After having fled my dick-deflating encounter with Cade, l got flirty with a fifth of Tanqueray and hurtled into a hazardously inebriated state. The world was a blur, my eyes wouldn’t stay open, and I wasn’t sure if the people in front of me were actual or virtual. No idea how I got back to the hotel, but I suspect it involved making an ass out of myself.
Tripping over my bare feet (Da fuq happened to my shoes?), I loudly landed in the middle of the hallway leading to my presumably empty hotel room. I was faintly aware that the liquor bottle, held sloppily between my left thumb and forefinger, had sloshed its contents all over my crotch, thoroughly soaking it. Inside my spinning head, a tiny voice giggle-sang like a chipmunk on crack, All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel … I managed to lift one of my hands. It felt suspiciously detached from my body; haphazardly I plunked it onto my groin to assess the damage caused by the errant liquor.
“What ... the ... fu—?” I babbled.
Maybe the sensation of the spilled alcohol was an involuntary turn-on, because I was as stiff as an unripened banana. No small feat, considering I was three sheets to the wind (and it’s notoriously hard to keep a tent pitched, let alone pop one up, when you’re deep in your cups).
“There’s a banana in my pocket, and it’s happy to see me.” I tried to muffle zany sounds of mirth with my hands.
Out of the blue, a growling voice rumbled from the pits of my broken soul: “Goddamned Cade with his goddamned mouth and eyes and lips and cock ...”
Grasping my straining anaconda through my drenched pants, I proceeded to choke it.
My new voice rasped, “Traitor! You got us both into trouble … now I have no pretty fuckbuddy … no friends … no naked bass player spread-eagled in my bed ... no Plan B ... no Lash’s ass to conquer … all your fault ...”
I probably started snoring even before my hand could loosen its death grip from my stiff snake. *hiss*
When I awoke the next afternoon, I couldn’t move for what felt like hours, so I just stayed on the floor, defeated. Thankfully, we were departing for our next locale—wherever the fuck we were supposed to end up, my brain couldn’t recall—after evening rush hour. By the time I was able to flop to the bathroom like a seal seeking water in the desert, the shadows were growing longer and my stomach was gurgling as if I’d swallowed an entire bottle of laxatives.
Despite my physical pain, I still suffered from the sexually frustrated fallout of my grope-fest with Cade. My alcohol-soaked brain tightened like an unforgiving vice around the nerve endings in my skull ... and my cock constricted like a boa in my pants. I couldn’t decide which of the two discomforts grated most on my sanity, but something had to give.
Aghast at my predicament, I pretended not to notice my persistent erection; attributing my unusually excruciating arousal to a general lack of sexual activity—or more specifically, to partner-less sexual activity; after all, my pampered prick had gotten used to Ashley’s daily, multi-hourly servicing. However, as the day dragged by, I had to admit I had a pretty serious dilemma. Damned if I knew how to fix it—after all, my love gun was triggered, and the only solution was to shoot it—but damned if I’d resort to violence! I’m a man of peace.
Still solo, drop-dead sober, and in the throes of a brutal boner attack, I grimly decided to take an abstinence pledge for as long as I could stand it. Mind over matter!
Fifteen minutes later, I broke down and jerked off in the back of our empty tour van (still no sign of my bandmates). For some creepy reason, I could not stop staring at the bunch of bananas Cade had bought the other day. They sat beside me in the rear passenger seat, taunting me with their plush yellow firmness, too ripe, too smooth, too phallic, too reminiscent of last night’s dueling dicks to resist.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d experienced my hit of Cade’s addictive spit. To say I craved more would be the understatement of the millennium.
Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about him or his hard—or his wet—or his hot—stop fucking staring at the bananas!
Incredibly I was laughing. The sound severed when I caught sight of the thick, curved fruit again; that final glimpse sealed my fate.
Frantically I popped off the top button of my pants and wrenched down the zipper so recklessly, the crotch inseam ripped open. I yanked my bobbing cock free of its bothersome fabric prison. Mindlessly I curled clenching fingers up and down my shaft, not once pausing to add any fancy tricks or smooth maneuvers. I didn’t need to create a fantasy to heighten the pleasure; yesterday’s solo coitus interruptus was sufficient to sustain stimulation. The image of a particularly girthy banana imprinted itself insistently in my warped brain, as if to keep the true source of my arousal from emerging.
