Work Text:
Birds of a Feather
by Merri-Todd Webster
5 August 2000
It's peacock feathers tonight.
Every Maxwell Demon costume that I've handled, so far, has had feathers on it. Feather boas and feather collars. Feather trim on hats, lapels, and cuffs. Long sharp feathers and short downy ones, mostly dyed in colors not found in nature. These peacock feathers he's wearing tonight aren't dyed, of course. They're gaudy enough by nature, even for Brian Slade.
The make-up is blue, green, and gold to match the feathers, over the usual pallor. Brian's skin is very fair to begin with, but the foundation he uses makes it much paler, white like milk or snow, a kind of white that glows. His hair is sprayed pale gold. The peacock feathers form giant wings attached to his arms, a collar for his neck, a skirt for his coat like the bird's tail.
As usual, Brian is quiet and thoughtful before the concert. He doesn't snarl or snap, he doesn't ask for anything. He just sits there with that distant expression on his face, letting us work on him. He's an anomaly in the rock world, I think: A big star who's normally quiet, calm, composed, and unfailingly polite to all the little flunkies who supply his needs. Like me, for example, his wardrobe mistress.
Or Mandy, his wife. Or Curt, his lover.
It bothered me, at first. That Brian and Curt were having an affair, and with Mandy's knowledge, with her permission, even. It bothered me the more, I know, because if Brian Slade were mine, I wouldn't want to share him. If he wanted me, I wouldn't let anyone else touch me. A silly fantasy, and so out of date in these permissive days--you don't have to tell me that. But still, it would have bothered me less if they'd whored around behind Mandy's back, in the good old-fashioned way, instead of right out there in front of all the cameras of the world.
I don't like Curt Wild. Mandy does, treats him like her oldest and dearest friend, but of course she treats half the world that way. He's just a washed-up junkie who hasn't half the talent that Brian has; he'd be a nobody and nowhere if Brian hadn't taken him under his wing. I can't think what Brian wants with him, really, except that he's hung like a horse. I suppose that counts for something. He strikes me as dangerous. He's the one who does all the stupid stuff one expects rock stars to do--the drinking and the screwing around, the sudden rages--temper tantrums, really. The temper tantrums of a sick, foolish child, crying out for attention. It wouldn't bother me except that I worry he might start to treat Brian as carelessly as he treats himself. That night Curt started cutting himself with a broken drumstick, that's when I really got scared. Suppose he were to take it into his head to do something like that to Brian? I'm afraid that Brian would let him. He doesn't know how to say no to Curt Wild.
"Five minutes, Brian."
He nods, but he's not Brian, right at this moment. It's only five minutes till he's onstage, and he's become Maxwell Demon. When he sits quietly, while we work on his costume and make-up, he's working on himself, too, going through some kind of inner transformation I don't fully understand. If I did understand it, I'd know what makes Brian Slade tick. But I don't think anyone will ever know that.
"Hey, Bri."
He doesn't knock, of course. He simply walks in, careless of what Brian might be doing, of what the rest of us might need to do for him at the last minute without someone getting in the way. Curt just walks in, as usual, and puts his hand on Brian's shoulder, smiling at him in the mirror. Curt's hand is broad and square, with stubby nails painted black, always black. He's wearing black leather tonight, and his hair has been dyed a coppery red, a brighter variation on what I think is his natural colour. Brian does not return the smile, but his eyes meet Curt's in the mirror.
"Sold out again."
Brian nods once.
"You ready?"
Brian nods again. Curt squeezes his shoulder, grinning.
"Well, come on!"
Brian gets up, raising his arms in a stretch so that the peacock-feather wings spread out at his sides. For just a moment I *see* a great large bird when I look at him, and I remember from school that the male bird, the cock, is always the gaudier of the sexes. His bright feathers and his songs and dances capture the hen's attention and win her as his mate. They also distract the predator from the hen as she broods the eggs or feeds the nestlings.
Some birds mate for life, some birds only pair off exclusively for a season. And in some species, the male woos and wins as many females as he can, each summer, leaving the female behind to build the nest, lay her eggs, and feed the young alone.
Brian has not said anything. But he bends to Curt, wrapping his long hand around the back of the other man's neck, and kisses him. He knows I'm watching and he doesn't care; they kiss as if they're about to lie down on the couch in the corner and fuck--and sometimes they do--not as if they're about to go onstage before a sold-out audience and perform. Maybe it's all the same to them.
When Brian backs away, Curt slaps him on the shoulder, turns, and stalks out of the room. Brian saunters behind him without a backward glance. Everyone else has already left; I'm the only person in the dressing room, like a bird alone in her nest.
