(no subject)
Pairing: Jason/James, Jason/Kirk, Jason/Lars [Metallica]
Date Written: December 2001
It started out almost innocent enough.
They, Metallica, my idols, had invited me out for drinks after the audition. Despite matching James drink for drink the entire night, I was just buzzed while the rest of them were drunk off their asses. After awhile, they disappeared into the bathroom. When they came back, they asked me to be their new bass player. I said yes, of course. There was some screaming on my part, some friendly pats on the back from Kirk, James toasted me and nearly dumped his beer in my lap.
But then Lars slurred, "Come to the bathroom with me, Jason?"
Although it wasn't really a question. Kirk grinned slyly at me and James snickered. I guess I should've taken that as a sign that going with Lars was a bad idea. But I didn't, so I stood up and followed him in there. He grabbed my wrist, he was pretty strong for such a little fucker, and dragged me into a stall.
"Suck me off," he said.
His breath was too warm on my face and his pupils were dilated. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. I had sucked cock before, because sometimes it's easier to exchange sex for drugs, but I thought that maybe this was some kind of test. Just like the drinking.
Lars reached up and stroked my hair. "You're so pretty." His fingers traced my lips. "So pretty."
That kind of sealed it for me. Hell, he was pretty too. So I sank to my knees and sucked him off. He made little grunting noises that were kind of annoying interspersed with a mix of swear words and Danish. I used every trick I knew to get him off, except one, because sometimes straight guys have this thing against fingering. I figured Lars was straight, everyone knew about the groupies. I figured myself for a convenient fuck in the bathroom.
Later, James invited me over to talk. There wasn't any winking or even a suggestive note in his voice. And we did talk. About the upcoming tour and this EP James wanted to do. But then he grabbed my hand and put it on his groin. I correctly assumed that talking was not what I was there for. James just wanted me to jerk him off. He was still drunk, headed towards sobriety though. He whispered dirty things in my ear and this low, sexy growl. Then he went upstairs to sleep and I ended up crashing on his couch.
We had a rehearsal in Lars' garage the next day. James and Lars acted as though nothing had happened the night before. Still, I wasn't all that surprised when Kirk almost politely suggested that I should suck his cock during our lunch break. Kirk was gentle. He murmured about how pretty I was with that pale, pale skin and petted my hair. Afterwards he kissed me on the cheek and smiled almost shyly.
Weeks went by and I got pretty used to James groping my ass. To Lars dragging me off to bathrooms so I could suck his cock. To Kirk's near obsession with my playing with my hair. I was ecstatic to be a part of the band. So the stupid pranks in the hotel rooms in Japan didn't matter. I was actually thrilled when Kirk took me to his room after our last concert there and fucked me.
Kirk wore a condom and used a lot of lube. He fucked me from behind, hard but gentle. His hands held down my wrists to the bedspread. But he didn't kiss me and I was forced to jerk myself off after he had fallen asleep. At the time I just shrugged it off to him being too drunk. Even when he woke up in the middle of the night and kicked me out of his room. It was the same every time, he'd fuck me and then stare pointedly at me until I got dressed and left.
When Lars wanted to fuck me, I let him. Lars was a believer of the spit and a prayer method. Which meant I got thrown up against bathroom walls a lot, my pants down around my ankles before I could bat an eyelash. The first time it really hurt, I had to bite my wrist so I wouldn't cry out in pain. It got better though because Lars hit my prostate on almost every thrust so I'd come without either of us touching me. He never kissed me, although sometimes he'd bite the back of my neck hard enough to draw blood.
It was a long time, maybe years, before James progressed beyond hand-jobs and the occasional blowjob in the bathroom. James was more into the missionary position. He liked to tongue my ear, whispering sexy nonsense to me. When he wasn't drunk, he could last for hours. He always came with a growl, which usually made me come too, but if I didn't he'd let me hump against his thigh until I did. Still, he never kissed me on the mouth and he never really got me off. Although he did let me sleep in his bed, curled up on opposite sides so we weren't touching. Sometimes I'd hear him crying in his sleep.
This went on for years. Gradually the childish pranks went away and James stopped being an utter dick about his songs, but the fucking was always there. That didn't stop. Even when during the Black album recordings, Kirk's wife caught us in bed. Even when she told Lars' wife and mine. Even when we all ended up divorced. Except for James because he was still a bachelor, wrapped up in his drinking. If anything, they only wanted me more.
It got to the point where I'd drop by Kirk's house before we went into the studio. He'd fuck me and I'd jerk off in his shower afterwards. Then Lars would fuck me in the bathroom sometime during the day. At night I'd go home with James and either jerk him off because he was too drunk or if he was sober he'd fuck me nice and slow until I was exhausted. I'd try to catch a few hours of sleep, try not to listen to James crying, and then head over to Kirk's house to start it all over again.
