I'm here to have a little fun for a change. Listen to some ear-shattering
music, get a little drunk, have a little meaningless sex—what a plan.
The first band was mediocre, but the band playing now is better. Called
Hard Core Logo, they're a punk band with a singer whose intensity reaches
off the stage and grabs you. Well, it grabs me anyway—right in the
crotch. He's not gorgeous, like Fox-who-won't-be-mine-anytime-soon.
In fact, if compared objectively, the blond guitar player is better looking.
But the singer is where my attention is focused.
As I watch him growling and shouting song lyrics, I have to wonder if
he's really that angry or if it's all an act. He seems pretty into
it, like it's an ingrained part of him. I wonder how that simmering
rage would translate into sex. I can feel myself getting hard from
the animalistic images that thought provokes. I'll bet, if that guy
had a lover who could meet his intensity, we'd tear each other apart.
I mean, they'd tear each other apart... no, I meant we because I am seriously
considering going backstage and see if he might be interested. As
I watch him try to catch the guitarist's spit in his mouth, I figure he's
probably rather uninhibited, at least about bodily fluids. But now
I'm wondering if he's got something going with the guitarist. A threesome
would not be bad at all, except that it takes a little more time to set
up. I don't know if I want to go to the trouble when I could more
easily pick up someone from the crowd.
Moving closer to the stage just as they start playing the old Bucky
Haight tune "Blue Tattoo", I catch the singer's attention. It's fleeting,
but I think there were a couple of seconds of contact. All through
this song and the next, I move steadily through the packed crowd, closer
and closer. By the time they rip into "Something's Gonna Die Tonight",
I'm pressed right up against the corner of the stage, held in place by
dozens of beer swilling punks and punk-wannabes pogoing wildly with little
regard for rhythm or form. Well, they are beer swilling punks, so
what should I expect? But I digress. So I'm up against the
stage, and I catch his eye again. This time, I give him a slow half-smile
and a wink. He doesn't react because he's still singing, but he keeps
looking over at me and I keep the smile simmering.
After the set is over and he's thanking the crowd, he glances my way
and I turn the smile up to full intensity. He comes over and says,
"You wanna come backstage?"
Okay, Alex, this is where you have to be so cool ice won't melt in your
hand. This guy has seen it all and won't stick around for a second
if the first impression sucks. Well, I guess sucking would make a
hell of a first impression, but the room is a little too crowded for that
so I settle for answering, "Yeah, I wanna come."
He gives me a shark-like smile and his eyes, which I see now are light
blue, glow with feral electricity. In that split second, we see each
other a little too clearly for comfort. The potential for destruction,
self or otherwise, shows from the depths of his soul, and I can tell he
can the see the extremity and chaos that boil inside of me. I should
be scared or at least worried that I've become readable and transparent.
I don't know about this guy, but fear's never stopped me before.
It certainly won't now.
The plain concrete room is crowded and smoky, a distilled microcosm
of the concert hall, only just a bit cooler—both in temperature and temperament.
No punk wannabes here, just musicians and groupies and a few guys, like
me, who are neither. I watch them all from just inside the doorway,
always cautious. I'm sizing up the people and checking for other
exits when I notice some flyers on the floor.
I pick up one of the flyers and read it. It's an advertisement
for tonight's show. Apparently, the band is on some kind of limited
reunion tour across Western Canada. The singer who caught my eye
goes by the unlikely name of Joe Dick, and the guitarist is Billy Tallent.
I'm pleased to have this information, since using a person's name can be
a powerful weapon. Just ask any good salesman or my old FBI colleague,
Fox Mulder.
I shake my head to loosen up those thoughts of Mulder that always seem
to creep in at the most inopportune times. I notice Joe cutting his
way through the crowd toward me looking like some kind of crow in his raggedy
black sweater. The beer he's drinking from a half full bottle must
be really mixing well with the whiskey he was downing on stage. Oddly
enough, he looks barely buzzed instead of falling down drunk, which is
what one might reasonably expect. My opinion of him goes up a couple
of notches, and I can't help but wonder if he has some Russian blood in
him. "Hey, Joe."
