Three Rockstars of Sin

Go figure.

But it is what it is. Doing this shit keeps the dollars rolling in. There are miles of money and rivers of cash pouring into our bank accounts each and every second, especially during a tour. So of course, we feed the beast, playing every show with our shirts off, glistening with sweat. Playing shirtless was our agent’s idea back in the day, but it had become a trademark. Hell, it’s practical too, considering how damn hot it is on stage.

The rest of the show was fiery and high-energy, with Brody tearing it up on the mic as usual.

After it was over, we stumbled off the stage, high from the music, the energy from the crowd sparkling like electricity across our skin. Performing is addictive. The vibe is more potent than cocaine, or what I imagined cocaine was like, anyway.

The only problem was: my brain was dead.

We’re performers, though. The brain-dead feeling afterwards was always worth it. You’ve got to give them what they came to see.

“Hell yeah!” I growled, my swagger turned all the way up as we strode towards the dressing room.

An answering mewl sounded.

“Oooh Gunner!” came the whimpering cry. My head jerked back to take a look around.

It was impossible to see who’d spoken the words because girls lined both sides of the wide hallway. Their hands were reaching out to touch us, their backs arched to show off their assets. Fortunately, our security guys have always been good at keeping them away. Growling and grimacing, they were giant slabs of muscle acting as a barrier between us and the females.

We don’t want them near us. Keep them away.

The girls were a blur before my eyes. Every single one of them was nearly naked with those fake tits of theirs pushed up and out. Eyelashes were like wild caterpillars and stick legs poked out from under miniskirts. Once upon a time, I could appreciate a good pair of booty shorts, but the ones that my fans wore had ruined that. I didn’t want to see their flat asses and neither did the Hudson or Brody.

I thought America was known for big girls. Why are all of these females the same?

Where were the curvy chicks? The ones with racks so big that my hands could barely grab them? The ones with big, soft bottoms?

All of the females were the size of mice. I often refer to them as “microscopic women”, because they’re so small that you can’t see them from far away. One ninety-pounder wiggled her tongue my way, flashing a silver piercing. Disgust filled my veins.

Get some meat on your bones, girl, and then maybe we can talk. While you’re at it, stop doing the whole skank thing. It’s not working for you.

Soon, we were in the privacy of our dressing room. Hudson slammed the door shut with a thud. The crowd could still be heard, small thumps and wild giggles piercing the thick slab of wood, but that was okay. For now, we were safe.

“Fuck that was good!” Brody grunted.

“Yeah,” Hudson growled like a badass. “I can feel the money, but not much else.”

He was right. Touring was getting to be a pain in the ass with the endless travel and the screaming crowds. We loved the music, though. The three of us knew how to make catchy beats. We were damn good at it. What else would we do? Get desk jobs?

I decided to focus on lighter subjects.

“Did you see that last chick, Brody?” was my amused rumble. “She was ready to give you a fucking blowjob right there onstage.”

As if that’s anything new.

In the beginning, we saw and did much worse. Orgies. Sex shows. You name it. The three of us indulged and overindulged. We were a trio on fire. Hell, Brody, Hudson, and myself were practically triplets! We all had black hair and blue eyes, making us look enough alike that we were often mistaken for brothers.

The shit is getting old, though.

Too much of anything goes sour, eventually. It’s like gorging on prime rib night after night. After a while, a salad starts sounding good—real nutritious and fresh. Unfortunately, we wanted that salad already. Just a few years of touring was starting to do us in.

Maybe a desk job wouldn’t be so bad.

I never thought I’d crave salad in my life, but sometimes that’s how things work out.

We wanted someone real.

Genuine.

Innocent and sweet, who didn’t smell like cheap perfume and used lube.

Too bad she doesn’t exist.

“You didn’t feel like giving up your dick tonight, huh?” Hudson grunted at Brody. “Keeping it on a leash, are you?”

Brody shot him a nasty look. “You know I’m done with that shit,” was his terse reply. “Shut the fuck up.”

And with that, our lead singer flopped down on one of the couches in our luxurious dressing room and shoved his thick black hair out of his sweaty face. He tilted his head to the side, giving the typical tortured artist look—if a tortured artist had tattoos up both arms and the rock-hard body of a soldier ready for battle. Even the sweat made him look savage-like.