little t&a

about the rinsed-out blonde on my left

Paul drove for half an hour at least without a destination in mind. He only stopped to get gas, handing the attendant the last five-dollar bill in his wallet. It didn't even fill the tank completely, but he was past caring.

He felt like he was going to be sick. His eyes were watering up, and he blinked back the tears. He hadn't cried this whole time, not since Gene had come. He wasn't going to cry now.

Gene didn't understand. He'd never understand. That was to his credit, really, not having any idea, thinking it was some bullshit about him being afraid, or not wanting to be touched. Poor, stupid Gene, who wasn't stupid at all, who just had an idiot for a bandmate and a best friend, an idiot who'd decided a taste of what he wanted was better than nothing at all.

Except he'd been fooling himself. Just like Carol. Paul couldn't have been happy with a taste. He'd started to realize that as soon as Gene had agreed to fuck him. But it had really hit him when Gene had joked about the photo album. Just—just sticking him in there with all those girls, one more nude Polaroid out of hundreds. Gene wanted him. Sure he did. Wanted him just exactly as much as he wanted anyone else with a pair of tits, just long enough for a lay. Just as long as Paul himself had wanted Carol or any other groupie. Once Gene had him, once the mystery was gone, the curse resolved, there'd be nothing left. Not even residual interest. The only difference was, they'd have to keep seeing each other after. Sitting down at business meetings. Posing for pictures. Leaning into the same mics. Applying makeup backstage. He'd have to live the rest of his life with Gene right there, knowing he'd never want to be with him again.

He'd been sickened by the thought. He'd wanted to be strong enough to turn Gene down, to—value himself enough to not want someone who'd only want him once, but he hadn't been. Every time he'd felt like saying something, he'd swallowed it. On the bed, he'd tried to approach it clinically, to hurt himself less, just a series of actions with nothing attached to them. He'd thought Gene might not even sense something was wrong, since he was getting what he wanted, the image at least of a girl stripping him down and promising herself to him, like some old fairy tale. Three days of toting him around, rewarded with an easy lay and a broken spell. But for all Paul had insisted he was fine, Gene hadn't believed him.

Paul had kept on anyway. Outright begged. And Gene had kept turning him down like the gentleman he wasn't, for his sake, for the band's sake, for whatever.

Better this way anyway. No hard feelings. He'd go to a bar just like Gene had suggested. Get a guy to fuck him, turn back and leave. Gene would get to go home knowing KISS had its frontman back in tour-worthy condition. Paul would get to keep his house and his money and maybe even that visit with his family. And in the end, they'd all go back on the road and forget any of this ever happened. Enough women, enough sane women, Playmates and catalog models, no more starfuckers, and he could convince himself he hadn't wanted Gene at all, like that was just another side-effect of the curse.

His stomach lurched in protest. He wasn't yet enough of a bastard to lie to himself that grotesquely. He'd wanted Gene years before he'd woken up in this body.

He kept thinking as he weaved through the late-night traffic. Kept thinking, even though he didn't want to. Their trip to the mountains lingered caramel-thick in his mind. He'd been eighteen. Winter of '70. He'd skipped school for the chance to hitchhike again with Gene, a fun but pointless trip in the mountains with some chicks they'd met prior. One that Gene seemed to dig, though she wasn't pretty at all. They'd ended up in the rundown house the girl was renting, spending the night there, and cold as it was, Gene had a plan to at least warm himself up.

He'd told Gene not to try to make it with the girl. She might not like you. She might get pissed-off and kick us both out, and then where would we be? And Gene had nodded along, but about an hour later, Paul had woken up among the moth-eaten blankets on the floor to Gene gone and the muffled sound of talking from a door or two away. An awful mechanical screech, like a microphone on the fritz. And, a few moments later, the sounds of grunts and low moans. He'd gotten the girl after all. A good time, it had sounded like. Back then, Paul hadn't had anything to compare it to but his own jackoff sessions. He'd been desperately virginal, never making it past second base with any girlfriend.