When the tour for the Black album started, I had been with the band for five years. I had been fucked by all of them, but I had never been kissed.
**
"Jase," James whispered in my ear, "come by my room tonight."
I glanced warily around, looking for cameras. "We can't, not with the cameras around."
"I told them our floor was off limits tonight," James purred with a light lick to my earlobe.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Okay."
I never said no. Just half-hearted attempts at getting out of it. Like a chore I didn't want to do but knew I'd end up doing anyway. Really, that's what sex had become. A chore, a part of the job description. I couldn't even get it up for groupies anymore. Because I was a groupie. Nothing more than a male whore to them who just conveniently played the bass.
That night, when James whispered "fuck, I love your hip bones," in my ear as he bruised them, I wondered what had changed. I wondered what made me want to cut my hands off so I couldn't play, just to see if it was more about the sex than the music. I wondered when them fucking me stopped being exciting and wonderful and started being tiring and just okay. I wondered when it became necessary to balance my checkbook in my head just to stay awake during sex when before I'd mewl and writhe under them, wanting more.
Wanting more. That was the problem, I realized as James tongued my ear. I was tired of being passed from one guy to another. Of being groped and teased and fucked but never kissed. Never touched unless necessary. Never held afterwards. I cursed myself then, as James came with a low growl, for being a pussy. I was getting fucked by three guys that most of our fans would kill to sleep with, why should I complain?
"Jase?" James asked.
His voice sounded concerned, and I realized that I hadn't been paying much attention when he came. He was probably waiting for me to curl up on my side of the bed or to leave. So I started to move away, but he held me down.
"You didn't come," he said slowly. "You weren't even hard."
I blinked. I hadn't even realized.
"Happens sometimes." I shrugged it off.
"All the time lately," he said with a frown.
Part of me wanted to scream at him. Ask him why the fuck he cared. I'm just his whore after all. But instead I extricated myself from his grasp and curled up in the far corner of the bed. Seconds later I could feel his hand hovering over my back.
"Jase, I--" His hand dropped away. "Good night."
I didn't bother to answer him. Later, when he started crying in his sleep again, I decided I wouldn't be staying after he fucked me anymore. I didn't need to hear him sobbing Cliff's name into his pillow, making my stomach twist up in knots, every night.
**
The next night I was exhausted. We had played our regular set with three encores. Then I did all the fan stuff. The meet and greet, the drinking with the fans at the local bar. I wasn't in the mood for sex at all, but Kirk was.
"Come to my room, Jase," he said as I tried to open my hotel room door.
"Tired," I muttered, jamming the key card into the lock.
"Please," he pleaded, squeezing my ass.
"I'm tired," I repeated, but followed him back to his room anyway.
It was the same old same old. Kirk fucking me from behind, my face planted in the pillow. And I was fucking exhausted, couldn't even keep my eyes open. Didn't even realize I had fallen asleep until Kirk shook me awake.
"You fell asleep," he accused.
"I told you I was fucking tired," I snapped back.
"You could've said something," he said, pouting.
"I did," I barked, glancing down to his cock, "and you got what you wanted so what the fuck do you care?"
"Jason," he breathed, looking shocked.
I rolled out of bed and started yanking my clothes on. I was blinded by rage at his indigence, at his audacity. I was exhausted and the words just spilled out of my mouth.
"You think I enjoy this? You think I like getting fucked by men who don't get me off, much less kiss me? You think it's fun for me when you and Lars gossip about me while I'm asleep on the couch. Giggling about what a tight ass I have, how sweet my mouth is, and how pretty I look on my knees?"
I yanked on my jeans as he just sat there, mouth hanging open. I couldn't stop.
"You think I like it when you talk about me like I'm a painting and not a person? About my pale, pale skin and my wild hair, how my lips are perfectly pink and my bones make nice shadows on my skin?"
I towered over him, leaning down into his face. He trembled slightly, not meeting my eyes.
"Do you?" I demanded.
"No," he sobbed.
Tears spilled down his face and he grabbed my hips, pressing his face to my stomach. I wanted to shove him away. I could feel his tears soaking through my shirt. Instead I closed my eyes, the anger eating me up.
"I won't," Kirk babbled, clutching at me. "Not anymore. It's a sin. God, I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry--"
I pushed him away then. I didn't need to hear his lapsed Catholic guilt bullshit. He dropped his head, sobbing into his hands. I refused to feel sorry for him. I walked out the door and didn't look back.
In my room, I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted before but then I kept staring up at the ceiling, thoughts running through my head. I was a little bit panicked. What if Kirk told the others? What if they kicked me out of the band? I almost went back and apologized, but instead I downed a lot of Nyquil and passed out on the floor.
