“I’m almost in,” I said. I managed to sink another few inches in. She was moaning now, gripping the bed sheets even tighter.
“It hurts.”
“It won’t in a minute,” I said. I sunk in even deeper, now pressing my pelvis against her soft bum. She was amazingly tight and warm. I lingered for a moment, letting her anus stretch out a bit before I started pumping. I kind of liked the sounds of her moaning. It didn’t sound like she was in too much pain. And if she didn’t like it, she would have stopped me—right? I started fucking her asshole. I’d never fucked an asshole before, but it was fun. It felt completely different—so incredibly tight. And every time she clenched, I nearly had an orgasm. I even kind of liked that bitter smell that began to tinge the air of my bedroom.
“I think I’m going to come,” I said without stopping. I was pumping her fast, making her groan loudly and squirm intensely. I had to pin her down so that she wouldn’t squirm away from me.
“Fuck,” she screamed. And then I felt something wet and warm around my knees. I looked down and saw that she was squirting—or maybe she was peeing, ruining my bed sheets—though I didn’t mind. I had a spare set in the closet. I reached down and pressed my hand against her pussy, feeling the warm fluid gushing between my fingers. I didn’t stop pumping that asshole. “I’m so sorry,” she said—and I think she was referring to the pee, or squirt, or whatever it was. But I really didn’t care.
I groaned and tried to hold back, but the pleasure was too intense. I thrusted my cock in one last time and then I filled her tight back door with my hot load. Once I was empty, I pulled out and watched as my seed dribbled out and down her pussy, to join the rest of the mess on my bed.
I took a moment to catch my breath before asking, “Are you okay?”
It was another moment before she said, “I’m fine.” Then there was a long, awkward silence.
“You can sleep over if you want,” I said.
She nodded her head slowly, as if she hadn’t really heard what I said. It was a few seconds later when she said, “I think I’m okay. I should be getting home.” But she obviously didn’t need to be getting home. The romance movie wasn’t even over yet at the movie theatre, and I don’t think she originally planned to only watch half of the film.
She didn’t show up for practise the next day. No one could get a hold of her. “We’ve got a show coming up in two days. Why would she miss practise today of all days?” our drummer asked. Then Ian looked over at me with a dark look. I pretended not to notice. My gut turned. We couldn’t play half of our set without Mimi, and we were expected to play ten songs at our upcoming show—which was going to be one of the biggest shows we’d ever played.
No one could get a hold of Mimi the next day either. Finally, the band tasked me with going to her apartment to make sure that she was okay. I went, but she wasn’t there. I tried calling in, but she didn’t pick up. So I sent her a text message and prayed that she was just getting over some bad day cold. It was that night when she got back to me. “I’m leaving the band,” she wrote. “I just think it would be too awkward after our date, or whatever it was.”
“Please don’t do this. The guys will kill me,” I wrote back. And she didn’t reply. She never replied. That was the last I ever heard from her.
I toyed with the idea of not telling the guys about what happened, but I could see in Ian’s eyes that he knew, so I had to spill the beans. I told them about our awkward fuck. It was the next morning when I got a text message from Ian. “You’re out of the band. We have a new guitar player. Sorry, Walt.”
I tried fighting it, and then I tried pleading, but they weren’t interested in me. I’d ruined a perfect thing and now I was paying the price.
CHAPTER II
Suddenly I had no income—not that I had a lot to begin with. I had a cheap apartment that only cost me six hundred bucks a month, but even that’s expensive when you have no way of making six hundred bucks. And I didn’t exactly have the kind of resume managers drool over: the only job I’d ever had was playing guitar—and the one month of landscaping I did when I was a teenager to afford my first guitar.
So once I lost hope that my old band would allow me back in, I decided to start looking for new projects. I just needed to find a band that did a few gigs a month. Even crappy bar bands pull off a few gigs a month.
