I'm Gonna Know What's Inside
Does it hurt?
I never got used to Marilyn cutting himself. He’s carving himself up now on stage with broken glass as he sings Sweet Dreams. He says it’s to make some sort of a point but I think it has more to do with how he hates himself. He cuts himself off stage too. Razor blades, knives, whatever’s to hand when things go bad. Offstage I would fight him for his blades but on stage I just try to block it out. I attempt to narrow my attention to just the pounding music as I say the cords aloud in my head but the blood seeping from fresh gashes in his chest and painting the stage red scream too loud. Marilyn and the crowd bring out the very worst in each other; the crowd wants to see something horrible and Marilyn wants to show them. They egg each other on.
Sweet Dreams seems an appropriate song to cut to. When his arrogance and anger pushes everyone away there is no one left to hurt but himself. Marilyn is both the abuser and the abused; his own victim. His chest is a lattice work of self loathing, despair and rage. Miseries piled upon miseries. When he cuts in front of me like this it’s like he’s forcing his pain onto me, forcing me to bear the pain with him, like it’s too much for him to hold alone. I really hate it when he cuts.
When he drops the glass I let out a deep breath that I wasn’t even aware I was holding. We haven’t known each other that long and I’ve been in the band for even less time but we already share an intense bond and I care about him a whole lot. He glances over at me now and I wonder what he has planned.
I don’t have long to wonder because in a few strides Marilyn’s behind me with his mike arm draped loosely around my neck and his free hand roaming up my dress. Some straight men would have been freaked out by this but it’s all in a days work for us. It’s all good; just part of our fucked up show. His body radiates heat and I can feel his sweat and blood creeping through my clothes to touch my skin. When his hand slips inside my underwear I struggle to keep my focus on the bass but as long as Marilyn keeps singing I have to keep playing. I look down at the cords. I try to concentrate on my fingers and not my cock. Is it ok to get hard when your best friend is wanking you off? I hope so. During the instrumental Marilyn drops the mike to my lips and I hear my breath hitch over the amps. I elbow him sharp in his bony ribs and he retreats, satisfied that he’s violated me enough for one gig.
___________________________________________________
Back in the hotel room Marilyn is sprawled out a tatty leather couch, looking like he’s waiting to be analysed. His chest doesn’t look quite so bad now he’s showered and I’m digging around in our cases for steri-strips and TCP. When I eventually find them I come to sit on the floor by him and start to unscrew the lid of the antiseptic but Marilyn puts out his hand, silently instructing me to give him the items. I hand them over and lean my head against the cool seat of the couch to watch him.
“Does it hurt?” I ask as he pours on the TCP
“Yea” He tells me while his face remains empty and impassive
His washed skin smells fresh and it’s so pale it seems luminous. Even with its landscape of scars it looks very beautiful. I wonder what his skin tastes like. I blink hard to get this dangerous thought out of my head. Our on stage sex acts are seriously starting to fuck with my head. I’m suddenly aware of Marilyn watching me watch him and I raise an eyebrow at his abused chest.
“What?”
“Just go steady with the glass, yea?” I tell him gently. His hand reaches out and tentatively strokes my unruly hair
“It looks nice in dreads” he says absentmindedly, the subject quickly changed. I like these quiet moments of intimacy that we sometimes share after the chaos of the stage; like the calm after a storm. I could fall asleep like his, with his hand in my hair but the night is far from over. We still have drugs to take, parties to crash and girls to fuck before we can crawl into bed. Maybe this would be better described as the eye of the storm.
“Are you going to shower?” Marilyn prompts as my eye lids start to drift shut
“I guess” I murmur noncommittally
“Don’t go all sleepy on me Jeordie” he ruffles my hair “we’re going out”
“There best be speed waiting for me when I get out” I tell him, only half joking, as I pull myself up from my spot on the floor and make my way to the bathroom. In truth the shower will provide a welcome opportunity to release some of the sexual frustration that I feel more and more frequently when I’m around Marilyn. It scares me a little that I have a semi from him touching my hair. What the hell is that all about? I wonder if it’s ok to think about your best friend while you’re wanking off in the shower. Probably not, is the inescapable answer but his image is carved onto my horny mind and it stubbornly refuses to be erased.