Kirk was true to his word. He never touched me again.
But Lars was wild, hanging out with Axl fucking Rose, doing coke again. Half the time he couldn't get it up which meant longer nights for me when it was his turn. Sucking his cock while he did lines of coke, trying to get him aroused. Sometimes I wouldn't get any sleep at all. So when he offered me some speed, despite giving it up so many years ago, I agreed.
"Kiss me," I demanded one night.
"Kiss you?" He frowned in between hits. "What the fuck?"
I could see it in his eyes, him thinking "fuck, he's sucked all of us off, his tongue has been in my ass for fuck's sake and he wants me to kiss him?" But I was high and so was he. The only good thing about that was that we were both more agreeable and open to suggestion.
"All right," he said with a shrug.
So we kissed. It was sloppy and awkward and not at all good. Although, I thought as I went down on him later, it was my first kiss in years, so that had to count for something.
"Do you want to kiss, ya know?" Lars asked afterwards.
"I wouldn't mind," I admitted.
After that he always made it a point to kiss me before we did anything else. Never after though. I suppose just that he was kissing me at all should've made me feel good. Instead it made me feel dirty, even more like a whore.
Sometime before James got burnt, Kirk started talking to me again. We became close, good friends even. We never talked about sex though, or anything related to it. Even Lars and James became kind of taboo subjects.
Except the one time, Kirk asked me, "Are you still, you know, fucking them?"
"No," I said, smiling as he blinked in surprise. "They're still fucking me."
Then he frowned, sighing heavily, and the subject was dropped.
For months after James was burnt, none of them came to me. Lars was trying to kick his coke habit without James noticing he had had one in the first place. Kirk was dating women, not groupies, but women who he brought home to his mother and sometimes confessed to being in love with. James was obviously too busy with physical therapy to do much else. For the first time in years, I could date without having to worry about when my bandmates wanted to fuck me.
The freedom was kind of nice for awhile. Until I walked by James’ hotel room late one night and heard him sobbing. I just stood there, my ear pressed to the door, listening to him pour his heartache and sorrow out. It had never been that bad the nights I stayed with him. I couldn’t take it anymore. I knocked on the door.
“Coming,” he shouted, his voice sounding hoarse.
He opened the door and I meant to offer him comfort. I felt bad for him. But when he leered at me, my blood ran cold. It really was just about sex with him, I thought. He doesn’t want my friendship. Probably never did.
“Want me to suck your cock, James?” I asked as I sank to my knees.
“Not here,” he hissed, his eyes darting down the hallway.
I ignored him, pulling down his boxer shorts in one, swift movement. Before he could do anything, I had his cock down my throat. It was a mechanical after that, doing what I knew would get him off the quickest. I had always swallowed. James had once mumbled something about spitting looking disgusting, but this time I spat out his seed at his feet. Then I stood up and walked back down the hallway.
“Don’t you want to stay?” he called after me, sounding kind of sad.
I just walked into my room and slammed the door in answer. Lars was sitting on my bed, waiting for me. I wondered how he had gotten in.
“Hey.” He smiled at me as he stood up.
When I just stared at him, he tried to kiss me. I pushed him away, yanking down my pants.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said brusquely, turning to brace my hands on the door.
“Jason,” he said slowly, “I thought you wanted--“
“Fuck me or leave, Lars,” I interrupted him.
I knew my voice sounded Arctic cold but I was also offering my sweet ass to him, so he fucked me. I alphabetized Elvis’ songs in my head. Afterwards he tried to hug me of all things.
“Don’t,” I said as I shoved his arms away.
“I know I’ve done some fucked up shit to you, Jason,” Lars said, staring at the floor, “but I like you and I thought, maybe--“
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked with false sweetness, cutting him off.
“What?” He looked up, blinking at me. “I guess so.”
“Great.” I offered him a cold smile.
He frowned, staring at my flaccid cock, but then left. I quickly went over to the nightstand, flipping the lid on a jewelry box I kept there. Months earlier I had given up speed. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to float. So when I happened to run into Dave Mustaine one night as he was leaving from visiting Lars, we hooked up and did some heroin together. Heroin isn’t very conducive to having sex, so we didn’t do that. Instead we gossiped about what an asshole James is. First time in a long time I genuinely laughed.
Point was, I wasn’t addicted. I just used it so I wouldn’t have to think. Maybe a little bit because I knew that if James ever found out he’d have my head on a platter.
That night I needed it. I was rooming next to James and I didn’t want to have to hear his sobs all night long. I didn’t want to realize how fucked up my life was.
The next day was the last day of the tour and Kirk brought me lunch. We sat cross-legged on my bed eating sushi and he never questioned why I had pantyhose wrapped around my bicep when I answered the door. Never brought up the open box on the nightstand even though I saw him peeking in at it. Then and there I kind of decided I’d forgiven him.