"Hey, you made it without gettin' fuckin' lost. Good for you."
He's looking at me as if he didn't really expect me to come back here,
and he wouldn't have cared much if I hadn't. That indifference makes
me incredibly hot, and I can feel my cock starting to take an active interest.
The sweet rush of blood to my groin almost distracts me from his next comment.
"I didn't get your name earlier."
I stare back at him for a moment until he narrows his eyes in irritation.
I smile just a little and hold out my hand. "Alex."
He clasps it in that guy way of twisting the thumbs together and wrapping
the fingers across the back of the hand nearly to the wrist. It's
a hold I've been in many times, but it hardly ever fails to make me think
the guy really wants to arm-wrestle. But from the heat in those icy
blue eyes, I'd say Joe was thinking about some other kind of wrestling.
He held onto my hand for several seconds longer than a normal handshake,
and stared into my face, unblinking the entire time.
Slowly turning my hand loose, he said, "What're you just standing there
for? Grab a beer or... whatever."
The pause in that sentence is almost a challenge so I step closer, into
his personal space. Inhaling the smoky smell of his clothes and the
yeast of the beer, I run one hand down his arm quickly. I pick up
the hand not holding the bottle and examine his heavy silver rings for
a moment, then glance up through my lashes. "I think I'd rather have
whatever. That's why I'm here and you know it."
I've made my play. Now the ball is back in his court. Will
he decide to go all homophobic and try to kick my ass or will he take what
we both want? Before he can say anything, the guitar player sidles
up to us, sinuous as a cat.
"Hey Billy! This is Alex, our number one fan." Pulling his
fingers from my light grip, Joe tosses one arm over Billy's shoulder and
leans in close as if whispering a secret, but says in a normal tone, "How
about that?"
"That's great, Joe. Nice to meet ya, Alex." Billy speaks
with a little nod that seems say that he's done his part to be sociable,
now he just wants to be somewhere else. He's also trying not to look
jealous of the physically charged attention Joe and I are giving each other.
I can't help but laugh at his failure, but I cover by saying, "Actually,
I never heard of you guys until tonight. I just happened to come
to this club because I was bored and it was close."
"But now you're a fan, right? 'Cause we kicked ass... right?"
Joe's second question seems more directed at Billy than me, but I answer
anyway.
"Yeah, you kicked ass. So you want to get out of here? Go
somewhere so I can show my appreciation?" I give him a little grin
that I've been told is quite sexy.
Joe tightens his grip on Billy's shoulder and says, "Only if Bill can
come."
Billy shakes his head, and speaks tiredly, as if continuing a very old
conversation, "Ah, come on, Joe..."
I lean in close to Joe and whisper in his ear, "I don't believe Bill
wants to come."
"Yes, he does. He just doesn't want to want to come. Come
on, Billy Hollywood, you can take a fucking nap or something."
Billy lets out a sigh, but one side of his mouth kicks up as if he's
amused at something, and I wonder if it's Joe or himself or both...
I say yes, and the next thing I know we're taking my car over to a motel
that's maybe two steps up from fleabag. Joe unlocks the door, and
Billy heads straight to the bathroom. I step into the room, and Joe
grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me toward the bed nearest to
the door.
I stop long enough to ask, "What about Billy?"
Taking off his long black coat, Joe shakes his head and says, "Don't
worry about him. He'll get what he needs, when he wants it.
This is just you and me, baby."
Reaching one hand behind me, I take the gun from my waistband, and slip
it into the pocket of my leather jacket. Then I take the jacket off
and lay it on a chair where I can get to it easily if needed. I do
this all so quickly that Joe doesn't notice anything except that my jacket's
gone. He pulls my T-shirt over my head so roughly a shoulder seam
gives way. Jerking the covers off the bed, he pushes me down onto
the sheets. Since it seems to make him happy, I let him take the
lead, sitting there quietly as he strips off his own shirt revealing winter
pale skin and a sturdy body that'll go to fat soon if he doesn't take better
care of himself.
