Thanks and big-ass love to: Amy, Mel, and Kat.
Story title and lyrics borrowed without permission but with endless gratitude, affection, and respect from Social Distortion and Mike Ness. RIP Dennis Danell.
Story Of My Life
I'm losing it. A little bit at a time, year by year, and sometimes in big chunks like pieces of my flesh falling off. The desire, the anger, the hard-on to go out there and make my mark, to live hard and fuck hard and play hard and get my face in the funny papers. I'm just sick of it, sick of seeing that everything gets old, everything gets sold, everything becomes marketable nostalgia. Self destruction has probably always been a hot ticket item, but we did it best, we made a culture out of it, gave living on poison and yelling about it a good name. Being regarded as one the icons of punk has had it's ups and downs, but I never thought it would get old. Never thought it would get old to me, but it has. When you've played every shitty auditorium and lodge hall from one end of the country to the other, you get a pretty fucking broad perspective on humanity; or at least on the slice of humanity that needs to dye their hair green and turn music into violence. I did, and I used to care about it, and now I don't. It's just that simple.
I used to care about him, too. My best friend, the one that up and left me to be a Hollywood MTV whore and sell his talent. He had that, tons of it, but these days I'm not so sure anymore. I saw a clip of that Jenifur gig, and he sounded like shit. Looked like shit, too. Looked like a fake assed granola eatin' tanning-booth-bronze vacant-eyed lazy industry fed version of a guy I used to know. I saw him on tv and I hated him with the same exact bored, tired, hate that I feel for the rest of the grunge generation. They suck. They know they suck, they don't even try and that makes them cool. Fuck that. When I get up on stage I'm ready to deliver, I'm fucking there because I've got something to say, and if you paid for some noise and a fucking good time you're gonna get it. Fuck these whiny, slow-assed, heroin-chic motherfuckers, cashing in on every good riff punk rock ever made and too lazy to play it hard. Screw them and their record deals.
That's how I feel, and I'll die fucking trying before I let him disgrace himself like this. Disgrace us. I don't care if he's happy making money in the studios playing for heroin-addicted rock stars that're too messed up to record their own takes. Don't care, because he's mine and I'll be taking him now, or I'll die trying. I'm gonna save both of us, Bill, so get your head out of the fuckin' clouds and give me a reason to wake up every goddam morning.
It feels good to be packing, to be tossing T-shirts and guitar picks and cartons of cigarettes in a suitcase. I've been playing it casual all week, just takin' a little trip home to play a benefit and see some old friends. Nothing going on here in LA, just sitting around my condo and waiting for word, waiting for the phone to ring and thinking about my career and if I should get a haircut or buy a new guitar, or check out a casting call I heard about because I know the writer. The worst that could happen is that I could lose a few hundred dollars worth of session time at the studio I've been doing fill in work for. Big deal. I can go play for fun and no money for a weekend if I want to, it doesn't mean anything, it means whatever the fuck I want it to. It doesn't mean I'm going back. Doesn't mean I give a ten buck fuck about Bucky Haight, either, but benefit PR is a good thing.
Even though it's been four years, I wasn't surprised when I got the call. I always knew he would, eventually. We played the bitch game, who'd-call-who-first for a good long time, but it's not like anybody's going to forget, here. I knew he'd do it sooner or later. It was good. I'll admit that, it was fucking good to hear, "Hey, asswipe, what time is it there?"
My hand was shaking when I reached for a cigarette, fumbled through lighting it and didn't say anything till I'd taken a deep drag and got it under control. I'm smart. I'm too fucking smart to let him hear it, how bad I miss him.
It was sweet. I even got him to beg some, in between cursing out me and California and Sony Music and rehab. Yeah, I got clean, and if he's got a problem with that he can just go on and fuck himself up the ass with it. I like not having a monkey on my back. I can live pretty fucking well without nosebleeds and fiending and losing my voice and my brain and my co-ordination and my cash to cocaine. Not drinking has been a little less enjoyable, and I'm not sure how long that's gonna last, but drying out has done me a hell of a lot of good, and I'm not about to let him screw me up. Again.
