~*A work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events, people--alive or dead--is purely coincidental*~
His big smooth hands descended on my hips with such finesse. It was as if a feather was running up and down my skin. His deliberate handling of my body enticed a reaction in me. His hot breath on my neck chilled me to the core, a cornered animal clawed at my insides. My hands landed on top of his, trying to stop his invasion in vain. Did I really want to stop him? I did not think I did. In some weird way it aroused me, made me want it more; I felt repulsed by the action itself and yet intrigued just the same. He wanted me, I don't know why, and he showed just how bad his desire was.
Once he felt my own erection he was damn near impossible to stop.
My best friend since childhood wanted to make love to me, but I should start at the very beginning of this story.
~*~*~
I chased a skirt to the dirty south after college. Being a stupid young man I made stupid decisions left and right, and chasing this skirt to a Podunk town in Bible belt Georgia was one of the stupidest mistakes I made. My dad would later tell me that at least I had the brains to graduate before chasing that, "Stupid cunt of a woman."
I spent the first three months in sexual bliss with her before the proverbial shit hit the fan. I guess that she hadn't thought about what we would be doing after graduating, but that moving might help. That we would end up working fast food for three months wasn't exactly in her agenda, so before she became what she called "white trash," she left me. The apartment was still under my name and, wouldn't you know it, the Podunk town grew on me.
My major was in journalism with a minor in music. My original plan was to write for a living, while wooing the chicks with my knowledge of musical arrangements, and my way around an acoustic guitar. The former proved successful in the loosest sense of the word while the latter proved quite inefficient, and yet it was this combination that proved successful in my job hunt three months after she left me.
I had secured an interview with the local paper, and thinking I had made it big (in a way) I quit my burger flipping job and bought me a suit befitting my new job. I brushed up my resume and got my portfolio set up and made my way to the worst looking building to ever host a newspaper firm, local or otherwise. My expectations were lowered somewhat, but I didn't waver. Perseverance my only ally, I launched myself into the building and braced for the worst.
~*~*~
Two years later, one hundred and seventy concerts or so under my belt and nearly twice that many reviews and the only thing I had to show for it was backstage passes to unlimited shows and venues free, but no raise. The job was wearing on me and slowly driving me insane. The weekday shows at the Masquerade were murder on both gas money and time. The bands were awesome, but it was an inconvenience having to drag my tired ass all the way into the busiest of highways in metro Atlanta for three hours of loud music and cheap booze. My main bread and butter are the tiny venues that dotted Highway 20 but nothing attracted more readership than the shows played in Atlanta rather than out of the perimeter. So despite it being Tuesday I went to the Masquerade on twenty dollars worth of gas.
After a seventeen minute hunt for suitable parking somewhere in Ponce de Leon, a ten to fifteen minute walk to the venue, and a seven minute wait in line to get a ticket, I made my way to the bar. I had a very expensive--very small--shot of rotgut and ordered three more like it. It was my professional experience that doing my job and liking it involved a copious amount of alcohol in my system. My bread and butter are local bands, but sometimes I am disappointed in some of the bands that have spawned in Atlanta. After downing three more shots of rotgut, I ordered three more.
"A man drink like that and don't eat, he is going to die!" a voice on my right said.
"Ahaha! Blazin' Saddles. Awe--" I said as I turned around, then I was stricken dumb. The face I saw had not aged a day it seemed, for all the marks of youth were still there. The lines of age were graceful and beautiful, not at all savage. Here stood my childhood friend Charlie, damn near how I last saw him in high school: a stunning five foot eleven inches, olive tan shade skin, long flowing auburn hair.
"Well butter my biscuits, if it isn't Charles the fifth!" I exclaimed.
"Wait, what?" he looked at me for a confused second.
"Sorry, southern living. I got used to it. So, what's King Charles the fifth doing in this little 'hole'n da wall?'"
"Hey fuck you, tubby, I told you I hate that name."
"Yeah, and I hate that nickname, so it's all good," I grinned wide. "And you still haven't answered my question."
"Well, believe it or not, I got a band going after we split. Not to spite you or anything, but I didn't want to quit playing despite losing you to the evil power of adulthood," he grabbed my shot glass and emptied it. "One of us still has to stick it to the man."
"Ha-ha. Fuck you, your highness," I grabbed my notepad, my pen, and started scribbling, "but your success here depends on what I write about you and your band. I also stick it to the man whenever I can."
He grinned as he made his way backstage.
~*~*~
Making our way out of the venue, laughing and staggering and half-dazed from the show, he lit a match and inhaled from the butt of his cigarette. I accompanied him to my car, leaving the rest of his band mates behind. He told me not to worry about it, that they understood, but I couldn't shake the feeling that that wasn't the prudent thing to do.
"They're going back to the hotel to enjoy their last show. After tomorrow they're going back home," he told me. "You don't mind me staying with you for a few days? I kinda wanna see Atlanta."
"You trust them with your instruments and equipment?" I asked.