When he sits on the chair to take off his boots, I realize I'd better
take off my own boots before he offers to do it and finds the knife that's
hidden there. Sitting on the edge of the bed facing Joe, I pull them
and my socks off slowly. While I'm at it, I unbutton my jeans, watching
Joe mirror my every move with equal slowness.
The bathroom door opens and Billy strolls out naked as the day he was
born. I figure he'll come over and join Joe and me in our odd little
disrobing ritual, but he doesn't. He turns the covers down on the
other bed, and lies down, fluffing the pillow a little under his head and
pulling the sheet up to his waist. Then he turns over on his side
facing Joe and me and... watches. He never says a word, just watches
every move we make with an intent look in his eyes—chameleon eyes that
at first looked blue and then appeared green for awhile before settling
into a gold-flecked grey in the dim light of the motel room. Now,
who else do I know with changeable eyes? Of course, it always comes
back to Mulder. Always.
Joe totally ignores Billy as he finishes undressing, so I do the same.
A little voyeurism is harmless enough, and I don't mind performing for
an appreciative audience on occasion.
Once we're both completely naked, Joe climbs onto the bed, sticks the
extra pillow under my head, then straddles my chest. His thighs are
spread wide, knees resting on my biceps, holding my arms pinned straight
out from my sides. My right arm is sticking off the edge of the bed
uncomfortably, so I bend my elbow to bring my hand up where I can rub my
fingertips across the side of his leg. It's not much, but it is voluntary
contact.
Bracing one hand on the wall above us, he brushes the head of his half-hard
cock across my lips and I open them wide enough for him to slip inside.
As I lick around the head, the cock swells against my tongue and I try
to take more of the hard shaft into my mouth. The angle makes deep
penetration impossible until Joe leans forward even more, plunging his
cock almost down my throat. I swallow around the intrusion, thankful
to have the experience and skill needed to avoid gagging, then I begin
to suck. And Joe begins to moan.
The silky skin of his cock slides across my lips and tongue, and it's
all I can do not to bite into it—it's just that good. The hot solid
feel of a man's cock in my mouth stirs up some complicated feelings.
It always has. On the one hand, I hate the submissive posture, yet
on the other hand I feel incredibly powerful, knowing that I can draw such
sounds and responses from a big tough guy with just a wiggle of my tongue
against the sweet spot on the underside of his cock.
Of course, since I met Mulder, he's always at the front of my mind during
such encounters— few though they have been. Although it used to
be a favorite pastime, I've been unable to bring myself to touch a woman
since the day I walked into the bullpen in the Hoover building and lost
my heart to that stubborn man. Each man I've been with since has
become Mulder at some point during the liaison, and I can feel it happening
now as I look up into sky blue eyes that suddenly seem to turn hazel.
For my own self-preservation and in fairness to Joe, I can't allow that
to happen this time. I blink hard a couple of times, and once again
I see Joe with his pale round face and black mohawk looking so unMulderlike
as he curses under his gasping breath, and starts to thrust deeper into
my throat. I relax and take it, working my tongue and lips in all
the ways I know will give him the most pleasure. Finally, he comes
in salty pulses down my throat, yelling, "Fuck yeah!"
By now, I'm hard and leaking, and I know one touch would set me off,
if I could just reach... The sudden release of pressure from my arms
lets the blood rush in, bringing the sting of a thousand needles.
I hiss out a curse as Joe moves down the bed, straightening out on top
of me. He looks over at Billy, who nods minutely, then takes my mouth
in a bruising kiss. He thrusts his tongue between my lips just as
he had thrust his cock earlier. I kiss back, and we lie there exchanging
hard wet kisses while I start to arch my hips against his, rubbing my aching
erection against the blade of his hipbone. He holds his hips still
as I hump against him, faster and faster, ripping my mouth away from his
to draw in a much needed breath. He drops his face into my neck,
teeth nipping at my skin. The heavy silver hoop in his left ear is
cold against my jaw as the heat of his mouth devours my neck and shoulder.
