I am eating, his mother made spagetti with meat sauce and I couldn't refuse it, my growling stomach protesting, my starvation mode kicking in.
“You are hungry uh?” He wipes a bit of sauce on the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“I am.” I smile.
“You are not eating.”
I point towards his plate, untouched sitting on his lap.
“I'm not hungry.”
He's got a dreamy, happy expression on his face.
I take hour plates to the kitchen, smiling at his mom and thanking her for the food. She's a very nice, very kind lady. His grandma, although very sweet, observes me with an intensity that I find overbearing. It's like she can see through me, but can decide if she likes it or not.
He's coming out of the shower when I get back to his basement hideaway. I roll a joint and he drops the towel in front of me.
“Oh?”
I lick the paper and fire the blunt, and he trows himself on the bed beside me. I smoke it in sikence for a minute. Talk about a healthy sex drive, this motherfucker has.
“Axl.”
“Yeah?”
“I'm so fucking horny”, he moans, and with the corner of my eye I can see him writhing on the bed, fingering himself up.
“And what's that got to do with me? Uh?”
I tease, but my boots are already gone. I turn to him , and fuck, what a sight. He's got two fingers buried up to his knuckles and his cock is glistening with pre cum. I bat his hand away from it and replace it with my mouth, taking him as deep as I can.
“What do you you want?” I ask him.
He never answers, but looks at me and pulls my body up to his, flush, and when he kisses me, that's when I lose all will power, I let him drape his hands on my hair and flip us over. Reason goes out the window and when I feel his cock pushing on my hole, I spread my legs even further, welcoming him, wanting him, regreting him already.
He slides in slowly, never breaking the kiss, never breaking the hold on my hair.
“I'm sorry.” He whimpers on my ear, and I realize he just came.
“Sush, just, just keep moving a bit..”
He cut's me off with another kiss, those that go straight to my dick, making me push up on him and moan like a whore, riding his already waning erection until I explode, screaming, spent, happy.
Fucking shameless, we are.
He keeps kissing me, and I keep reponding the kisses, lost in that post orgasmic closeness I only ever heard about, never mind felt.
It's feels different than fucking. It's feels like there's something hungry, desperate on his way of claiming me, and I feel like a rolling toy on the hands of a puppy.
I don't know how to call what it feels, I feel it should be forbidden, I don't want to name it.
And life, in its infinite knowledge, is not too shitty right now, I'm going by, working, playing , fucking just enough to get by.
I came to LA to be in a band, to make it big but also to be free, the shackles that tied me to Laffayette dimming by the days and months and years of living close to the strip.
I see Izzy and the punk they call Duff almost everyday on my way to work, flipping pancakes is not a glamourous job, but go and figure, Izzy delivers newspapers with Rob, and I get most my gossip from him, the punk works in a fancy Beverly Hills bakery rolling little butter cakes for the rich and Slash is working in a newstand.
Small cash for even smaller pleasures.
So when we are not practicing, Slash and I go bike riding and rollercoasting. We also talk a lot. Well, I talk, but he is a serious and interested listener.
And the fucking. Good God, the fucking.
There's many ways one can explore sex if one is willing.
Slash is always willing.
****
( There's many shades to Izzy. There's the too cool to care he puts in public. It's a gray shade of smoke that shrouds him from the outside, a screen were he's seeing everything, but nothing in his persona could give away a fuck.
There's this sky blue shade, when he is concentrated, fingering his guitar and writing music on a piece of paper, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.
There's amber and green, when he is with friends, when he's relaxed, but his guard is not down.
And there is crimson and maroon, the private Izzy. The one few people see. It's vulnerable Izzy, the inner Izzy, the real Izzy. The Izzy that makes a funny face when the crowd calls for him on a gig. It's the Izzy that had turned up a block away from my house once, his nose broken and bleeding, and we ran to river, where he sobbed and cursed himself hoarse on my lap. His mom had hit him with a pan on his face, the first and the last because Izzy never again mentioned her name.
It's the Izzy I remember in the cornfields, bright eyes and rosy cheeks, chasing me naked on the maze, laughing and shivering with cold. The Izzy that covered me with his favourite Navajo blanket and fell asleep on my arms, the sky so starry above us.
It's the Izzy waiting me outside my work today.
He was just like...there.