He was so slick, so fast... home pouring out of the telephone at me. Nothing like anything around here. It was fucking great to hear him talking a mile a minute, talking me up, talking me into flying eleven hours to play some crazy gig he's cooked up, and knowing that no matter what he said, it was for me. That all this energy he's put into this plan of his, whatever it is, means that for weeks he's been living and breathing getting me back, and moving heaven and fucking earth to make it happen, Joe Dick style.
This means I will drink too much coffee. This means I will not eat, and probably not bathe, either. This means I will drink, that's pretty much a given. This means I I will let everything good I've got going sit on hold for a weekend and give myself a taste of dirt and sweat and honest love and hatred, instead of ambiguous animosity and fake casual relationships. A mini-vacation back to a different reality. I deserve this, I worked hard to get here and I can handle it. I can handle it. Back to my roots, but wasn't that the reason I came out here, to get away from my roots? Yeah, maybe, but I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy, and I'm stronger now, and it will feel damn good to get onstage with Joe again, even if he is a dick.
Everything else that we got between us can just stay in the past, where it belongs. I'm not his pitbull anymore. I'm not his meal ticket or his whipping boy. I'm not the Billy Tallent that made all those stupid mistakes with him. I'm somebody else now, and if I want to introduce the new me to the old me that's my fucking privilege.
Any minute now, he's gonna show. Gonna saunter through that door with his bag slung over his shoulder, talking all quiet and super-cool, playing that rock star shit with everybody. Everybody but me, because he knows fucking well I see right through it, won't put up with it. Bet you anything he doesn't say a word to me 'til we're about to get onstage. I'm burning up with it- the knowledge that any minute now we're going to be in the same room, breathing the same air and smelling each other and hearing each other, even if neither one of us can say a fucking word to the other one.
There he is, doing the shake and smile and nod thing, just like I knew he would. His eyes are darting all over the room, seeing me every time but not looking at me, not having the guts to just come right over and say "Hello". That's my William, fucking manipulative and cowardly and in love with himself, and that's why I love him. Now I get a chance to get him back, to whip him back into shape and remind him what he's fucking here for; to be in this band, to be my best friend, to live a real life and not some fake excuse for existence marked by how many fucking times a year you get your picture on the cover of Spin magazine.
The magic is still there, though, because as soon as we get out onstage none of it matters. I kiss him, kiss John, spit on the crowd, feel better than I have all year. That's it, Bill, give it to me, throw it in my face, show me you still got your fucking edge, show me that you still remember the music, that you can put it ahead of your rock star ego. Yeah, there's a hell of a lot to prove on this stage, for both of us, and it's not about getting old and it's not about money and it's not even about pride. It's about us, what we can or maybe can't do together, and what's dead for good. This is the big reunion, the Joe-Billy Hallmark moment, and I'm fucking proud of us because we both hold up to snuff; look fucking good, sound great, manage to laugh at each other by the third song into the set. I've got ten different kinds of satisfaction running through my blood, and it's only gonna get better.
He looks so good. I'm watching him, can't take my eyes off him for more than a few seconds at a time. It's the best high there is, having him right there to my left, grinding out the music, hunched into the guitar and doing that shoulder-stumble thing of his that isn't really what it looks like at all. Not lack of co-ordination, but just pushing his body into the guitar, pulling the music out of it with his shoulders and his back, so into it that I'm always surprised when he steps right up on time for the chorus with me. Don't even know why they still set up a mic for him, he never uses it, always wants to share mine. In the beginning it was because he couldn't stay on key if he couldn't hear me, but after a few years I decided he just likes to be up in my face when there's a whole bunch of people screaming at us and I can't do anything about it. Billy's always been a tease.