**
“Jason? Listen, man, this is James. We’re working on the new album so you need to call us, okay?”
“Jase? It’s Lars. James wants to start recording soon. So call us.”
“Hey, it’s Kirk. Lars and James said you aren’t answering your phone. I guess you’re probably off in Montana or something. Sorry for not calling you earlier. I guess we all get sick of each other after touring. But, call us-- me at least. I’m kind of worried.”
“Jason, this is Bob. The guys said you weren’t answering your phone so they wanted me to call you. So call me, we need to get back into the studio.”
“Jason, we need to talk. I have to tell you something. Please? This is James.”
“Jason, it’s Lars again. Pick up your fucking phone.”
“Jase, c’mon, man. It’s Kirk pick up the--“
I slowly reached for the phone and picked up it. “What?”
“Fuck, thank God,” Kirk breathed. “Are you okay?”
“I was on vacation,” I lied.
Truth be told, I had mostly lain in bed, trying to wean myself off the heroin I supposedly wasn’t addicted to. Two weeks of that after two years by myself, shooting up in my home studio before sitting down to play the blues. Never talking to the other guys. Too paranoid on the junk to fuck anyone else.
“Oh. Well, we’re ready to start on the new album, so you should call James,” Kirk said.
“When are we starting?” I asked.
“You should really call James,” Kirk murmured.
“I don’t want to talk to fucking James,” I snapped. “When?”
“Tuesday,” Kirk said quietly. “Noon or so.”
I hung up on him and rolled out of bed. My room was dark, so I stumbled to the window and opened the blinds. The sun was painful to my eyes. It took me awhile to figure out that Tuesday was only two days away. Then I wanted to kill Kirk. I decided to deal with Lars first.
It should’ve been so easy to slip back into the old routine. I may have been a whore, but Lars was a slut at heart.
“I thought you didn’t want to do this anymore?” Lars frowned when I came to his house on Monday.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I sighed.
“It’s just that when I fuck you, you don’t even seem to like it,” Lars said with a shrug.
“Listen, are you going to fuck me or not?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’m trying to get my fucking life back together, man.”
I shrugged, like it didn’t matter, and walked out the door. “So am I,” I muttered as I heard Lars locking it behind me.
Truth was, I had started using the heroin because I couldn’t deal with getting fucked by them anymore, but once I was off heroin I couldn’t deal with life. I needed stability and besides the music, the fucking had been the only constant in my life.
For the sake of my sanity, I could only hope James was still fucked up.
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” James demanded first thing when he opened the door.
I ran my hand over my shaved head. “Biking accident,” I lied.
Actually, I had been sweating so much during withdrawal that I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I shaved it all off.
“Fucking hell, Kirk cut his too,” James muttered, finally letting me into his house. "At least I had a good reason. Fucking pyro."
“Really?” I asked disinterestedly as I reached for James’ belt buckle.
“Hey!” he cried, pushing my hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Not in the mood for a blow job?” I shrugged. “Okay. I’m all yours for the afternoon if you want.”
“Oh,” James sighed. “About that, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I laughed. “Sorry?”
“What I did was wrong,” James says, looking down at the floor. “You didn’t want it and I was an asshole for treating you like that.”
“Who says I don’t want it?” I asked, reaching for him again.
He grabbed my wrist. “You did. Not aloud, but you did, Jase. I’m sorry.”
I wrenched my wrist away and punched him in the stomach. “Never stopped you before. What’s the matter, James? Can’t get it up?” I taunted.
“Fuck,” James wheezed, doubling over. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“What am I not pretty enough for you anymore?” I grabbed his hair, making him look up at me. “Did fucking me get boring for you, James?”
He shoved me away so hard that I fell on my ass. I glared up at him. He rubbed his head and glared right back at me.
“It was wrong,” James said after a long silence.
I narrowed my eyes, my hand traveling down to cup my groin as I spread my legs further. “Don’t you want my sweet ass, James?”
He looked away, tugging at his T-shirt. “I’m not denying that you’re fucking beautiful, Jase, I’m just saying that I can’t fuck you anymore.”
I growled in frustration and reared up, tackling him to the floor. “You can’t just change your mind, James,” I screamed as I rubbed myself against him. “Fuck me.”
His fingers dug into my shoulders. “Stop it, Jason.”
“Fuck me,” I repeated, turning to lick at his wrist. “Quit being a pussy and fuck me.”
“Get off,” he roared, voice hoarse, as he punched me in the face.
I rolled off him and clutched my eye, blinking with the good one up at the ceiling. Moments later, James appeared with an ice pack and handed it to me without looking at me.
“You should go home, we’ve got rehearsal tomorrow,” he said gruffly before stomping away.