Three-and-a-half minutes of primal grunting, panicked thrusts, and white-knuckled pressure later, I came all over my hand, silently screaming my obsession’s name. I shudder to think how I might have looked in that private moment of pathetic need. Unfortunately, the orgasm was empty and unsatisfying, subpar at best.
To make matters worse, I'd forgotten to prepare any sort of cleanup materials, so I had to yank my shirt over my head and use it to mop up the congealing cum. Yuck. Luckily, nine-point-five out of ten passersby wouldn’t recognize me (Rim Shot wasn’t yet a household name); and this was Florida, so the sight of a shirtless guy conspicuously holding a soiled T-shirt over his nether region didn’t turn any heads. Bare chests were the norm, especially in midday, when the sauna-like heat was in full swing.
No sooner had I staggered back to my hotel bathroom, than I came to a horrified realization: I was three quarters re-erected and desperate to unload my second round.
“Fuck. It’s gotta be those damn bananas.”
Sighing, I resigned myself to the inevitable, and dropped to my knees to jerk off again.
Rem towered above me like Zeus at the apex of Mount Olympus. “Get on the bus.”
Peering up at him, I sassed, “It’s technically a van.”
“I’ll count to three.” He put his hands on his hips like a fussy schoolmarm. “One, two—”
“I forgot my porn!” I lied, just to be ornery.
“You’ll survive.” Rem flipped his floppy brown hair. “Let’s get a move on.” He slid the side door open. “Duty calls.”
I had to piss like a racehorse but decided to hold it. You just never know when you’re gonna get a golden shower opp ... plus, the looks my bros had stabbed me with while we were loading the van could've felled an army of lovebugs. Not that it would be a bad thing: Florida was swarming with those fuckers. They stuck to anything and everything like Gorilla Glue.
The driver—some random dude Rem had hired from Craigslist—gave me a gruff nod and shoved a half-naked Snickers bar into his mouth. Wrapper and all.
“Why wait?” I quipped.
The driver grinned. “I love that commercial.”
Dude’s smile was cemented together with peanuts and caramel. Probably he’s never waited in his life. I flashed him the peace sign and scoped out the seating arrangements. Clive, dominating the front passenger spot, tore open an off-brand dollar-bag of peanuts with his teeth. Again, the peanuts-in-the-teeth theme … at this rate, Rem would next fall victim to the trend.
Ashley and Cade were huddled together at the back of the van, deeply involved (or so it seemed) in a social media post on Lash’s phone. They made a point of avoiding eye contact with me, which thoroughly failed to surprise me. True to my bratty nature, I could have stirred the contents of the chamber pot otherwise known as Ede’s Crappy Collection of Personal Insults ... but I figured I’d better save that ammo for when we weren’t mobile. Gory mental pictures of the bros tossing me under the van’s spinning wheels were enough to dissuade me from donning my devil’s horns.
“Next stop: Miami!” Rem announced, pronouncing “Miami” as “Mee-AH-mee.” *groan* Rim Shot’s fearless leader was wearing a Hawaiian print shirt with colors so obnoxious, I wanted to slap him. “Take her away, Dill!”
I snickered. “Who’s fucking Dill?”
“Your mom,” the driver retorted. He revved the engine; at the same time, he pulled the door shut with a grating squeak.
“My mom’s gay, Pickle,” I fired back.
“Park ’er, Posey.” His growl sounded like a cross between the Lorax and Fozzie Bear. Hard to be threatened by that.
Ashley, however, shrank in his seat, the ’fraidy-cat.
The interest in Clive’s tone was palpable: “Parker Posey’s low-key hot.”
“Who’s that?” Rem wanted to know.
Dill and Clive explained this chick’s status as an old-timey-ish indie film queen, which inspired Rem to share a dull anecdote how his first crush had been some middle-aged lady who used to tutor him in spelling. When he wistfully said, “I wish I’d eaten her alphabet soup, but I was too intimidated by her intellect to even lift my spoon,” I officially checked out of the convo.
After maneuvering into the available seat next to the window, I curled up in a ball, and tuned out Rem’s (seamlessly transitioned) droning monologue about ramping up Rim Shot’s next performance. Since we wouldn’t be selling out stadiums any time soon, I saw no need to pay attention to our fearless leader's “surefire slam-dunk tactics.”