The delicious pain of his teeth sends me flying over the edge, and I come
against his belly in what feels like an endless stream. My whole
body shakes like it's going to come apart, and my vision grows dim.
This last distresses me until I realize my eyes are slowly closing, that
I am, in fact, not going to pass out.
Something makes me turn my head to the side and look at Billy, whom
I'd pretty much forgotten even existed much less inhabited the room.
He's wearing a slight smile, and watching Joe possessively. I have
no idea what's going on with these guys, but it doesn't seem like a threat
to me so I'm not going to worry about it. Joe has slid off me and
is sprawled face down on the other side of the bed. I'm too exhausted
to move so I pull the sheet up and wipe myself off with the edge.
When I look again, Billy's eyes are closed and his breathing is deep and
even, so I allow myself to doze off for awhile.
A sound brings me suddenly awake, but I lie there as if I'm still asleep
in the age-old survivor's tradition. Continuing to breathe deeply
and evenly, I listen carefully to identify the sound that woke me.
I realize that the sheets next to me feel cool and empty, and then I hear
the noise again. It's a very faint moan coming from the direction
of the other bed. Since my head happens to be turned that way, all
I have to do is open my eyes just a little bit. The room is striped
with late morning sunlight coming through the gaps in the curtains.
Since having my back to the window puts my face in deep shadow, I feel
safe opening my eyes further and am treated to an interesting sight.
Joe has indeed left this bed, and is cuddled up with Billy on the other.
Billy is propped up on one elbow, stroking Joe's face softly with his
free hand. He drops a soft kiss to Joe's lips drawing a barely audible
moan. Joe's eyes are closed but he's wearing an expression that can
only be called content. And that expression is the most surprising
thing of all about this whole scene. Just from our very brief acquaintance,
Joe doesn't seem the type to ever be truly satisfied. But that little
bit of attention— no, affection —from Billy has him practically purring.
As I watch in spellbound silence, the kisses gradually grow deeper and
last longer. The kisses are full of the passion that Joe shared with
me last night, but there's also an element of tenderness that usually comes
from a long-term relationship or very deep feelings. Now Joe is licking
at the golden brown stubble on Billy's jaw, and Billy has his eyes closed
in what looks like total surrender. I expect Joe to roll him over
and fuck him quick and rough like he did to me, which I enjoyed very much,
by the way. But he doesn't do that. Instead, Joe reaches down
beside the bed somewhere and pulls out a condom and a small bottle of lube.
He applies them both to Billy, all the while keeping his mouth moving over
Billy's face.
Billy's hands are all over Joe's body now, but his movements are still
slow and languorous. Each stroke of his fingers is a sexual act complete
in itself. It is the most erotic thing I have ever seen in which
I was not a participant. My breathing is still silent, but it's getting
quick and shallow as my cock hardens against the smooth cotton sheet.
I slide my hand down to touch my needy member and try to time my strokes
to match Billy's as he caresses Joe's cock, bringing muttered curses from
the man trying to get Billy prepared.
When Billy's cock is finally wrapped and anointed, Joe spreads his legs
and tilts his hips. Billy slides right inside him, as if they've
done it so many times that they have their moves down pat. Joe raises
up while Billy curls over him, and they kiss again, a slow slide of lips
and tongues that has me almost panting.
I'm pulling on my cock with all the well-practiced motions that I know
will bring me off the quickest. I feel as if I'm going to explode
as I watch Billy's lithe body working over Joe's bigger one. It is
a fucking work of art, no pun intended. The straining muscles, the
sweat-glistened skin, the tightly coiled energy... Just as Joe mutters
a couple of curses and lunges for Billy's mouth, my orgasm starts and my
eyes close of their own accord. The pleasure washes through me and
over me, surrounding and drowning me until I'm sure my heart can't take
anymore. I'm alone at the center of the universe for a few blissful
seconds before I drift back down to earth.