This bar hasn't changed, seems like we haven't, either. The show was good, really fucking good. We're both high on it, even more than usual, I think. It felt great, to play our music again, to play as fast as I want to and know everybody's gonna keep up, to see young faces and old faces, all happy, all into it. My ears are ringing louder than he's talking, and I'm watching his lips, knowing he's doing the same thing, that he can still hear the music in his head, too. We're playing it cool, slipping into the old rules so easily that I wonder if the point is to see who's going to fuck up first. It's fun, to do the Joe/Billy show and feed him lines, it's fun to bait him and feel like I have a little power here. Things have changed, and nothing's changed, and I give in just like we both know I'm going to.
It's better if I admit it to myself up front, that I can't resist, that I miss it. Him, the music, touring, everything. The problem is, he knows. Knows I'm susceptible to all that bullshit nostalgia and that he can still pull my strings, still knows just which smile to give me, just how many lies I'll swallow. There's no such thing as truth from Joe. What the truth is changes inside his head about every thirty seconds, and if you think anything that comes out of his mouth is connected to it, then you're about to get screwed. Not me, I'm not going to get screwed. I'm telling myself that I don't need it, I don't need to let him fuck me up to have a good time. I can be the new Billy Tallent and go on a little five date tour with them and play good enough to have every studio and manager in town scrambling to sign my ass.
So that takes care of music and business and now there's everything else suddenly right up front in the air between us... and I don't know what to do, which way to play it or what I want. I don't know because just being here three inches away from him makes me excited, gets my blood pumping and it's been a long, long time since I felt this alive. The bitterness is there- anger, betrayal, all that shit... but smelling his whiskey breath and hearing his laugh makes my face hot, makes my hands shake and my dick hard and I feel like I could just slide off this bar stool and into his mouth... and that would be so easy. So easy that it's like this natural progression that I can see happening in my mind, even though it doesn't. Not yet. He's gotta get me out of this bar first, and I'm going to make him work real hard for it.
"So does Mr. Rockstar need a ride back to his hotel, or will the limo be arriving to escort Mr. Tallent to his quarters?"
I've got him drunk: ripped, falling off his barstool, three tries to light a cigarette drunk, and it's kinda funny. Kinda funny, sexy, definitely, he's always that, but something, else, too. Something that makes me want to slap the shit out of him. It was way, way too easy. He hasn't been drinking. Half a dozen beers and a couple of shots and he's wasted. Sure, it's fuckin' irrational, that him not drinking makes me mad, but it does. Makes me fuckin' furious.
He let me get him this fucked up, let me drag him off the wagon, needed me to do it for him. It's that manipulative thing again- that thing that says if I order his drinks, if I make the call for the next round and the next and the next, then it's all my doing, all my idea, all my fault when I finally get him where we both want him, when I get myself so far up his ass there's no question anymore about where he belongs.
I wanted this back? Yeah, I sure as fuck did. I learned a long time ago that no matter what Billy says, no matter what kind of protest he puts up, he wants it just as bad as I do. Letting him manipulate me and fight me all the way to the end is just part of the game. Basically, he's a coward. At least I'll admit that I want him. No, more than that, I want to fucking take him. I want own him, I want to sink myself into him and make him make room for me, make him shove all that other shit that's fucking up his head out and take me in.
Closing the bar is a safe, familiar ritual, and by the time they've called us a cab, I've almost decided that I don't even need to fuck to him, that I've already got him back. He slid off his barstool about an hour ago, caught himself with an arm locked around my neck, and he's stayed there, swaying against my chair, draped half over my shoulder and slurring in my ear. Messy-drunk Billy, with dark circles under his eyes and bloody fingertips from the stage tonight. You haven't worked that hard in a long fucking time, have you Bill?
Letting Joe fold me and shove into a cab is all too familiar, easy to stop paying attention and just slump on his shoulder for the short ride downtown. Didn't realize I fell asleep until I was being dragged out into the cold again. He's leaning on the high marble ledge of the check-in desk, giving me a knowing, possessive look that guarantees every single person less drunk than me in the this lobby knows Joe Dick is going to get a piece of me, owns a piece of me. I hate that, hate the way he leers at me when other people are around, the way he makes such a grand gesture of marking me as his property. I'm not going to do anything about it, even I know I'm too drunk to fight him in public, I'll get my ass kicked, but once we get up to the room it's going to be a different story.