Brayden, our token manager, was driving his car behind the tour bus. He claimed to need his own private vehicle, which was code for, “I’m so fucking sick and tired of looking at your faces, I could puke.” He didn’t do a whole lot besides suck on his vape pen and download obscure German scat flicks anyway; Rem was too soft to fire him, so most of the time, we kind of pretended Brayden wasn’t there.
I stared out the window for the next ninety minutes. Florida’s landscape didn’t provide much to distract me. Flatness—endless flatness—and some peeks of water when we crossed the odd bridge, plus browning palm trees and the occasional cow-dotted pasture comprised the majority of the scenery. What a dullsville.
“I'd donate a kidney for a cannibalistic mutant to booby-trap the bus and come vanquish my boredom,” I muttered to the hangnail on my left pinky. “Pickle would make a great first course: his generous girth would give us time to escape.”
“Watch Wrong Turn,” Clive supplied. “Or check out the OG mutant horror film, The Hills Have Eyes. Rem and I did a double feature with those flicks last week. Hey, Blue Velvet.” He pointed to my hair. “Your dye job’s losing its oomph.”
“So it is,” I allowed. “Maybe I should try purple next time.”
“Yeah, then we’d call you Violet Goldmine!” Clive cackled, slapping his knee. “Get it?”
I gagged. “Who told you that you were funny?” Still, I cracked a smirk. After all, this was the most anyone had spoken to me since the fallout of my publicly performed cop-a-feel on Cade’s backside.
Cautiously I swiveled my head around to address the folks at the back of the van. “Yo. Are you hungry yet?”
“You know I’m always up for chow,” Clive replied. (The others ignored me.) “Whenever, wherever.”
Clive was a born-and-bread Floridian, but he came from the Panhandle, so he embodied that young-dude-surfing-through-and-an-endless-sea-of-geezers, laissez-faire ’tude. The vibe: “We’re all gonna die but it’ll take a long time and we’ll probably drink the whole wine section thirty times over before that happens ... and then we won’t care about stumbling down the stairs and cracking our skulls open on that one step that’s shaped like my ex-girlfriend’s bigger tit … so let’s do whatever the fuck we want and screw as many chicks as possible unless they have syphilis; in that case, let’s not and say we did (there’s no gain from STDs unless you somehow manage to get free condoms out of the deal) … so yeah! Free love—and don’t forget the booze ... go for it, bro! *finger guns* Let’s call it a draw.”
“Are you guys hungry?” Clive asked the rest of the group since they hadn’t deigned to answer me when I’d asked the same question.
Rem woke up from a catnap to reply: “You bet.”
“Famished!” Ashley declared.
A caveman grunt from Cade: “Starved.”
“I don’t even need to chew,” I offered.
Rem checked something on his phone. “Can we stop at that truck-stop-slash-diner I’ve heard so much about? It’s only two exits away.”
“What’s it called?” Clive queried.
“Overrated.” Scoffing, Lash tossed his blond mane over his shoulder like a chick from a shampoo commercial.
“Says who?” Rem asked.
“The name itself is too self-consciously shi-shi.”
“You should feel right at home then,” I shot back.
Ashley graced me with double middle fingers. I’ll admit: his feistiness was a bit of a boner-popper. After a weak debate, Rem, Clive, and I won against Ashley and his silent token champion Cade, and Dill dropped us off at Delectables.
“Take your time. I’m going to shoot the shit with my fellow nomads.” He gestured toward the group of dudes—truck drivers, I presumed—sitting off to the side under a weeping willow. “We don’t do Delectables.” Sneering, he added, “That shit’s for tourists.”
“No worries,” Rem called after him. “We’ll treat you to a cup of coffee from the convenience store while you wait!” To us: “Don’t let me forget to tip him. Something tells me it’s not hard to tick him off.”
“Yeah,” Ashley said. “For all we know, he’s a serial killer, plotting to slit our throats and make off with our gear.” He bit his lower lip. “My Gibson’s worth a mint.”
“The Craigslist Killer used a semiautomatic,” Clive supplied. “Not a knife.”
