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An American rock & roll legend, in the final year of his life, finally comes clean about sex, drugs, and rock & roll.
Experimental Adult Fiction by Marilyn Jaye Lewis
“As arousing as it is heartfelt, I can give no greater praise for Marilyn Jaye Lewis’s The Guitar Hero Goes Home than to say this is a book written by a wonderful writer at the height of her powers. Highly Recommended!” — M. Christian, author of The Bachelor Machine
Chapter 9. (Amounts to about 8 pages.)
Contains sexually explicit content that might not be suitable for all readers.
King of the World Thinks Out Loud
SHIT, SHE WAS PRETTY. Whenever she walked into the room, her face lit up – or so it seemed anyway, because this was before I really understood the amount of cocaine she was doing. But her face lit up. And taking in that smile, those glittering eyes, it was like – if you’ll pardon me drawing attention to our recent contretemps in even the smallest way – it was like drawing in the first hit of nicotine-laced smoke off the freshest cigarette in the pack.
Her face seared something right into my bloodstream and ran simultaneously to my brain and to my dick.
The problem was that she knew she did this. She planned her entrances that way. She hadn’t gotten to be such a famous gal by going blindly into a world of powerful men – or even into a roomful of them. No, she was not blind at all. She was calculating and she got her fame.
But shit, she was pretty.
And I was so goddamned married, and she knew that, too.
She was more famous than me at this point, older than me by a couple of years. And she sure knew what she was after from that first time I met her. I really had to stand my ground with her. Aside from my being married to a woman who was already suspecting that I wasn’t being entirely faithful when I was out of her field of vision, I wasn’t gonna let any kind of a woman own me. Let alone, a famous one.
I had worked really hard to get famous myself. Really hard. I earned what I was achieving and I wasn’t gonna let her usurp that in any way. But I wasn’t stupid, either. I didn’t want to offend her – there was an underside to that gal that was a shark circling in the water. I knew that she wanted to eat me alive in the bedroom, but that she would just as quickly spit me out – publicly – if anything went wrong, made her look bad.
And then there was the problem of how to seduce her, because I wasn’t gonna let her seduce me. But she so obviously wanted to fuck me that seducing her would be like hailing down a cab that was coming right at me, you know? That’s no seduction; that’s just agreeing to fuck. And I still wasn’t 100% sure I was agreeing to fuck. I loved my wife. And my indiscretions away from home were becoming a bad, bad habit. My guilt was crippling me – to the point where I had to forcibly remove it from my conscience, lock it in a closet, and put cocaine in its place, in the hole it left inside me, until I was done fucking whatever pretty girl had come my way after a show, whose name I barely remembered.
But the famous gal was different on all counts; from all angles. I knew I was going to have to have sex with her. Because, let’s face it; she was seducing me. Aiming it all right at me. It had become impossible to ignore it – and, to make things worse, at this point we were working together. Thrown together for several hours a day.
And it happened, of all things, with a cigarette.
I had lit one and had started smoking it. She took out a cigarette of her own, leaned close to me, wanting me to give her some of my fire – you know, the easiest seduction in the book: Light the tip of her cigarette with the lit tip of my own.
She stood too close to me, her head too close to mine, while I did just that. And it was that electric transfer of lust – from her eyes to my eyes as she leaned close and I lit her cigarette – that sealed the deal.
Eyes say it all when words are too easily heard by everyone else around you in a crowded room. Everyone who knows full well what is going down between you but is too polite to draw any more attention to it than you’ve already drawn yourselves.
It was her hotel room. Her cocaine. But we shared equally in the indiscretion.
She knew my wife. Had made overtures to be friendly with her, shared cocaine with her sometimes, too.
My wife was polite, was bowled over by the attention, the fame; was confused; wasn’t stupid – and ultimately looked the other way. I guess she added it on to the pile of inexplicable things I was doing that were torturing her at night; breaking her heart all day – while I was busy, busy, busy stuffing my conscience into that closet.
But there we were in our complicity; me and the famous gal who was so pretty. So sexy. And when she took off all her clothes, I could not believe how much prettier she got. And it wasn’t just the coke talking, either, because we continued our liaisons sporadically for years and years afterward, after the coke had gone out of fashion, and she never failed to be just ungodly pretty when she was naked.
Although, not a natural blonde. I found that amusing.
Going into bed with her that first time was like preparing for battle. I made two vows to myself. One, that I was going to stay on top, no matter how much she might maneuver herself otherwise; and, two, that I was going to make her come – without any help from her delicate fingers.
