.” Bam shrugs. “You’re not missing much if you haven’t seen it. Just us making fools out of ourselves.”
From the other side of the room, there’s a crashing of instruments as the drummer and the bassist look up from their game of chess to see what the deal is near the door. An excited stream of Finnish and some more crashing later and they’re at Ville’s side, grabbing Bam and Ryan’s hands and shaking them profusely. Ville’s eyes twinkle even more, like those few stars that struggle through on cloudy nights and seem all the brighter for all the darkness that surrounds them, and explains that his friends apparently know who they are very well.
“So, sweetheart,” Ville says, after Gas and Mige have talked and laughed and given and received compliments and finally left again to finish their game, and wraps a tattooed arm around Bam’s taught shoulders. “Would you and your friend like to stay for a drink? Get a bit more acquainted? I’d love to hear more about this intriguing show of yours. It seems as if I’m the only person in the room - besides Lily - who doesn’t get MTV.”
Bam tenses at the touch; Ryan notices it and smirks behind his ginger beard, throwing himself down on the tattered couch in a preemptive motion. Bam rolls his eyes at him and looks up at the man whose face has haunted his dreams.
“I’m guessing we’re staying,” he says, controlling a nervous giggle and wondering if there’s some kind of medicine he can take to poison the butterflies in his stomach to stop them from making him want to throw up.
“Good, sweetheart, good. I really couldn’t have finished off all this beer by myself.”
A cat-like grin, a quick dart of a pink tongue to peach lips and a small wink and Bam is lost again, staring like he’s never seen another person before.
Ville’s eyes twinkle like a spider whose net is shaking with the weight of a new catch, another helpless, twitching insect to prey and gorge himself upon.