Rem placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Lash, he won’t murder us. He wouldn’t risk losing our business. Return clients can be hard to come by on the fly.”
“Risky Business,” Clive muttered. “Where’s a prostitute when you need one?”
My bladder was too full to keep up pretenses. “I gotta let loose my liquid gold. Meet you guys in there.”
After running to the bathroom, I barely made it past the door before I was pissing into a hole in the wall. An arrow drawn in permanent marker pointed menacingly toward my package. The artist hadn’t supplied any text. Sometimes, more is less—at least when it comes to the imagination. Mine was running wild.
Still pondering the mysterious arrow’s meaning (Do you put your penis in the hole first or fellate the anonymous rod when it pokes its head through?), I dried my armpits with two scratchy paper towels and fixed my overshirt so the sweat stains weren’t as visible. Fucking Florida is like a motherfucking rainforest-y swamp without the trees and monkeys …
Much to my chagrin, I spied a bunch of sexy, sunny fruit on my way out the door. Immediately I averted my eyes before my brain could connect the dots and erect the sails, so to speak. Alas, it was too late: the one-eyed monster down below stirred, then sprang into action.
In the original version of this chapter (written at least 15 years ago), the RPS-based character getting freaky with himself at the sight of bananas was a well-known rockstar. Over the years he transformed into Edan, who is my OC and based on compilation of people I've both met and never met over the years. Edan's fruit-induced arousal meant to be OTT and ridiculous, and not at all sexy. So if you're not turned on by it, congratulations! You pass the vibe check. ;) And if you do find the banana scene sexually stimulating, my condolences! You might need some therapy. :D
Random note: One of my favorite things to do is write banter. I like this chapter because it showcases the brothers' distinctive personalities and gives me free reign to diss my problematic place of origin (Florida) via fictional mouthpiece(s). Also this chapter marks the turning point for my dislike of Edan; somehow I can't be mad at him when he's being such a horny dweeby loser. Dare I say he's growing on me?
Side note: I have a natural proclivity for Clive. He's abrasive but true to himself and I like how he doesn't let Edan bully him. Plus he's a budding film buff (albeit with questionable cinematic taste); coincidentally, I watched a fair number of movies back in my teens and twenties. Finally, he reminds me of some of the guys I used to be friends with in high school--these dudes were geeky cool, which I much prefer to the societally acceptable coolness of certain hot-jock types who are outwardly popular but have nothing deeper going on below the surface other than misogynistic views, toxic masculinity, and excessive testosterone. Let it be known: some popular jocks are very cool and very deep, but some of them (IMHO) are about as deep as a couple inches of bathwater.
I said what I said.
Lastly, Rem is my sunshine; I will protect him (and his dad jokes) at all costs.
Everyone's heard the wink-wink, nudge-nudge jokes about how Rim Shot's band brothers swap spit offstage, but what happens when the rumors ring with the zing of truth?
Edan's as bisexual as David Bowie, but definitely not as cool.
Cade's allegedly straight, but maybe he's still figuring things out.
Ashley's the gayest shade of rainbow, and only has eyes for Edan.
Clive and Rem are straight, and not even a little homophobic.
On their sophomore tour, Rim Shot's fivesome coasts through the highs and lows of life on the road. Bad coffee. Wicked hangovers. Handsy groupies. What's worse: romance might be a-brewing between lead guitarist Ashley and front man Edan...but more likely it's hormones. (God forbid anyone falls in love!) To top it all off, Edan's nursing a wicked one-sided (?) crush on Cade, the seductive bassist. Throw in an exasperated band leader and a wise-cracking rhythm guitarist and watch a perfect storm build until it bursts.
Can Rim Shot survive their own drama and seize the spotlight, or will they join the ranks of one-hit wonders as their music fades into the background?
A note of caution: if you're looking for a flowery cuddle-fest, you'd be better off donning a terry cloth robe, petting a Persian pussycat, or burrowing into a body blanket. This story is raunchy, ridiculous, & only romantic in the loosest definition of the word. Please don't bother reading BARE POSSIBILITIES if you're easily offended, squeamish, or prudish. Save yourselves!
Cover art, story banner, and custom ad (for my free read CRIMSON) created on Canva.
Royalty-free image credit: ID 72781170 by Zegers06|Dreamstime.com