And just like that, it was over with.
**
Date Written: December 2001
It started out almost innocent enough.
They, Metallica, my idols, had invited me out for drinks after the audition. Despite matching James drink for drink the entire night, I was just buzzed while the rest of them were drunk off their asses. After awhile, they disappeared into the bathroom. When they came back, they asked me to be their new bass player. I said yes, of course. There was some screaming on my part, some friendly pats on the back from Kirk, James toasted me and nearly dumped his beer in my lap.
But then Lars slurred, "Come to the bathroom with me, Jason?"
Although it wasn't really a question. Kirk grinned slyly at me and James snickered. I guess I should've taken that as a sign that going with Lars was a bad idea. But I didn't, so I stood up and followed him in there. He grabbed my wrist, he was pretty strong for such a little fucker, and dragged me into a stall.
"Suck me off," he said.
His breath was too warm on my face and his pupils were dilated. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. I had sucked cock before, because sometimes it's easier to exchange sex for drugs, but I thought that maybe this was some kind of test. Just like the drinking.
Lars reached up and stroked my hair. "You're so pretty." His fingers traced my lips. "So pretty."
That kind of sealed it for me. Hell, he was pretty too. So I sank to my knees and sucked him off. He made little grunting noises that were kind of annoying interspersed with a mix of swear words and Danish. I used every trick I knew to get him off, except one, because sometimes straight guys have this thing against fingering. I figured Lars was straight, everyone knew about the groupies. I figured myself for a convenient fuck in the bathroom.
Later, James invited me over to talk. There wasn't any winking or even a suggestive note in his voice. And we did talk. About the upcoming tour and this EP James wanted to do. But then he grabbed my hand and put it on his groin. I correctly assumed that talking was not what I was there for. James just wanted me to jerk him off. He was still drunk, headed towards sobriety though. He whispered dirty things in my ear and this low, sexy growl. Then he went upstairs to sleep and I ended up crashing on his couch.
We had a rehearsal in Lars' garage the next day. James and Lars acted as though nothing had happened the night before. Still, I wasn't all that surprised when Kirk almost politely suggested that I should suck his cock during our lunch break. Kirk was gentle. He murmured about how pretty I was with that pale, pale skin and petted my hair. Afterwards he kissed me on the cheek and smiled almost shyly.
Weeks went by and I got pretty used to James groping my ass. To Lars dragging me off to bathrooms so I could suck his cock. To Kirk's near obsession with my playing with my hair. I was ecstatic to be a part of the band. So the stupid pranks in the hotel rooms in Japan didn't matter. I was actually thrilled when Kirk took me to his room after our last concert there and fucked me.
Kirk wore a condom and used a lot of lube. He fucked me from behind, hard but gentle. His hands held down my wrists to the bedspread. But he didn't kiss me and I was forced to jerk myself off after he had fallen asleep. At the time I just shrugged it off to him being too drunk. Even when he woke up in the middle of the night and kicked me out of his room. It was the same every time, he'd fuck me and then stare pointedly at me until I got dressed and left.
When Lars wanted to fuck me, I let him. Lars was a believer of the spit and a prayer method. Which meant I got thrown up against bathroom walls a lot, my pants down around my ankles before I could bat an eyelash. The first time it really hurt, I had to bite my wrist so I wouldn't cry out in pain. It got better though because Lars hit my prostate on almost every thrust so I'd come without either of us touching me. He never kissed me, although sometimes he'd bite the back of my neck hard enough to draw blood.
It was a long time, maybe years, before James progressed beyond hand-jobs and the occasional blowjob in the bathroom. James was more into the missionary position. He liked to tongue my ear, whispering sexy nonsense to me. When he wasn't drunk, he could last for hours. He always came with a growl, which usually made me come too, but if I didn't he'd let me hump against his thigh until I did. Still, he never kissed me on the mouth and he never really got me off. Although he did let me sleep in his bed, curled up on opposite sides so we weren't touching. Sometimes I'd hear him crying in his sleep.
This went on for years. Gradually the childish pranks went away and James stopped being an utter dick about his songs, but the fucking was always there. That didn't stop. Even when during the Black album recordings, Kirk's wife caught us in bed. Even when she told Lars' wife and mine. Even when we all ended up divorced. Except for James because he was still a bachelor, wrapped up in his drinking. If anything, they only wanted me more.
It got to the point where I'd drop by Kirk's house before we went into the studio. He'd fuck me and I'd jerk off in his shower afterwards. Then Lars would fuck me in the bathroom sometime during the day. At night I'd go home with James and either jerk him off because he was too drunk or if he was sober he'd fuck me nice and slow until I was exhausted. I'd try to catch a few hours of sleep, try not to listen to James crying, and then head over to Kirk's house to start it all over again.
