The Punk and the Non-Profit Prostitute

C1: Punk Goes The Weasel

It was a rocky start. It was like life blossoming from dust particles or rain pouring with no clouds in sight.
We met because I was a good friend who'd do anything for Rich. I also was busting to go to the bathroom but nonetheless.

Rich had bought tickets to go see his favourite band and who was I to reject his plea for company? The crazy american would've chained me to him until after the concert even if I denied.

It was his favourite band of all time. I couldn't tell you how long he's been infatuated with the lead singer. The second that man walked onto the stage, Rich lost it. I almost went deaf from his screaming and applauding. I used to watch him praise his posters in his room and I used to laugh at him and roll my eyes. He'd say maybe if I'd learn to love it wouldn't be so ridiculous. I wasn't one for attachment then, I didn't need anybody, I didn't need anything.

I guess now I'm not so different to Rich. After all that's happened it's hard not to be attached.

It's funny how I didn't even recognise him. The man from the posters that's been hanging in Rich's room, in our apartment and yet I deemed him a stranger.

Rich had managed to score backstage passes. I told him he didn't need to buy me one because I wasn't very familiar with the band even if they were a punk sensation around the globe. He told me he still needed the support as there was always the possibility he'd faint. I couldn't help but chuckle at that too.

After the performance we snuck backstage to meet the band. Rich was so disappointed that the singer was too much of a diva to show up on time and he was not to be disturbed for at least another hour. Rich still frothed over the other members, he knew all of their names and got pictures with them all. I remember thinking their guitarist, Tom Meeten, was to die for. I tried to suppress my blush and let Rich be in the spotlight. Not like a man as straight as him would have much interest. Then again he was fairly obsessed with the band and would stop at no lengths to please them.

It was getting late and the singer still hadn't showed. I was frustrated, I wanted to go home and I could tell the band wanted us to go too. Rich quietly refused to leave, whispering harshly in my ear. I shrugged it off, I had to go take a piss before I burst. So I deserted him in search for a bathroom in this backstage maze.

There was a symbol on one door, it looked like a graffitied men's toilet design. I took a chance and opened the door, expecting a row of urinals, sinks and stalls. I was surprised to find what looked like a dressing room. There was a large mirror and dresser, a cream coloured couch and outfits neatly on a rack.

There was also a man.

I didn't know who he was and I panicked when he turned around to face me. His raven hair was frizzed and quite punk, coated in thick hairspray. He had makeup on, foundation smearing his face and his eyes glittering. The coat of lip gloss made his lips extra pink and juicy as it glimmered under the mellow lights. His eyes shone an ocean blue, his pupils narrowing on his unexpected guest. His outfit complimented his fashionable yet intimidating look. Silver tights clung to his skinny legs and a loose red and white jumper hung off his skeletal body.

I was so drawn to him like a moth to a flame and yet I was shying away.

"I'm sorry, wrong door"

"No, no. You must be my eight o'clock, come in" He grinned, ushering me closer.

I frowned at him, his eight o'clock? What did that mean?

"It's ten o'clock now, sir" I replied, keeping my eyes to the floor.

"I know. You're late. It's okay, I forgive you. Christ sake, get in" He exclaimed before striding over to me and shutting the door himself.

He made no effort to move away from me after his actions. Instead he came closer, our faces only inches away. I could feel his hot breath from his cheeky grin caress my rugged skin and I almost stopped breathing.