After two days of replying to listings, I got an audition. I wasn’t stoked about having to audition. The band’s manager didn’t seem to care about the demos I included in my e-mail—maybe he didn’t think it was actually me playing on the tracks. He sent me a list of five songs to learn: covers that I hated, but I was desperate. Two of the songs were by The Red Hot Chilli Peppers—probably my least favourite band of all time. But I learned the songs anyway. I even learned a Metallica song—another band I had zero interest in.
I nailed the audition, hitting every note the way a guitar player should in a cover band. Then, after we played the five songs, I said, “Should we just jam on some originals?”
“We don’t play originals,” the drummer said with a strangely monotone voice.
“Not even when you guys jam?”
“No.”
“Well should we jam on a cover then?”
They all stared at me as if I was speaking Cantonese. “Alright, well we’ll be in touch,” said the band manager—a short, fat guy who sat in the corner the whole time wearing a big pair of sunglasses. I was a bit surprised when I never heard back from them. I played the songs exactly the way they wanted me to—so why could I gig with them?
I went back to the musician’s classified and continued replying to all of the ads. I was even replying to ads looking for bass players. I could muck my way around a bass guitar if it meant paying my rent. But no one was looking for a guitar player like me—or maybe my reputation had already made its way around town. Maybe Mimi told all of her musician friends that I was a douchebag, and Ian told all of his friends that I was a saboteur.
So with two weeks left before my rent was due, I decided to start my own project. I posted listings on every classified site and then I started coming up with new material, seeing as my old band technically owned all of my old material. I even spent an entire night making band graphics and a website, so that we could hit the ground running as soon as we had at least three members. I spent the next three tedious days and nights recording demos using my old equipment. All of the good equipment we used with my old band was property of the band—purchased with band money. It was technically—and maybe legally—mine to use as well as theirs, but I had a feeling they would put up a fight if I showed up and asked to use it.
I reposted all of my listings. I couldn’t believe that I was getting no bites—not one person who wanted to join the next big band. I had the gigging experience and I had the venue hook-ups. With a single e-mail, I could have a gig booked at the Sound Room. The Sound Room paid a grand for an eight-song set. Split between a three-piece band, that was more than half of my rent right there. And then I could still hit up the Railway Club and the Media Lounge—not to mention Joe’s Apartment (which changed its name recently to something lame) and Vixen’s. Then there were all of the bars who didn’t pay quite as much—but money is money. I just needed the musicians.
I was desperate, so I started posting beyond the classifieds sites. I posted in every local Facebook group I could find. I even got banned from a few groups. I posted on Twitter and I even posted on a local art forum. It was hard to believe that there were people in the town who didn’t know about my new project. But still, I was getting no bites—until one night, when my e-mail inbox dinged with a new message. I opened it up quickly as my heart fluttered. “Hi. I’m a keys player and I’m looking for a new band. I’m only nineteen—I hope that’s okay. I’ve attached a few samples. Please let me know if you’re interested in meeting up! Cheers, Danni.”
I listened to the demos. They were good. He could play Pink Floyd perfectly, his synth was on point, and he even had
a few improvised instrumentals, which were very impressive. I e-mailed him back quickly. “I know it’s late, but do you want to jam tonight?” I found myself staring at my calendar, seeing that I only had ten days left to pay my rent. It took at least seven days to book a gig, and it would take at least a week to come up with eight songs—and then Danni still had to learn the songs. But I still had hope. I wasn’t ready to take that minimum wage job at the Tim Horton’s on the street corner, where the homeless drug addicts hung out.
“What’s your address? I can come over now,” Danni replied.
I sent him my address and then I quickly darted over to my jam room and started tidying up, making a nice open space for my potential keys player. I made sure there were a few cold beers in the fridge and then I ran down to the corner store to buy a few bags of chips. I wanted this guy to have a good time. I wanted him to want to come back, because I needed him to come back. I needed his talent so that I could make rent and continue to pursue my dream of being a working musician.