I stepped out with a cigarette and a zippo, looked to my right and there he was. Arms crossed, cigarette between his fingers, leg propped on the red brick behind him.
"What do you want, Izzy? "
I asked as I passed him by. I would walk for a while and then he would set into a spring and catch me the next block, walking by my side like that, taking me with him, without even knowing what was I doing.
He drove to a place called La Florida, just under Laurel Canyon, walking distance from Slashs mom's house.
He's renting a small one bed apartment in a fairly decent block and I am charmed at first, then alarmed.
"This place must cost you more than you earn throwing newspapers on front lawns, Izzy. " I said, touching the palm trees in the living room.
The views were stunning on the balcony, and it was like a pirates den inside. Rugs, paintings.
"I've got a side business. " He said, opening a bottle of gin.
"A side business? "
"I'm selling heroin. Nothing too big, mostly a few good clients."
I accepted the cold glass from his hands. That brief time our fingers touched I felt again his best friend, his only real friend, the one that Izzy could be really him.
"We need a side plan, Billy. You know what I mean?" He asked sitting on an armchair.
"I don't follow you, no." I sat on the sofa.
"We need a plan if this music thing doesn't work." He said.
"You maybe. For me there's no iffs."
"Maybe. Maybe you'll make and leave me behind. " He said, his eyes shinning.
"Oh that's a good one Izzy. You know, it doesn't deserve an answer. What the fuck do you want Izzy?"
"I want you to leave Hollywood Rose and come with me and Tracii. " He said, point blank.
"You are so fucked if you think I'll leave my band to go with you! Why would I do that?"
I asked again, starting to feel furious because I knew, I fucking knew what was coming, yet I wanted it, I wanted, I wanted it so much I was ready to give up everything and everyone.
"You would be with me." He said , looking at the ceiling.
"What do you want from me Izzy?"
"I want you back. I want you near. I want to be able to see you everyday, I need to hear you sing onstage with me. I want to make it with you, without you the world feels weird, alien."
I looked towards the balcony, my eyes burning with the tears that I'd be damned to show him.
He sat beside and turned my face to him.
"God your eyes, Billy. Exquisite. So transparent. "
His gaze was intense on mine, his hand caressing my neck.
I wanted to ask where the punk was, but I felt no need to. Izzy worked by Izzy rules only, it makes sense only to him.
"Izzy please don't. " I asked, feeling his tongue probing the corner of my mouth. I had no resistance, I couldn't.
"Come sing with me, Billy." He whispered on my ear.
I sat on his lap, his hands burying in my head. "Just sing with you? "
"Please."
We were, by then, shamelessly kissing, one long and heated make out session that left me reeling, feeling each other through our clothes like two surprised teenagers.
"I have a gig in Madame Wong tonight. I'll let you know after." I said, picking my jacket up, stealing one last heated kiss.
"I'll be there." He said, smirking.
"Oh I know you will. You better be." )
****
Slash is waiting for me at the basement, his guitar cased ready.
"Where have you been?" He asks .
"With a friend." I say, putting the shower on.
I am drying my hair when he sits on the bed.
"With whom?" He asks.
I ignore him and dress.
Our car ride to the venue is tense, his hand out of the window, chainsmoking both of us.
The show is also tense. The crowd is nasty and a bunch of drunks are pestering a chick just to the left of the stage, so I call one guy out. He starts moving my direction and I smash a full beer bottle on his ugly mug.
When I'm thrown into the backstage, I see Slash packing his stuff frenetically. I march out to him, about to say I'm staying, I'm staying in the band, but he pushes past me.
"Don't bother. I'm out."
He flies from the door and I start to thrash the place.
When I manage to calm myself enough to get back outside, Izzy is waiting on the bar.
I pick my ice cold beer and put it on my sweat drenched forehead.
"So.." Izzy started, crooking his neck.
"I'm in. " I said, closing my eyes.
Choices were being made for me, and I felt floating in a silent, dull anger.
"I figured so." He flipped his cigarette. "Slash took it pretty badly, I'd say."
"He'll survive." I lied.
I'd survive.
"Ready?" Asked me Izzy, putting a bill on the bar.
"Always." I answered as we headed for the door.
And now, Tracii and I are merging bands.
Guns n' Roses is born.
Tbc
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M