This is all a little too familiar, slumped against the wall in the elevator, watching him across the too-small space with eyes that don't want to stay open. Trying to play it cool, so he won't know how nervous I am under all the distrust and alcohol. I sure hope I know what the fuck I'm doing.
It takes two of us to get the card key to work, once we've found the right door. I stumble in, drop my bags on the floor and go straight to the mirror, to see if I look as blitzed as I feel. Almost. Joe's found the bar, picking the lock they wouldn't give us a key for at the desk and cracking open the seal on a little bottle of single malt scotch that I will undoubtedly have to pay for in the morning.
Of course he has to give me a hard time about the room, the plush carpet and the complimentary toiletries in the bathroom. I notice he doesn't have a problem with the stocked bar.
"Fucking rock star Billy Tallent. You stay in places like this all the time, or is this just for my benefit, gotta show me how far you've come? You're a fucking whore, Bill. Always have been, always will be."
"Just as long as I'm your whore, right Joe?"
I don't even know how the words end up coming out of my mouth instead of staying in my head, but the next thing I know I'm backed up against the wall and he's laughing in my face, holding me down hard enough to keep me there no matter how much I fight back.
"You're smart, Billy, you're smart, but you're still easy." He growls, good whiskey and generic tobacco blending on his sour breath, hitting me in the face so strong that my head reels back and smacks the wall as if he'd punched me.
I close my eyes and take a deep, deep breath of everything I've managed to live without for the last four years, and push back harder. I shove him off me for about a second, but he comes right back, and soon we're grappling and throwing half-assed punches. Not quite a real fight yet, but not playing, either. A solid, silver-ringed fist lands on the side of my head and for a few seconds he does have me, because Joe and the wall are the only things holding me up.
As I slide down a few inches on the wall, all I can think is "Isn't this what I came back for?"
I don't know why I like his violence better than anyone else's affection, I really don't. It's just the thing that does it for me. I fight it, I have to fight it, if I didn't fight it he wouldn't want it. I'm glad that I had the foresight to get drunk, this is so much easier to handle drunk than sober. I can't, can't deal with him at all when my head's straight, but messed up and living in the moment, it feels as natural as anything...autopilot.
I knew I was going to drink. You can't be in the same room with Joe Dick for five minutes and stay sober, it's just not possible. I didn't expect it to be such a relief, though. Drunk with Joe, it's like all the stress and bullshit behind me in LA doesn't even exist, like the last four years of hard work and relative sobriety and being my own person never happened. If I keep drinking, I may even be able to remember why I left in the first place.
Don't fuckin' pass out on me, Bill, don't you do it. How'd you get so weak, so easy? He would have put up 100% more of a fight four years ago. Again, like with the drinking, it puts a bitter, disappointed taste in the back of my mouth. There's only one way to get rid of that, to put us firmly back in the here and now. I kiss him, shove my mouth up against his and suck until he starts kissing me back. I've got his lower lip and he's got my tongue and he's making all kinds of "no" sounds, but his hands are squeezing my sides through the leather, not pushing, holding on. Letting me be his balance up here against the wall where he doesn't have any balance at all.
"Gimme... gimme more. You want it."
I grunt the words out on his mouth, trying to get my knee in between his thighs to press against his dick and find out if he's hard or not. I'm not surprised when he's soft, not deterred, either. Billy drunk rarely gets it up without help, doesn't mean he doesn't want it. He does, he wants it.
"Nah... Fuck. Get off."
He's wheezing and panting, trying to push me away again with his hands on my shoulders, but I just body slam him into the wall, push so hard his hands have to come up if he doesn't want to get his arms broken. I've got one of my arms flat against his throat, the other hand between us, grabbing a fistful of denim at the loose waist of his jeans. He feels so hard, skinny, sharp bones poking me everywhere, knees and ribs and hips and shoulders. I forgot how much smaller he feels when I've got him pinned, that he's breakable. I forget that Billy has his breaking points. I figure that anyone who could stay with me for so many years must be indestructible, but he's not. I learned that when he left.