When the tour for the Black album started, I had been with the band for five years. I had been fucked by all of them, but I had never been kissed.
**
"Jase," James whispered in my ear, "come by my room tonight."
I glanced warily around, looking for cameras. "We can't, not with the cameras around."
"I told them our floor was off limits tonight," James purred with a light lick to my earlobe.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Okay."
I never said no. Just half-hearted attempts at getting out of it. Like a chore I didn't want to do but knew I'd end up doing anyway. Really, that's what sex had become. A chore, a part of the job description. I couldn't even get it up for groupies anymore. Because I was a groupie. Nothing more than a male whore to them who just conveniently played the bass.
That night, when James whispered "fuck, I love your hip bones," in my ear as he bruised them, I wondered what had changed. I wondered what made me want to cut my hands off so I couldn't play, just to see if it was more about the sex than the music. I wondered when them fucking me stopped being exciting and wonderful and started being tiring and just okay. I wondered when it became necessary to balance my checkbook in my head just to stay awake during sex when before I'd mewl and writhe under them, wanting more.
Wanting more. That was the problem, I realized as James tongued my ear. I was tired of being passed from one guy to another. Of being groped and teased and fucked but never kissed. Never touched unless necessary. Never held afterwards. I cursed myself then, as James came with a low growl, for being a pussy. I was getting fucked by three guys that most of our fans would kill to sleep with, why should I complain?
"Jase?" James asked.
His voice sounded concerned, and I realized that I hadn't been paying much attention when he came. He was probably waiting for me to curl up on my side of the bed or to leave. So I started to move away, but he held me down.
"You didn't come," he said slowly. "You weren't even hard."
I blinked. I hadn't even realized.
"Happens sometimes." I shrugged it off.
"All the time lately," he said with a frown.
Part of me wanted to scream at him. Ask him why the fuck he cared. I'm just his whore after all. But instead I extricated myself from his grasp and curled up in the far corner of the bed. Seconds later I could feel his hand hovering over my back.
"Jase, I--" His hand dropped away. "Good night."
I didn't bother to answer him. Later, when he started crying in his sleep again, I decided I wouldn't be staying after he fucked me anymore. I didn't need to hear him sobbing Cliff's name into his pillow, making my stomach twist up in knots, every night.
**
The next night I was exhausted. We had played our regular set with three encores. Then I did all the fan stuff. The meet and greet, the drinking with the fans at the local bar. I wasn't in the mood for sex at all, but Kirk was.
"Come to my room, Jase," he said as I tried to open my hotel room door.
"Tired," I muttered, jamming the key card into the lock.
"Please," he pleaded, squeezing my ass.
"I'm tired," I repeated, but followed him back to his room anyway.
It was the same old same old. Kirk fucking me from behind, my face planted in the pillow. And I was fucking exhausted, couldn't even keep my eyes open. Didn't even realize I had fallen asleep until Kirk shook me awake.
"You fell asleep," he accused.
"I told you I was fucking tired," I snapped back.
"You could've said something," he said, pouting.
"I did," I barked, glancing down to his cock, "and you got what you wanted so what the fuck do you care?"
"Jason," he breathed, looking shocked.
I rolled out of bed and started yanking my clothes on. I was blinded by rage at his indigence, at his audacity. I was exhausted and the words just spilled out of my mouth.
"You think I enjoy this? You think I like getting fucked by men who don't get me off, much less kiss me? You think it's fun for me when you and Lars gossip about me while I'm asleep on the couch. Giggling about what a tight ass I have, how sweet my mouth is, and how pretty I look on my knees?"
I yanked on my jeans as he just sat there, mouth hanging open. I couldn't stop.
"You think I like it when you talk about me like I'm a painting and not a person? About my pale, pale skin and my wild hair, how my lips are perfectly pink and my bones make nice shadows on my skin?"
I towered over him, leaning down into his face. He trembled slightly, not meeting my eyes.
"Do you?" I demanded.
"No," he sobbed.
Tears spilled down his face and he grabbed my hips, pressing his face to my stomach. I wanted to shove him away. I could feel his tears soaking through my shirt. Instead I closed my eyes, the anger eating me up.
"I won't," Kirk babbled, clutching at me. "Not anymore. It's a sin. God, I'm a horrible person. I'm sorry--"
I pushed him away then. I didn't need to hear his lapsed Catholic guilt bullshit. He dropped his head, sobbing into his hands. I refused to feel sorry for him. I walked out the door and didn't look back.
In my room, I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted before but then I kept staring up at the ceiling, thoughts running through my head. I was a little bit panicked. What if Kirk told the others? What if they kicked me out of the band? I almost went back and apologized, but instead I downed a lot of Nyquil and passed out on the floor.
Kirk was true to his word. He never touched me again.