CHAPTER III
It was almost 11:00 PM when the knock finally came at my door. I was unplugging my amp when I heard it, and I perked up suddenly. It had been two hours since I last heard from Danni, so I assumed he wasn’t coming. But he was here now, and that’s all that mattered. I rushed over to the door and then I swung open the door.
And then I found myself staring at young woman, about my height, with long blonde hair that was tied into a tight ponytail. I assumed she was a neighbour, coming to complain about the noise; it happened all the time, especially when I was playing guitar after 9:00 PM—and I’d been playing straight since e-mailing Danni. “Can I help you?” I asked.
“Are you Walter?” she asked.
She had a strangeness to her voice—something wasn’t quite normal about it. Maybe she was foreign and trying her best to cover up an accent, or maybe she was trying to cover up a lisp. “That’s me. What’s up?”
And then I noticed the long keyboard leaning against the hallway wall and the ring of patch cables around her arm. “I’m Danni,” she said.
“Oh—you’re a chick?” I said.
She smiled and nodded her head. “Is that okay?” I still couldn’t quite figure out what was off about her voice.
“Um, yeah, it’s fine. Come on in,” I said. I was having flashbacks to the day I met with Mimi. It wasn’t so different than this. I put out a few classified listings and she was the first to reply. I asked if she could come over to jam, and she didn’t end up showing up until late—close to 11:00 PM. We played until 1:30 AM, when an angry neighbour started pounding on the wall. We could hear him yelling, “Shut the fuck up already! I have to work in the morning!” Mimi slept on my couch that night and then we kept playing after we woke up in the morning.
And now I was thinking about that last time I saw Mimi, almost a year after that first meeting. I thought about the tightness of her asshole, and the way she clenched the bed sheets while I pumped her tush. Those pissed on sheets were still in my laundry bin, waiting to be cleaned.
“Are you okay?” Danni asked. “Is this a bad time?”
I snapped out of my daze. I looked into her eyes and wondered if it was such a good idea to get into a band with another attractive woman—and she really was attractive. I liked taller girls, and I liked her blonde hair, even though it was obviously bleached. She looked to be a bit Asian, with a slightly darker complexion, so it was hard to believe she grew naturally blonde hair—but it looked good on her. And then there was her outfit: her furry top that left her flat tummy and her bellybutton piercing exposed, her short black skirt, and her fishnet sleeves. She looked like she was ready to get up on stage—and she would definitely be the one all of the guys would be watching, even in the middle of a guitar solo. Though I didn’t mind if the attention wasn’t on me—as long as we were getting attention.
I showed Danni the jam room. I pointed to the empty corner. “You can set up there,” I said. My heart was aflutter. I suddenly had memories of Mimi in my head that wanted to reply over and over. I remembered the night we snuck away from the rest of the band after our gig. We went to get street food, and then we got a bottle of whiskey and shared it on a park bench. We were both drunk and making stupid jokes, but it was fun. We had lots of fun nights like that one—and then I slept with her and ruined it all. Now, I would never see her again, as if she never existed to begin with.
I even used to pick her up for all of our band practises, because she lived so far away, still with her parents. Her parents thought that we were dating, and her dad would always give me dark glares after staring at the tattoos on my arms. Mimi and I would joke about it during the car ride to the rehearsal studio. It was a long drive, but I didn’t mind—I didn’t even mind spending the money on gas. We had lots of great conversations during those car rides. There was even the time we got into a street race with some fancy sports car. We ended up winning, though my engine was steaming by the end of it. We wrote a song about it: Street Race King. It was one of our most popular—
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Danni asked. She had her keyboard all set up and plugged into one of my spare amps. I looked down and realized that I hadn’t set anything up. I’d just been standing there, staring off into the distance, reminiscing about a girl who wasn’t even in my life anymore.
“Yeah—I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” I said as I quickly started plugging everything in. And then I remembered the beer in the fridge and the chips on the counter. “Are you thirsty? I’ve got beer. Hold on—I’ll get you a beer. Just stay right there.” I buzzed over to the kitchen, even though I didn’t give her a chance to reply. I knew I was ruining this meeting. She probably thought that I was a psychopath. She was probably regretting the long journey she made over to my place.