***
He's so fucking beautiful.
It's partly the costumes. Every night I think he's wearing the most outrageous thing I've ever seen, and every night, he tops the night before. Tonight it's all these peacock feathers. Fucking incredible.
He oughta look stupid, but he doesn't. It works. Brian's not only talented, he's got really talented people around him. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here, hanging out with this bunch.
It's not just the clothes and the makeup, though. I've seen him naked and scrubbed down, no make-up, no hair color, nothing, and he was still... gorgeous.
I wanted to throw him down and fuck his brains out. I wanted to get down on my knees and pray to him. I think I did a little of both, that time.
Everybody's gone except for Shannon, his wardrobe mistress. She doesn't like me, I can tell, and frankly, I don't like her. She watches me when I'm with Brian, and I know she's wondering how a stupid ex-junkie like me gets the nerve to put his grubby caveman paws all over "her" Brian. Brian Slade, Maxwell Demon, space-age rock god. Yeah, sometimes I wonder that myself. Like I don't know I wouldn't fucking have a career right now if it weren't for Brian's generosity. If it weren't for the fact that he *believes* in me.
Fucking incredible.
About five minutes before showtime, I go into his dressing room. Shannon is still there, fussing over his hair, fixing these peacock-feather wings on this far-out blue and green costume he's wearing. He's outdone himself again, for the umpteenth time. Shannon gives me that "Fuck off, stupid Yank" look that she's practiced so much, but Brian just looks at me in the mirror. He doesn't smile, he doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. His shoulder is so hot under my hand, just like it was last night, just like every inch of him was.
"Sold out again," I tell him. I can't get over it--I never sold out a concert in my life. He just nods.
"You ready?"
Brian nods again and opens his eyes a little wider. I squeeze his shoulder, too hard 'cause I'm so excited.
"Well, come on!"
He stands up, turns around, and stretches. The peacock feathers make these wings that come out from the sleeves of his jacket, and with his arms held out and his back arched in a stretch, he looks just like a huge bird. An exotic, beautiful bird. Sometimes--and this is one of those times--I'm not sure what Brian is, really. Is he a man, is he a woman, is he even human? I've slept with him, fucked him, had his cock up my ass, but he can make even me believe he's really from outer space. Maybe he is. I guess that's part of the turn-on, part of what makes me hard for him and weak in the knees at the same time, all the time. The ambiguity. Man or woman or space alien or whatever, I know I want to be with him. I want to make music with him and have sex with him. Either way, it feels like making love.
I'm ready to run out on stage, but Brian wraps his hand around my neck and kisses me. Oh, great, I get to go out on stage with my dick bulging out of my pants. Again. Out of the corner of my eye I can sort of see Shannon watching us, probably worrying that I'm smearing his lipstick, but I don't care. His lips are so soft and his tongue is so hot and I want whatever he can give me, here, now, always.
When he lets me go, I turn around and take all that energy, everything I feel for him, and leave the room, ready to take it out on stage and give it away. And he's right behind me, ready to do the same.
I think I'm really happy.
***
I still catch almost every one of Brian's shows. There was a time when I'd make myself go no matter how I felt, even if I were so jet-lagged I couldn't think, or sick enough to be in bed. It's not that important any more, to either of us. But unless I truly am ill, or exhausted, or catching up with someone else terribly important, I turn up for the show. He does need me to be there, and it still is such fun.
He is a joy to watch, a born performer. Tonight he's wearing this blue-green costume with touches of gold, based on peacock feathers. He looks quite splendid. The way he moves, one would think he was a kind of bird, the way he stretches out an arm or a leg, then strikes a pose. And I've always loved his voice, whether he spoke or whether he sang. Every time I hear him sing, I think of the nights we spent together before he was famous, before Brian was a star. I used to lie naked in bed, smelling of him, feeling the warm spots left on my skin where he'd touched me, and listen to him work out songs on the guitar. He used to sing to me. Every song was for me. I guess I'll always remember that.
He's not alone on stage tonight, however, and I'm not alone in his life any more. Curt Wild is with him, playing lead guitar on this tour. Curt is looking good tonight, I must say; he's gained a bit of weight, and the red hair colour suits him. He looks very good in the black leathers, a good counterpoint to Brian's gaudy colors. If Brian is a bird, Curt is some kind of predator, a black panther from the jungle, a wolf from the forest. It's actually been said that he was raised by wolves, but the real story is far worse than that, from what I've heard. Wolves would have been kinder to him, no doubt, than his own family was.