But Lars was wild, hanging out with Axl fucking Rose, doing coke again. Half the time he couldn't get it up which meant longer nights for me when it was his turn. Sucking his cock while he did lines of coke, trying to get him aroused. Sometimes I wouldn't get any sleep at all. So when he offered me some speed, despite giving it up so many years ago, I agreed.
"Kiss me," I demanded one night.
"Kiss you?" He frowned in between hits. "What the fuck?"
I could see it in his eyes, him thinking "fuck, he's sucked all of us off, his tongue has been in my ass for fuck's sake and he wants me to kiss him?" But I was high and so was he. The only good thing about that was that we were both more agreeable and open to suggestion.
"All right," he said with a shrug.
So we kissed. It was sloppy and awkward and not at all good. Although, I thought as I went down on him later, it was my first kiss in years, so that had to count for something.
"Do you want to kiss, ya know?" Lars asked afterwards.
"I wouldn't mind," I admitted.
After that he always made it a point to kiss me before we did anything else. Never after though. I suppose just that he was kissing me at all should've made me feel good. Instead it made me feel dirty, even more like a whore.
Sometime before James got burnt, Kirk started talking to me again. We became close, good friends even. We never talked about sex though, or anything related to it. Even Lars and James became kind of taboo subjects.
Except the one time, Kirk asked me, "Are you still, you know, fucking them?"
"No," I said, smiling as he blinked in surprise. "They're still fucking me."
Then he frowned, sighing heavily, and the subject was dropped.
For months after James was burnt, none of them came to me. Lars was trying to kick his coke habit without James noticing he had had one in the first place. Kirk was dating women, not groupies, but women who he brought home to his mother and sometimes confessed to being in love with. James was obviously too busy with physical therapy to do much else. For the first time in years, I could date without having to worry about when my bandmates wanted to fuck me.
The freedom was kind of nice for awhile. Until I walked by James’ hotel room late one night and heard him sobbing. I just stood there, my ear pressed to the door, listening to him pour his heartache and sorrow out. It had never been that bad the nights I stayed with him. I couldn’t take it anymore. I knocked on the door.
“Coming,” he shouted, his voice sounding hoarse.
He opened the door and I meant to offer him comfort. I felt bad for him. But when he leered at me, my blood ran cold. It really was just about sex with him, I thought. He doesn’t want my friendship. Probably never did.
“Want me to suck your cock, James?” I asked as I sank to my knees.
“Not here,” he hissed, his eyes darting down the hallway.
I ignored him, pulling down his boxer shorts in one, swift movement. Before he could do anything, I had his cock down my throat. It was a mechanical after that, doing what I knew would get him off the quickest. I had always swallowed. James had once mumbled something about spitting looking disgusting, but this time I spat out his seed at his feet. Then I stood up and walked back down the hallway.
“Don’t you want to stay?” he called after me, sounding kind of sad.
I just walked into my room and slammed the door in answer. Lars was sitting on my bed, waiting for me. I wondered how he had gotten in.
“Hey.” He smiled at me as he stood up.
When I just stared at him, he tried to kiss me. I pushed him away, yanking down my pants.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said brusquely, turning to brace my hands on the door.
“Jason,” he said slowly, “I thought you wanted--“
“Fuck me or leave, Lars,” I interrupted him.
I knew my voice sounded Arctic cold but I was also offering my sweet ass to him, so he fucked me. I alphabetized Elvis’ songs in my head. Afterwards he tried to hug me of all things.
“Don’t,” I said as I shoved his arms away.
“I know I’ve done some fucked up shit to you, Jason,” Lars said, staring at the floor, “but I like you and I thought, maybe--“
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked with false sweetness, cutting him off.
“What?” He looked up, blinking at me. “I guess so.”
“Great.” I offered him a cold smile.
He frowned, staring at my flaccid cock, but then left. I quickly went over to the nightstand, flipping the lid on a jewelry box I kept there. Months earlier I had given up speed. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to float. So when I happened to run into Dave Mustaine one night as he was leaving from visiting Lars, we hooked up and did some heroin together. Heroin isn’t very conducive to having sex, so we didn’t do that. Instead we gossiped about what an asshole James is. First time in a long time I genuinely laughed.
Point was, I wasn’t addicted. I just used it so I wouldn’t have to think. Maybe a little bit because I knew that if James ever found out he’d have my head on a platter.
That night I needed it. I was rooming next to James and I didn’t want to have to hear his sobs all night long. I didn’t want to realize how fucked up my life was.
The next day was the last day of the tour and Kirk brought me lunch. We sat cross-legged on my bed eating sushi and he never questioned why I had pantyhose wrapped around my bicep when I answered the door. Never brought up the open box on the nightstand even though I saw him peeking in at it. Then and there I kind of decided I’d forgiven him.