In those days, sex was different. Men were starting to understand that girls had orgasms, too, but they just sort of expected the girl to take care of that part herself. It was still sort of a mysterious territory, a little threatening to men. But I wasn’t threatened at all. By then, thanks to my wife, I knew how to make a girl come. And I was good at it.
I knew that I was up against so much in that bedroom. Not just because of her fame, but because she’d been with so many other famous men. And I wasn’t gonna be just “another one of those” who got seduced by her. I was going to be the one who belonged to someone else – never to her; the one who stayed on top of her in bed, and the one who made her come. So that there would never be any doubt in her mind that she was hooked on me and could never really have me.
I was gonna love the heck out of fucking her, but punish her at the same time.
I guess my logic was that I had already come so far in betraying my wife, in further damaging her trust, our bond, our world, our little family that was growing; I was going to make the damage I was doing count, in spades.
This was what I’d thought. And I did remain true to my two vows to myself. And I did punish her, in a way, by making her love fucking me; by becoming a sort of drug to her – my cock to her pussy. But of course, I wasn’t prepared for what my heart did in that bed. I wasn’t prepared to care for her so much, for her to matter to me. I wasn’t prepared for how badly I wanted to see her again, for there to be a next time.
Goddamn it, I was so fucking married. And I didn’t want to go home to my wife, to that room we shared as married people, to that bed we shared and had created the lives of our daughters in; created them by making such erotic love, and then made so much more erotic love throughout both pregnancies – my wife always loving to make love the closer each of the babies came; even the babies seemed to love the making of all that love. It had been so beautiful to make love to my wife when my babies were alive and kicking inside her. There’d been so much joy, just so much.
I did not want to get back into that bed.
It wasn’t like I had been with some girl out on the road whose name I could barely remember, who I knew I’d never lay eyes on again.
It hadn’t been like that.
I had been with a woman who moved me. Who really just fucking moved me. Whose waist was so slender, whose hips so wide, that it was effortless to grab hold of her, flip her over and pound so hard into her from behind. Just mercilessly fuck her pussy, give her all I had while she practically cried she was taking it so hard, holding for dear life to the edge of the mattress so that the force of our fucking didn’t throw her right out of the bed. A woman whose clit was so responsive that I had barely reached under her and touched it, when she shot off like a rocket and came. Shaking the whole bed; she was coming like nobody’s business, and I never once released my hold on her. Jammed my cock so deep into her while she came that her cries really sounded like cries – God, she cried. Please, god no – please. Cries like some tender young thing whose pussy is just trapped and stuffed so full of my cock that she has to give it up; she’s got to surrender – some ageless and pretty, so damn pretty naked girl. And famous. She was so famous. All the men wanted her and dreamed of her, dreamed of fucking her senseless. I had done that.
I was the king of the world.
And when she was done coming, she turned her head back to look at me; she was out of breath, panting sweetly, covered in sweat, she said: “Lean down here, baby, and give me a kiss.”
So I did. I leaned down to her, my cock still way up in her, her ass still arched up high to give that pussy all the way to me, and I kissed her mouth, lightly, quickly, and she said, real quietly, too quietly for it to be legal, really, she said, “I love you.” She said, “I don’t care what the deal is, I am going to love you until I die.”
And it was my turn to come. I turned her over and fucked her slow and easy and deep – and I came in her, with her arms around me; her legs around me; and I was thinking that I really was the king of the world, and that she loved me, she was gonna love me until she died, and now what the fuck was I supposed to do?
I had to get back into that conjugal bed, into that bed of my marriage. And so much damage had been done.
“You worked late,” my wife said quietly – all the lights on Earth were out, it was that late.
“Yes, and I did a lot of coke, too. I’m wired.”
“You boys and your guitars,” she said. “And you need all that coke, too? You’re never going to grow up, are you?”
Eventually she went back to sleep and I got out of the bed and went and sat in the living room in the dark and smoked until the sun came up; until my younger girl came toddling out of her bedroom in her little nightie, still in diapers. What the hell was I doing?
“Good morning,” I said. “Somebody’s stinky.”
It made her laugh and I took her back to her room to get her changed, to clean her up. To let her mom sleep just a little longer.
Just the fucking king of some sort of goddamned world.
Sorry I woke you. I was thinking out loud, I guess. Remembering. Just remembering who I was. All my flaws. My weakness. All the lessons I had to learn the hardest possible way.
I’m sorry I was so hard on you today. I’m just trying to give you what you want. Love. Always just trying to give you love. When we keep our promises to the people we love, even the littlest promises. Well, you know. Life goes down a much simpler road.
Just trust me, honey. You sweet girl. And do as I say. Because I know about these things.
© 2019 Marilyn Jaye Lewis