I gave her a beer and she stared at it. “Do you drink?” I asked.
“Yeah—it’s just—nothing,” she said. She cracked the beer and took a sip. I did the same. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I felt overwhelmed and confused. I picked up my guitar and tried to remember one of the songs I’d come up with for this new project, but my mind was blank.
“So you said you had some songs written? Do you want to play one?” she asked.
“Yeah—totally,” I said. I looked down at the fretboard of my guitar. What songs did I have? I could only think of material from my old band. “Umm…” Now I felt embarrassed. She came all the way from wherever she came, and now I had nothing to give her. She was probably mad. I was too afraid to look into her eyes.
“Why don’t I play something and you play along?” she said. I looked up as she started to play a little diddle on her keyboard. It had a nice sound to it: a bit atmospheric and a bit groovy. It had a clear rhythm to it, so it was easy to jump in. I started by playing a few swells and then I started to figure out a clean riff to give the song some distinction. It wasn’t long before I was feeling the music. I liked it a lot—though it reminded me a lot of the kind of jams Mimi used to play. I tried not to think of Mimi in that moment. Mimi was behind me now. I had to make Danni want to stick around.
When the song ended, my beer was already a bit flatter and warmer. We’d been playing for nearly twenty minutes. Danni had a big smile on her face. “That was fun,” she said.
“It was,” I said. And now I remembered some of my own material, so after taking a sip from my beer, I started playing. She jumped in, adding lots of cool little accents and riffs. She brought a whole new life to my songs, and now they didn’t just seem like filler music that I came up with quickly. Now they were starting to sound like real songs—good songs that people would actually want to listen to.
Danni broke off into a solo, so I turned down my volume and kept a simple riff going. I looked up at her and watched as she worked her fingers across the keys. Then I looked up at her face and found myself staring at her. She was pretty—prettier than Mimi. Even though she was younger, she had a more mature look. Her beauty was almost intimidating—and maybe
it had something to do with her ‘high fashion’ style. She was even wearing tall heels that a girl might wear to a fancy ball or a wedding. She swayed while she played. She even had her eyes closed at time, even when she was playing complex parts, as if she didn’t need to look at her fingers. She swayed in a mesmerizing way. It was hard to look away from her, but I looked away as soon as she opened her eyes.
Once the song was over, I had a big smile stuck on my face. Jamming out a great song is the best feeling in the world. And I could see that she was feeling it too. “That was great. I like that song,” she said. And once again, I found myself trying to figure out what was off about her voice.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Where am I from? I’m from here,” she said.
“Are your parents foreign?”
Her brow lowered and then she shook her head. “No. Why are you asking?”
She looked to be on the verge of being offended, so I dropped it. “I’m just wondering,” I said.
She laughed. “Should we play one more song? I have school in the morning, so I can’t stay for too much later,” she said. So we played one last song, which lasted nearly twenty-five minutes. Then she started packing up her things.
“If you liked playing with me, you’re welcome to leave your stuff here and swing by again tomorrow,” I said. Maybe we can figure out a few songs and—I don’t know—start thinking about doing a show.”
“A show?” she asked. Her eyes were wide. “That’s moving kind of quickly, no?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing wrong with moving quickly, is there?”
She had a red-cheeked smile now. “I’ve never played live before,” she said. “Is that a deal breaker?”
“No—of course not,” I said. “You’ll do great. Just look beautiful like you look now and it won’t even matter if you screw up.” Now I felt my cheeks turning red. “That was just a joke by the way. I mean—I want to get a gig scheduled—and I’m not saying that you’re beautiful. I mean—you are—but this is just professional. I’m not trying to be a creep. I’m sorry if that made you feel awkward. I didn’t mean it like that.” I could feel my cheeks turning redder and redder. I bit down on my lip and made an awkward smile.
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