Match (carraway54) wrote in dead_bunnies,

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non-pop and not quite dead

If the community decides this is out of bounds, I'll delete it. I need a little feedback on this one, because I have no idea where it's going. Bunny (abortive story, rather) posted for cathartic purposes, not adoption. All serious suggestions (and most silly ones) welcomed. Story in question is non-pop real people, specifically David Bowie and Trent Reznor during their collective US tour.

The second paragraph is very nearly the first slash I wrote, back in December 2001. The rest of it followed intermittently sometime between then and now. The people of the RS-X list were helpful but not very much so; I have almost 900 words and no idea where to go from here. The sections are in order, but the ~s represent gaps of indeterminate length.

This is how it happened. I only know the one story. You wanna tell me
a better one?

Why did I fuck David Bowie? It was a buddy fuck. Lonliness. Boredom. He
pitied me. I'm secretly gay. Experimentation. Hero-worship. To
screw around with the tabloids. I didn't, there was a groupie in bed
with us. Doesn't everybody secretly want to be Mick Jagger? We never
fucked, only oral. We only kissed. We never kissed, just fucked once or
twice. Take your pick. Things happen on tour. We felt depressed. We
felt neverbetter. There was no reason. On tour is a different place
than life. You know that. Don't expect an answer that makes sense in
daylight. On tour once I went three weeks without seeing the sun. It
was all right. I'm already pretty pale.


I like being fucked, fucked up, fucked over. It's all the same, pain
and pleasure wrapped around emptiness. We're all groupies, all of us
looking for somebody to whore ourselves out to.

I could tell you the specs, where we did it, how often. The taste of
his mouth. How his dick felt scraping against my soft palate. Maybe
you want to jerk off thinking about me taking it up the ass, his bony
hands wrapped around my wrists. Maybe you want to stare at the magazine
photos and eyeball the size of our dicks. You don't know how many lies
I've already told.


He fucked me in his dressing room, asked for carpet in the rider. My legs
wrapped around his waist. He smiled, during, smiles that could almost
have been meant for me. Some grunts, nothing out of the ordinary. Didn't
talk. It was afterwards we talked, feet dangling off the end of the
loading dock. He smoked, lining up the butts between us.

Maybe you expected something finer, a living legend-caliber fuck? Yeah, I
spread my legs for the Thin White Duke. I say //we were on tour// as if it
explains anything. Pack up your morality, stow it under the bus. America
wants decadence but not too much, wants danger but not too close. I'm
afraid of Americans. I'm afraid of the world. Give me your neurotics,
your coked-up paranoiacs, your jailbait rave trash, your aging discomanes.

Listen to the fucking music. Go back to that, at least. Rarities, live
cuts, b-sides and unreleased. Nowhere near his back catalogue, but I'm
working on it. I'm always working. That's what it's about, not who does
who on the side. I didn't ask about Mick, Iggy, Lou. He didn't ask me
questions either. It was a clandestine affair, not a fucking tell-all
book deal.

Maybe I wrote a song for him. Maybe someday you'll believe you've heard
it. It'll show up on a cassette dub of a bootleg cd, the sound tinny
and low-fi. One day my voice will float through your brain in stereo,
and you'll know. //Yeah, they were definitely doing it.// I read the
magazines too. It's not like I own my life these days.


Here's what I regret: I always told him the truth. Somebody gives good
head, it puts you off-guard, you know?

I read someplace that everyone carries a two-year chemical history in
their hair. Every drug you took, everything you ate or didn't eat, all
the random fields of toxicity you passed through without knowing it. My
hair was long when I met him; I wore my pain ostentatiously. That was
years ago. I've cut my hair since then; he's grown his out. It looks good
on him. I say: wear it that way it's like you got nothing to hide. He's
clean. I'm clean. Nothing to see here.


"Redemption bores the piss out of me, Dave," I said.

"You really think I'd take you back for the bottle deposit?" he said.


"Trent," he said, called again "Trent!" He'd just finished his set,
broke off from the band and crush of techs. Not heading for me, sure
I'd follow. Through the noise and backstage press I watched him confer
with Reeve, shorthand, and accept and uncap a bottle of water. Didn't
slow. He stopped in front of me, drank deep, then exhaled and slung an
arm across my shoulders. It was that casually intimate grab-duck-sway,
international code for walk-with-me. We didn't walk.

He kissed me instead.

Aht-ah -- you want to know everything. How was it? Hard, soft, tongue,
teeth? He's your mix-and-match rock god. What do you need to hear?

It was a quick kiss, and hard. Efficient, but not rushed. David's a
thorough man. He broke away first, nodding back toward the stage. "Encore
now." He strode up to the band, then back into stagelight. The crowd
screamed for him. My mouth tasted like menthol.


He broke the kiss before I could. As he pulled away, I whispered
"Suck me."

Later he did. Laid me against the wall of an empty greenroom, left his
cigarette to burn down at the edge of the ashtray. David sucks cock like
a top, and I gave it up for him. I gave it up for him every time.
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