I always knew Brian was bi. I was, too--that is to say, I never minded playing with other girls. Girls were sweet, fun, pretty... but I never lost my heart to another girl the way I did to Brian. Brian was sweet and fun and pretty, too, rather like a girl when he wanted to be--and when he wanted to be, he was all man, hard and aggressive, and he has the most beautiful cock. The sex was wonderful, no one else ever made me feel that way. Before or since, and believe me, I've looked for a good substitute. He could be soft or he could be hard, he could fuck my brains out or lick me until I melted, and it was good either way. It was really very good.
Our marriage should have worked out better than it has. We had so much in common, so much to share. At times I felt almost like he was my brother, he knew me and understood me so well. And I do love him, you know, I always have. It wasn't an act, at least not for me. Perhaps we shouldn't have agreed on an open marriage. Perhaps it just left the door open for one of us to leave the other. But both of us being bi, we wanted to experiment, we were sure we could stick together in spite of it. What did casual sex with someone else matter, compared to what we felt for one another? It was just icing on the cake, darling. The first time I watched Brian have sex with another man, I came without being touched. Knowing that he was watching me with another woman made being with her even better. It should have worked out, you see.
I never counted on not being able to watch, not knowing what was going on. The first time I saw him leave the room to have sex with Curt Wild, I should have known something was wrong. Shannon tried to warn me, and I dismissed it.
Curt is not a bad fellow, and he really does have talent. He's not as good as Brian, but then, no one is, in my opinion. I wouldn't begrudge them their fun if only they'd include me in it. But it isn't fun any more, it's far more than that, and I'm not included. The songs Brian is writing and polishing on this tour, they aren't being written while I lounge beside him after making love. Someone else is warming his bed and his heart, and I don't know what's going on, or where it's going to end.
***
It's five minutes till another performance.
Shannon is spraying my hair with one last coat of gold dye. The other make-up and wardrobe people are leaving, one by one. I know that Mandy is in the audience, waiting for me along with everyone else, and that Curt will be in soon. He always meets me in my dressing room rather than waiting for me in the wings, even though we don't go onstage together.
I know what they think of me. I know that Mandy, and Curt, and Shannon, and, in some fashion, every man and woman out there in the audience--every one of them is in love with me. Shannon wants me for her very own. Mandy is willing to share me--with anyone but Curt. Curt wants nothing but what I'm willing to give him, and thinks that I give him more than he deserves.
Every one of them thinks I'm a flaming egotist.
I look at myself in the mirror. I see green and gold, white and blue. I see borrowed plumage and artifice and a mask, a persona. Something through which the gods make a sound that human beings can hear.
I don't see Brian Slade. He doesn't appear in the mirror. I don't know where he appears any more.
They all think I'm so in love with myself. The truth is, if there is a truth, that I don't know myself any more. If I don't love them the way they hope to be loved, it's not because I only love myself, it's because I've lost the self who was capable of loving.
Maybe it's paranoia. Maybe everyone else is happy.
Curt and Shannon would laugh at me if I told them that I believe I'm ugly. That I first tried the costumes and the make-up of which I've made an art and a habit in order to cover up, hide, transform, transmute, alchemise the face in the mirror, the face of Brian Slade. Of Thomas Stoningham. Thomas became Brian, and Brian became Maxwell, and what will Maxwell become? It was Mandy who encouraged me to dress as I pleased and to play what I liked. Cecil followed her lead--he, too, was dazzled by the glitter. The facade of colour that I put on over the real me. A facade meant to make me beautiful, and lovable, to myself.
Perhaps the greasepaint and the glitter eat away at the real self, under the lights. Perhaps the soul inevitably dissolves under that kind of heat--so many bright lights on stage, so many greedy eyes in the dark rows of the audience. Perhaps that's how it is.
Or perhaps I never had a soul to begin with. Perhaps I'm a changeling, an alien dropped off by a passing ship, a fairy child left in the cradle in exchange for a human child. I met a man once who believed that was true of himself.
It must be the paranoia. Here's Shannon looking at me, waiting for one crumb of my regard. Here's Curt, so excited he's about to wet himself, telling me the house is sold out again. I don't have the heart to tell him Jerry would never let me play a venue we couldn't sell out. Curt is having the time of life on this tour, and I won't spoil it for him, or for the fans who are waiting, for Shannon, for Mandy.
So I get up, and stretch, and I kiss him, his warm mouth, that strength, letting the kiss say everything I can't, just yet, and then it's time to go. It's time to go on stage. It's time to go.
end