Drying my hand on the sheet, I open my eyes to see Billy gently pulling
out of Joe. Joe's eyes are closed and Billy is wearing the tenderest
expression I have ever seen on a man's face, but he also looks so unbearably
sad that I want to turn away. Pretend I don't see it so that I won't
be expected to offer comfort. But he doesn't seem to remember I'm
in the room at all.
Billy reaches over and picks up his watch off the nightstand, squinting
at the numbers. His curse sounds unusually loud in the silent room
as he shakes Joe from his post-coital daze. "Hey, Joe. I gotta
go do an interview with that Tiffany chick from... what's that magazine?
I've barely got time for a shower. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah go on. I'll be down as soon as I get cleaned up."
With one last quick kiss, Billy gets up and goes into the bathroom without
a single glance in my direction.
Joe looks over at me and says, "Sorry, I can't offer you a shower too,
but we're on a tight schedule."
"That's all right. I need to get going anyway." I sit up
and reach for my clothes, pulling them on with cool efficiency. As
I'm putting on my ripped T-shirt, I turn for one last look at Joe who's
already on his second cigarette. Nodding at the bathroom, I say,
"Is he going to be all right? With what all we did, I mean?"
"Yeah, he's a contrary son of a bitch, but he likes these little games."
Joe nods at me with a little smile that speaks of many things that will
remain unspoken. He points at my chest showing through the black
fabric and says, "Did I do that?"
"Yeah, you don't remember?"
"Not specifically," he replies with a shrug, then gets up and goes over
to the dresser. He opens up the duffel bag that's sitting there and
takes out another black T-shirt, tossing it to me before going back to
the bed.
Shaking out the shirt, I see that the front reads 'HARD CORE LOGO' in
big square white letters, all except for the 'A' which is bigger, more
pointed, and in blood red. It is also encircled which reminds me
uncomfortably of a target, but I take off my old shirt and put it on anyway.
"Thanks, Joe. It's been a blast."
"Yeah... Alex. You take it easy."
I give him my brightest, most carefree grin and say, "I always do.
Good luck on the rest of your tour."
"Yeah," replies Joe, but he's looking at the bathroom door almost... wistfully?
Is that what I see in the tightly drawn mouth and soft gaze under lowered
brows? Oh, yeah. I've seen that look before and felt it cross
my own face a few times around the unbelievably obtuse Fox Mulder.
The thought of Mulder galvanizes me into action, as it usually seems
to do, and I slip on my jacket and walk out of the room.
Getting into my car, I think that since I don't have any more business
keeping me in Calgary, it's time for me to move on. Maybe head back
to the States, unless there's another job for me up here somewhere.
As much as I hate to do it, I pull over at the first payphone I see.
I dial a number in D.C. and give my code to the drone who answers the phone.
He makes me wait for a full minute before he answers the phone with a smarmy,
"Alex, how good to hear from you. I hope your trip is going well."
"Quite. The package was delivered successfully. What do
you want me to do now?" I speak with polite efficiency, then wait
for his reply. When it comes a moment later, it is exactly what I
was secretly longing to hear.
"Come back to Washington. I believe Agent Mulder has something
that would be potentially damaging to my colleagues, and I want you to
get it."
"Yes, sir. I'll be there as soon as I can." I hang up the
phone with a smile. For whatever twisted reason, I'm going to see
Mulder again so I'm happy. For the moment.
Backstage Pass
by Amy B
Absorbing the pounding music into my very bones, I feel myself relaxing
for the first time since... when? Since the day I met Fox Mulder,
at the very least. But Mulder is a long way from this concert hall,
a fact that suits me just fine. I am, if not exactly on vacation,
on my own time for the evening. I'm determined not to worry about
conspiracies, aliens, shadow governments, power-mad old men, or FBI agents
with lush, kissable lips and wounded eyes.
"All right, let's get the fuck out of here. We're staying at
a motel not far from here. You got wheels?"
