I pause from scribbling in a notebook balanced on my folded legs and lift my head to stare at Jack owlishly. He’s watching me write which instantly makes me self-conscious. I rest my pen and let my gaze slide over Jake’s young body. He’s burnt out, worn down to the bone. We’re just over halfway into our American tour, but this is succeeding a rather extensive tour of both Australia (where he was stung by a jellyfish that just wanted to be his friend) and Europe (where he was bit by a drunk girl who just wanted to be his friend).

We’re in Columbia, South Carolina, today, and the AC in our motel is broken. The entire south/south-east of America is in the middle of a heat-wave. We did last night’s show in North Carolina in our swim trunks. 

Jack’s skinny from being on the ‘tour diet’, but his shoulders are huge from helping the roadies move the amps. It’s not his job, but he wants to help. He’s always been this way, ever since we became best friends at 9. I know him better than his family does – his favorite food is garlic bread, he likes anchovies with extra sauce on his pizza, his favorite comic is a Japanese one called Banana Fish. I also know he’s deeply in the closet and avoids discussing it at all costs.

I give Jack a playful smile and set my writing utensil and notebook aside to my right so I can stand up. With a little cajoling I convince our beached seal of a vocalist to move over so I can fit my legs on either side. He asks why, but I tell him to shush. In a graceful move, I straddle his back, sitting squarely on his ass. Thank god I’m wearing thick jean shorts.

I lean forward and push my palms into his trapezius muscles. The groan I’ve ejected out of his throat is the sexiest noise I’ve ever heard him make. For the next forty minutes, I tenderize every inch of him, including making tiny circles on his temples and stretching out his fingers.

By the time I’ve kneaded Jack’s ass and worked my way down to his calves, he’s sweating and making more noises like he’s in the throes of death. I continue to massage the back of his left leg. Abruptly, Jack abates with the sound effects. I see color rise to his cheeks. “Gotta use the bathroom,” he mutters, before half -falling off the sofa and bolting to the small closet-sized room. I’m left there, sitting back on my own legs, wondering what the hell just happened.

That’s when I notice there’s a tiny wet spot on the sofa cushion…right where his crotch was. Everyone picks on the drummer for being the most disposable and talentless member of the band, but at that moment I am basking in sheer self-satisfaction that I just unwound our vocalist like a ball of string. The best part is, I didn’t get to finish. I still owe Jack a foot massage.

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Note: I want to give a little shout-out to bookofbaitnate. First of all, baitnate sent over some links to give me some inspiration which was rather helpful. Secondly, I have been having a problem with the reblog arrow not showing up most posts I click. I thought I could I only reblog something from my dash. We all know that digging old material out of our dash is impossible if it’s more than 24 hours old. Out of sheer frustration and determination to reblog baitnate’s material, I finally Googled the shit out of it and figured it out. My Firefox plug in, Ghostery, had shut off the function. Whoops! I can reblog anything now! Anything :3 Thanks, nate person!