He's stopped grunting, not trying to talk anymore, which means I'm hurting him pretty bad. My knee is planted firmly against his crotch, I can feel the soft cock underneath me and the balls shrinking back from me, trying to stay safe. I can feel the hardness of his stomach and the give in the soft spot just above his abdominals, where he can't breathe when I press in on him. I can feel the anger and the resistance and the fading determination in the hands pulling on my hair and the back of my leather.
"Missed you, Bill."
I want to tell him, want him to know that this isn't about anything but us, what it should be and how bad he fucked it up.
"Yeah, I just bet you did, asshole..."
He wheezes, thick and slippery in my ear, his breath hot and wet on my shaved head. Makes my dick surge up in my pants, gets me so ready to fuck him that I think he'd better catch up soon or I'm just gonna go for it and tear his skinny ass apart.
"Suck my cock, Billy."
"Why? What's- What's that gonna prove?" He's still panting hard, still can't breathe right 'cause I've got my knee this close to seriously crushing his balls. He loves it, loves the taste of fear and the uncertainty of whether or not he can really trust me. I won't hurt him- won't hurt him any more than he makes me, but I'm going to get what I want. He's stopped fighting me, hanging onto my leather jacket and swaying into me so that I have to brace myself and lean him up against the wall again to keep from falling. I dive back into his mouth, fucking him hard and fast with my tongue, soaking up the taste of him and the feel of him, the way he opens up so wide for me. I can't believe how good he feels, can't believe he took this away from me, can't believe I got it back. I get dizzy when he starts kissing me back, demanding my tongue in his mouth, sucking me in and not letting me go.
"How much I like your mouth? Nothing- doesn't prove anything. Just do it."
"Oh, who's in charge here, Bill? Who's setting rules? You? I don't fucking think so. Suck my cock."
I've got his pants undone, halfway down his hips, moved my knee long enough to shove them down, then pushed between his legs again, making him lift up on his toes and jerk around to keep from getting crushed by me. I grab him, get his soft, scared cock in my fist and squeeze.
"Oh! Ow! Fuck! Ah fuck... Don't hurt me."
"Play nice, Billiam. Are you gonna suck my dick?"
"Do you want me to suck your dick?"
"Mmm- Yeah. No. No. Fucking shithead- not... not fair."
I'm getting to him, bad. He's whining and panting all over the back of my neck, pushing his face into my collar and shaking his head back and forth so our skulls crack. First little twitch in his cock, alive and hot and afraid in my hand.
"Yeah, you do. You want me to suck your dick. You do."
"Yeah? Talk to me."
"Fuck... I'm not your fucking bitch."
"Oh yes you are. Want me to prove it to you, Bill? Want me to show you how hard you come for me? How much you like my dick up your ass?"
"Nooo!" Wailing this time, sounding like a little girl about to cry. Love that. Gimme more of that, Billy, show me how fucking bad you need me, way down deep inside.
I jerk up and down on his cock for awhile, let the sound of our panting set the pace while his hands scrabble on the back of my leather, trying to catch a hold that will give him some leverage. He's more than half hard now, longer and bigger in my fist, not trying to pull away anymore, just limp weight on my shoulders, leaning into me like he can hide in the back of my neck. The damp, limp weight of him and the hitching breaths are so familiar that for a minute I forget I'm not alone in my room, jacking off in the dark... that it's actually real this time.
"That's it, Billy, come on... Tell me you missed me."
"Missed you... Fuck you fucker fuck you, Oh shit, yeah."
"Yeah, you missed me, or yeah, you wanna suck my dick?"
"C-can't... Joe, please!"
"Not so hard. Hurts."
"Yeah. I know."
And I know he loves it, and he knows I love it, and that's why he came back.