Sweet Dreams seems an appropriate song to cut to. When his arrogance and anger pushes everyone away there is no one left to hurt but himself. Marilyn is both the abuser and the abused; his own victim. His chest is a lattice work of self loathing, despair and rage. Miseries piled upon miseries. When he cuts in front of me like this it’s like he’s forcing his pain onto me, forcing me to bear the pain with him, like it’s too much for him to hold alone. I really hate it when he cuts.
When he drops the glass I let out a deep breath that I wasn’t even aware I was holding. We haven’t known each other that long and I’ve been in the band for even less time but we already share an intense bond and I care about him a whole lot. He glances over at me now and I wonder what he has planned.
I don’t have long to wonder because in a few strides Marilyn’s behind me with his mike arm draped loosely around my neck and his free hand roaming up my dress. Some straight men would have been freaked out by this but it’s all in a days work for us. It’s all good; just part of our fucked up show. His body radiates heat and I can feel his sweat and blood creeping through my clothes to touch my skin. When his hand slips inside my underwear I struggle to keep my focus on the bass but as long as Marilyn keeps singing I have to keep playing. I look down at the cords. I try to concentrate on my fingers and not my cock. Is it ok to get hard when your best friend is wanking you off? I hope so. During the instrumental Marilyn drops the mike to my lips and I hear my breath hitch over the amps. I elbow him sharp in his bony ribs and he retreats, satisfied that he’s violated me enough for one gig.
___________________________________________________
Back in the hotel room Marilyn is sprawled out a tatty leather couch, looking like he’s waiting to be analysed. His chest doesn’t look quite so bad now he’s showered and I’m digging around in our cases for steri-strips and TCP. When I eventually find them I come to sit on the floor by him and start to unscrew the lid of the antiseptic but Marilyn puts out his hand, silently instructing me to give him the items. I hand them over and lean my head against the cool seat of the couch to watch him.
“Does it hurt?” I ask as he pours on the TCP
“Yea” He tells me while his face remains empty and impassive
His washed skin smells fresh and it’s so pale it seems luminous. Even with its landscape of scars it looks very beautiful. I wonder what his skin tastes like. I blink hard to get this dangerous thought out of my head. Our on stage sex acts are seriously starting to fuck with my head. I’m suddenly aware of Marilyn watching me watch him and I raise an eyebrow at his abused chest.
“What?”
“Just go steady with the glass, yea?” I tell him gently. His hand reaches out and tentatively strokes my unruly hair
“It looks nice in dreads” he says absentmindedly, the subject quickly changed. I like these quiet moments of intimacy that we sometimes share after the chaos of the stage; like the calm after a storm. I could fall asleep like his, with his hand in my hair but the night is far from over. We still have drugs to take, parties to crash and girls to fuck before we can crawl into bed. Maybe this would be better described as the eye of the storm.
“Are you going to shower?” Marilyn prompts as my eye lids start to drift shut
“I guess” I murmur noncommittally
“Don’t go all sleepy on me Jeordie” he ruffles my hair “we’re going out”
“There best be speed waiting for me when I get out” I tell him, only half joking, as I pull myself up from my spot on the floor and make my way to the bathroom. In truth the shower will provide a welcome opportunity to release some of the sexual frustration that I feel more and more frequently when I’m around Marilyn. It scares me a little that I have a semi from him touching my hair. What the hell is that all about? I wonder if it’s ok to think about your best friend while you’re wanking off in the shower. Probably not, is the inescapable answer but his image is carved onto my horny mind and it stubbornly refuses to be erased.