A short ‘fan fiction’ piece about rock band The Strokes, published in The Brag, February 2005
Jules stared into the slender, dirty wine glass and thought about vampires. A poorly made trick-or-treat costume as a six-year-old, teenage delusions propelled by bad acid bought at the beach on a bad day, emotionally unavailable girlfriends obsessed with Morrissey and stuffed animals, stopping time and affecting the future doing press. Red wine sticky and drying in the bottom of the glass (who’s glass? His glass?), thick like blood. Sniffing curiously Jules suddenly realised he couldn’t be sure, he couldn’t be absolutely sure, that it wasn’t blood. The idea frightened him, but in a detached way, as if it was a story told second hand, much later after the event. Relaxing his grip, he let the glass drop easily, shattering in slow motion on the tastefully grey bathroom floor. He blinked twice, slowly, and stalked back to the bedroom. Head sinking like a stone into the five-star pillow (too-soft, too-white), he gazed blankly at his reflection in the mirror above the bed and half-heartedly tried to jerk off. Pale, too thin, nice abs. He watched his lips move in the reflection: ‘You sexy, sexy fuck. Come down out of that mirror and suck me off.’
Faded and loose, Fabrizio sat cross-legged somewhere far down the end of Jules’ king-size bed rolling a sloppy joint with great effort. He noticed that someone had painted his nails black. Chipped, black nails… The British girl in Rome with the buckteeth and thin fingers – no, it was that boy in Brisbane who kept talking about lemmings and Paul Simon and paedophilia. Why?
Jules cycled through cable channels: flashing on a white-toothed studio audience applauding, a lion attacking a deer gracefully to classical music, spaceships shooting through, American accents, Australian accents, sad news grabs with hot news readers before finally, inevitably, the porno channel. He stared at Fabrizio deliberately, baiting him.
Fabrizio rolled his eyes. “I don’t care. Watch whatever you want.”
Jules rolled his eyes back at him. “It is my room.”
Fabrizio inhaled deeply. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”
Jules eyed Fab carefully, “Why didn’t Drew come?”
He responded by blowing out a steady stream of smoke, ignoring him.
Jules sat up, suddenly serious. “I think you’re better off without her man.”
Fab choked on smoky sarky snort, passing Jules the joint. ”Thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to… take it onboard”
“But you are. She’s, like…”
“Shut up Jules. Don’t talk about things you’re not capable of understanding.”
Jules laughed. “Woah, little aggressive there baby. What’s up your ass? Why are you being such an arsehole?”
Fabrizio sighed tiredly. “I’m not the one being the arsehole Jules.”
It was very hot in the Sydney hotel room. No breeze, no stars, about 3am.
A tan-lined woman panted and growled deep in her throat as the squelchy sounds of sex filled the silent room. Fabrizio sipped warm vodka from a champagne glass and stubbed the joint out on a half eaten piece of steak, cold and tough, soaked in salty mushroom gravy. Despite being very stoned, exhausted and running on a low buzz of Xanax he began to feel himself harden. Jules grinned ghoulishly.
“Remember the girls in Vermont? In the spa, the Swedish chicks: ‘Oh Fab, yah, yah, we want to stroke The Strokes, yah!’.”
Fabrizio grinned. “They were nuts. That was fun…”
“Ah, you say it like we never have fun. You don’t have fun with me? I’m king of the fucking world! There isn’t a chick alive who won’t suck me off!”
Fabrizio laughed, “You’re a dick.”
Jules cracked his knuckles. “You know it baby.”
Fab lay next to Jules on the bed as the porn played itself out.
A woman on her knees gave alternating blowjobs to two fat guys wearing red trucker hats, who grabbed intermittedly with little enthusiasm at her large, sagging breasts. Fab and Jules began to pull at themselves a little harder, feeling a little more awake, getting more and more centred. Slightly aroused became definitely horny, warmth spreading, logic replaced by something more primal. Jules licked his lips slowly and made a decision. Pulling himself closer to his friend, he slowly bought his hand down over Fabrizio’s thick fingers, feeling the boy’s dick beneath them, rubbing like it was his own body. Fabrizio pulled his hand away his eyes locked on Jules fingers touching him, breath ragged, as Julian began to unbutton Fab’s fly, eyes locking on his thick, stiff cock as it stood up out of his jeans. He began slowly slicking it up with spit, pulling rhythmically at the shaft. Fabrizio arched his back involuntary, feeling horny, tense, desperate.
– Oh man, what are you…
– Shut up.
Jules leaned over and kissed him roughly, all vodka, smoky lips, tongue: sharp, rough stubble pushed up against his face. Fab tangled his fingers in unwashed hair, kissing him back hard until he could taste warm blood in his mouth. Jules rolled on top of Fab, their shirts shucked off over their heads, thin, muscular torsos undulating, hands pushing, pulling, rubbing, coatrooms, back alleys, a bed, a balcony, a park. He found Jules’ cock – hard, warm – and began pumping it, groaning, eyes shut, until Jules almost came, pushing Fabrizio’s hand away.
Getting onto his knees in front of Fabrizio, Jules jerked himself off in front of him for a moment, staring at Fabrizio’s twitching erection.
– Have you ever taken it up the ass, man?
– No… .
– Do you want me to fuck you?
– Yeah… OK.
Jules rolled Fabrizio onto all fours, facing the porn that lit up the room with a jittery flickering. He leaned over to grab a half-used tube of lube from the bedside table, pouring some onto his fingers, and pushing them slowly into Fabrizio’s ass. Skin slippery with sweat, every sensation amplified, a car driving late at night on a road with no signs and no moon and suddenly you hit something or something hits you and there’s a massive thump and everyone jumps and you turn up the music and it’s that song by Whitney Houston, you know the one: ‘How do I know if he really loves me/ I say a prayer with every heartbeat’ and you keep driving and someone says something about stopping for cigarettes and Golden Gaytimes.
Fabrizio pushed himself back onto Jules’ hand, feeling his asshole contract and then expand as it adjusted to the pressure. He muttered something in Italian or Portuguese or French.
– Fuck me, man. I want you to fuck me.
The corner of the condom packet still stuck to his lip, Jules slid his cock slowly into Fabrizio’s ass, moving half way in, then all the way out. Fabrizio’s breathing shortened as Jules felt him exhale noisily. The sensation was incredible, Jules was lost, high, in zero gravity. They began rocking rhythmically, slowly getting faster, his cock almost painfully hard, balls slapping up against his arsechecks. Fabrizio matched the thrusts with his own hand as Jules began pumping him harder until he began to lose control, bringing one knee up and bucking wildly, slamming into him, fucking uncontrollably, both hands grabbing Fabrizio’s hips in place roughly.
– Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck…
With a loud cry Fabrizio came on the bed as Jules came a few seconds later inside him, shooting hard, collapsing on top of him. Dizzy and blinded for a second, they lay motionless, until their ragged breathing returned to normal and sweat began to feel cold.
The next morning Jules was three hours late to a soundcheck to which he eventually showed up to uselessly stoned, Fabrizio decided to not get a haircut in Australia and it was announced to the band in a backroom over a plate of salt and vinegar chips and lukewarm Moet that Room On Fire had just gone gold.