This is everything I want, everything I want too much- being caught, suffocated, manipulated, hurt and forced in his hands until I don't exist at all. It's everything I've tried to forget and everything I've tried to live without for the past four years. Four long, boring, clean, plastic years.
He knows as soon as it happens in my head, as soon as I make up my mind, his hand springs open and I'm released, blowing up so fast I get dizzy, my cock shooting up against my stomach as I crumple down to my knees between his legs. He's jerking his zipper down, pushing his pants off just as violently as he did mine, getting belt and underwear out of the way so he can press the red, blunt hardness of his dick against my cheek.
"Yeah, yeah yeah yeah yeah, come on, Billy. Open up."
I hear him groaning as he pushes past my open lips, past teeth that pull back quickly to keep from hurting him, past tonsils and the quick gag-push reaction until he's got all seven inches of his dick down inside me. Thick pubic hair is suffocating me, the rank, animal smell of him so familiar it makes my eyes water and my throat work against the piston pumping jerks of his hips.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking- love... love love love you- love you wanna kill you Billy wanna fucking fuck you up the ass make you bleed, fuck, fuck you so bad-..."
Sometimes I think it's this, the mindfuck of listening to the shit that comes spilling out of his mouth at these moments that I actually like. I like sucking his dick, too. I like the simple pleasure of knowing that he likes this more than anything, that he'd rather have me. I like knowing that I'm making him feel this good, that he'll let go and tell me every single thing going on in his head while I'm doing it. In my head, it's that simple- just digging giving him pleasure, but outside my head, it's a lot more complicated. I hate the way he looks at me afterwards, the next day in front of everybody and when I have to pretend it didn't happen. I hate the kind of power it gives him and the way he uses it.
I block it out, stop thinking about tomorrow and every other time and how I wasn't going to do this and just let myself enjoy the thickness of him in my mouth, the sweet-bitter taste and the happy, grateful sounds he's making, letting me put my hands on his hips now and pull him into me, suck him down deep, deep as he goes and hold him there, sucking until he shouts out a sob and jerks inside me.
"Good! So fucking good better, better, better than- hold me, swallow me...Fuck-want-you-so-bad-Billy!"
And with that he spills over, high pitched, short little pants coming out of his open mouth as he looks down at me and our eyes lock and in this moment I know, I can feel how much he needed this, that it's not good enough for him with anybody but me.
Shit, I hate that look. That I GOT you, Joe, look, that you NEED me, Joe, look. It's worth it, worth his looks to feel this good, this soft happy sloppy loose, and know it's safe to. Safe to let my guard down because it's just Billy, and he's just as much a mess as I am, come dribbling on his chin, grabbing my hand to pull me down on the floor with him. I hit the carpet like a ton of bricks, flinging one arm out over his middle. I open my mouth to say something nasty, give him a hard time about how good he sucks my dick, but nothing comes out, so I just lie there breathing hard. Takes me a while to realize my fingers are still all caught up in his, that we're holding hands, flopped on the floor like a couple of drunk puppy dogs.
He says something, and his voice is all rough and quiet, totally lacking of any kind of bullshit or pretension, the Billy that only I get to hear, and only when he's already gotten the better of me.
"That's a good game. You wanna move to a bed?"
"Okay, come on." He pulls me up to my feet and we stagger-lurch to the nearest of the two double beds, falling down face first together so that we land with him half on top of me, one of his legs over mine. I start to roll over but his leg stops me, and he slides over on top of me, his arms spread out over my back and covering my shoulders. It's dark, with my face in the clean bedspread, he's not too heavy, feels good on my back. I'm drunk and half worn out and he feels just right flopped on top me. He's relaxed, not about to make any kind of move on me, just lying there, like he used to.
"Tell me again. I'm not gonna baby-sit you. No Coke."
"Music, no coke." I mumble, liking the playful, demanding tone in his voice. He doesn't really think he's in control, he's just playing, and that feels just like it used to. The more he pretends to boss me around the more I know I'm pulling his strings, that he loves it too much to stop.
"Good. That's what I wanna hear."