**
“Jason? Listen, man, this is James. We’re working on the new album so you need to call us, okay?”
“Jase? It’s Lars. James wants to start recording soon. So call us.”
“Hey, it’s Kirk. Lars and James said you aren’t answering your phone. I guess you’re probably off in Montana or something. Sorry for not calling you earlier. I guess we all get sick of each other after touring. But, call us-- me at least. I’m kind of worried.”
“Jason, this is Bob. The guys said you weren’t answering your phone so they wanted me to call you. So call me, we need to get back into the studio.”
“Jason, we need to talk. I have to tell you something. Please? This is James.”
“Jason, it’s Lars again. Pick up your fucking phone.”
“Jase, c’mon, man. It’s Kirk pick up the--“
I slowly reached for the phone and picked up it. “What?”
“Fuck, thank God,” Kirk breathed. “Are you okay?”
“I was on vacation,” I lied.
Truth be told, I had mostly lain in bed, trying to wean myself off the heroin I supposedly wasn’t addicted to. Two weeks of that after two years by myself, shooting up in my home studio before sitting down to play the blues. Never talking to the other guys. Too paranoid on the junk to fuck anyone else.
“Oh. Well, we’re ready to start on the new album, so you should call James,” Kirk said.
“When are we starting?” I asked.
“You should really call James,” Kirk murmured.
“I don’t want to talk to fucking James,” I snapped. “When?”
“Tuesday,” Kirk said quietly. “Noon or so.”
I hung up on him and rolled out of bed. My room was dark, so I stumbled to the window and opened the blinds. The sun was painful to my eyes. It took me awhile to figure out that Tuesday was only two days away. Then I wanted to kill Kirk. I decided to deal with Lars first.
It should’ve been so easy to slip back into the old routine. I may have been a whore, but Lars was a slut at heart.
“I thought you didn’t want to do this anymore?” Lars frowned when I came to his house on Monday.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I sighed.
“It’s just that when I fuck you, you don’t even seem to like it,” Lars said with a shrug.
“Listen, are you going to fuck me or not?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I’m trying to get my fucking life back together, man.”
I shrugged, like it didn’t matter, and walked out the door. “So am I,” I muttered as I heard Lars locking it behind me.
Truth was, I had started using the heroin because I couldn’t deal with getting fucked by them anymore, but once I was off heroin I couldn’t deal with life. I needed stability and besides the music, the fucking had been the only constant in my life.
For the sake of my sanity, I could only hope James was still fucked up.
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” James demanded first thing when he opened the door.
I ran my hand over my shaved head. “Biking accident,” I lied.
Actually, I had been sweating so much during withdrawal that I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I shaved it all off.
“Fucking hell, Kirk cut his too,” James muttered, finally letting me into his house. "At least I had a good reason. Fucking pyro."
“Really?” I asked disinterestedly as I reached for James’ belt buckle.
“Hey!” he cried, pushing my hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Not in the mood for a blow job?” I shrugged. “Okay. I’m all yours for the afternoon if you want.”
“Oh,” James sighed. “About that, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I laughed. “Sorry?”
“What I did was wrong,” James says, looking down at the floor. “You didn’t want it and I was an asshole for treating you like that.”
“Who says I don’t want it?” I asked, reaching for him again.
He grabbed my wrist. “You did. Not aloud, but you did, Jase. I’m sorry.”
I wrenched my wrist away and punched him in the stomach. “Never stopped you before. What’s the matter, James? Can’t get it up?” I taunted.
“Fuck,” James wheezed, doubling over. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“What am I not pretty enough for you anymore?” I grabbed his hair, making him look up at me. “Did fucking me get boring for you, James?”
He shoved me away so hard that I fell on my ass. I glared up at him. He rubbed his head and glared right back at me.
“It was wrong,” James said after a long silence.
I narrowed my eyes, my hand traveling down to cup my groin as I spread my legs further. “Don’t you want my sweet ass, James?”
He looked away, tugging at his T-shirt. “I’m not denying that you’re fucking beautiful, Jase, I’m just saying that I can’t fuck you anymore.”
I growled in frustration and reared up, tackling him to the floor. “You can’t just change your mind, James,” I screamed as I rubbed myself against him. “Fuck me.”
His fingers dug into my shoulders. “Stop it, Jason.”
“Fuck me,” I repeated, turning to lick at his wrist. “Quit being a pussy and fuck me.”
“Get off,” he roared, voice hoarse, as he punched me in the face.
I rolled off him and clutched my eye, blinking with the good one up at the ceiling. Moments later, James appeared with an ice pack and handed it to me without looking at me.
“You should go home, we’ve got rehearsal tomorrow,” he said gruffly before stomping away.
And just like that, it was over with.
**