Lest we forget our friends

“We’re sharing this place. Marilyn chose it because of its 'sensual atmosphere’, I think. Glamorous and gothic. The studio’s downstairs if you’d like to check it out. It’s huge.”

I heard him but I wasn’t really listening. I didn’t hear full sentences; I was only able to capture a couple of words that my brain then created peculiar phrases with. The words, “downstairs” and “huge” vibrated against my eardrums, and quickly translated into “I’m huge downstairs”. “Marilyn” and “sensual” reminded me of a time when I actually enjoyed being dominated by the God of Fuck, and that was something I really didn’t want to think about now. It was both arousing and sickening.


“Who’s the new bass player?”

“Tim Skold.”

“You like him? I mean, is he any good?”

“Yeah, he is. I haven’t had any problem with him personally.”

“At least you’re truthful.”

“There’s still room for another guitarist.”

“And you’re talking about me, play guitar?”

“You did it in the studio. So do it live.”

“I did a lot of things in the studio that I didn’t do live.”

I snatched his hand in mine and placed it firmly at my crotch. I breathed heavily in his ear. The most pleasurable thing about him wasn’t his hand touching me, but how he reacted. His body always vibrated. Like he’d been sexually starved for years, which is something I doubt.

“O-o-oh, uh… you’ll have to show me. Please, just, wait here a moment. I need to get something… Don’t go anywhere!” I smiled brightly, nodding a yes, and nudging him to go hurry. Again, his little forewarning didn’t register and I went on a little stroll to find the kitchen. I had had enough to drink; yet my mouth was dry.

Water.