I can hear his smile, and it makes me smile back, my face turning to one side so he can see it. I'm sleepy, tuckered out and satisfied, and it feels like it's been years since I felt this relaxed, since anything was this good. I've been hitting the coke too hard lately, I know that, but it's not just the drugs that keep me from ever relaxing past a certain point, from sleeping for more than a couple hours. It's being alone, staying on guard at all times because nobody else is there to do it for me. Like he can read my mind or something, he whispers in my ear, playful, and now I can both hear and feel the smile on his face.
"I got your back."
"Want me to jack you off? I'll play nice." I mumble, offering even though I'm so sleepy I'll probably drift off on him before he comes. I feel so good, want him to feel it too, this fleeting, deceptive certainty that we're all buddies and not enemies and all is right in the world.
"Nah... you got no rhythm." He chuckles, rolls slowly off me to rest on his side, one arm flung out over his head and his face down on the bedspread, staring at my half-open eyes. He reaches down and shoves off his jeans, kicking them off the edge of the bed. When he starts going for it I shuffle myself over a couple inches so I can get my face down in his neck and sniff him while I watch his hand flying up and down on his cock. Nobody's got speed on Billy, fastest hands in the business. I love the pink blur of his cock in his fist, the scars I can see on the backs of his knuckles and the way he bends his neck to press the side of his face hard against my head as he gets closer.
I love watching him jack off, never get tired of it. Something fascinating about the way his hand plays his dick just like a guitar, the way his hips keep the rhythm all the way through, start to finish, his other hand loving his balls like the backbeat.
"Doin' it for me, Bill?" I whisper into his neck, and reach between us to catch and twist the closest nipple, watching the shiver that moves over his chest and into the shoulder under my chin, just waiting to be bitten.
"No..." He laughs, shaking, doesn't loose his rhythm. "I'm doing it for me, fucker. Now shut the fuck up."
He knows I'm not going to, that I'm just getting started, and I know how much he hates when I talk him into orgasm, and I know how bad it gets him off, too.
"Yeah, it's for me. I own it. You're lyin' here jerking yourself off because you sucked my dick and it got you horny. It's for me. Bet you think about me every time you beat it, don't you, Bill? Huh? You do, you think about my cock when you masterbate, William."
"Don't." Gasped, chin-stubble scraping hard against the stubble on the side of my head.
"In your wildest dreams, Billy."
That hit home. He makes this beautiful, reluctant moaning noise that sounds so good I have to make the effort to pull myself up off his shoulder and get my mouth on him again. His wrist goes double time when I put my tongue in his mouth. So good, so fucking good I don't want him to come, ever. I want this to go on and on and on, fuse us back together again and fill in all the cracks. His teeth are knawing on my lip, scraping over my mouth. I don't want it to happen, but I know he's gonna come soon. Instead of letting him think he's doing it himself, that he's the one making him come, I make sure we both know the truth. I pull my mouth from his and he tucks his head into my neck, just like I knew he would. I say the two words that will make him explode like an atom bomb, if I say them right, deep and soft in his ear.
For a split second he freezes, holds his breath, and then he's all over the place... comes splattering us both, shaking and convulsing and burying his head in my neck so hard it hurts.
"Jooooe. Fucker... fuck... Joe... fuck."
Like a goddamn chorus of angels because it's my name, and it's me, and he knows it's me- said it. He's still shaking and trying to get his breath, I grab a handful of his hair and pull his face out of my neck, lean over and give him a kiss on the forehead.
"Welcome home, Bill."
I won this round, that's why I can be so fucking nice to him. Tomorrow... tomorrow the game starts all over again, and I can't fuckin' wait.
Good times come and good times go,
I only wish the good times would last a
I think about the good times we had
And why they had to end
So I sit at the edge of by bed,
I strum my guitar and I sing an outlaw love song
Wonderin' 'bout what you're doin' now
And when you're comin' back
Life goes by so fast, you only wanna do what you think is right
Close your eyes and then it's past
(It's the) Story of my life
Lyrics borrowed without permission from Social Distortion.