(no subject)

[mynewplace]

I got to listen to a new cd Thursday. New to me, newly burnt, of music made around 1995. So new-ish. It was pretty good, as far as I could tell - but I couldn’t tell much. My office mate was there, so I had to keep the volume down, and I had it in my computer. The speakers are fair, but don’t do justice to the type of music these guys create. Jamie’s riffs are becoming familiar, so a lot of it rolled over me almost unnoticed. But then ‘he’ would come on, and his voice sounded different, just like he’d said. It had a more earnest quality; a sparkle was present that was new to me. It was almost like the difference between Pepsi and coffee, his voice then and now. I’m anxious to hear it in my car, where the sound system is good and I can adjust Jamie, tone him down a bit and pick up more of the subtleties of the other instruments. Brent weaves his way through this shorter collection like caramel through a turtle, and I want, no NEED to hear it elsewhere primarily for THAT. The ‘him-ness’ that’s in that music, in the words to the songs that he’s written. Dear God this is fucked up. This spell must be broken, please I’m begging in a crumpled heap, help me find a way to break this magnetic draw.

I told him I wanted a copy. The conversation went like this:

Me:
Oh God I can't do this here. I've heard enough - I know I want a copy. I feel like a fuckin' alcoholic in a distillery.

He:
Oooookay. Whassamatta?

Me:
... I can't listen to it properly in here, can't get the volume up or the mix right. I would really like to hear it in my car, that's my best stereo system. So I'd really like a copy. I like it well enough to know I want to hear it more. And it makes me wish I could see the two of you play. (yeah yeah, I know-forget it. I just WISH) As for the 'alcoholic in a distillery' business, you don't want to know. I will say this, its very heady stuff.

He:
Believe me, if ANYONE can relate to being "an alcoholic in a distillery" and the feelings that evokes, it's me babe. (edited)

We may have actually found a bass player, so the possibility of you seeing us play somewhere may be greater than you think! :) **see below

Me:
...I hardly dare respond to the "possibility" business. Makes me drunk just thinking about it. Good thing you're on the straight and narrow these days, the mental 'mind-blowing' that I sense coming on, induced by the idea of watching you play, is probably one of the biggest ones yet. A hands-free-gasm, even.

**OHMYGOD

All the way home the thought of it pounded through my veins. All the way home my senses reeled at the image of them playing in some dark smoke-filled joint, amps cranked up over the crowd, the crack from a pool table providing counterpoint to Brent’s rhythm, to Jamie’s sweetness on guitar. All the way home, my skin crawled - it was one of those psychic flashes I get, I was THERE, and even though I hadn’t touched a drop I could feel the alcohol heating my blood, rushing through me as my heart pounded erratically. I love that feeling, when my pulse is in my throat and I shiver in anticipation of the experience. My hands shook on the wheel at the vision of him, lost inside his music and that nauseating thrill that comes from being in front of people when you are doing something you’re good at, something you love. It expanded from there into this:

I’m snuggling back into a booth against the farthest wall with the first roll of drums, quaking just a little. Tension races through me, and I flinch in surprise when the waitress brings my drink. I’m totally focused on the stage. Finally seeing them play after hearing the albums over and over is like trying to compare a seventh grade crush to the passionate lust that is currently burning me. The bass is pounding between my legs, has me squirming in my seat, trying to pressure my body into silence. My eyes stroke that rounded cheek, entranced as lips form lyrics I know by heart. Lips I’ve watched countless times, forcing myself to rethink the words that pass through as I get lost in the sight of them, the memory of them, the warm flannel of his voice. His grace and inherent rhythm as he coaxes the heart of the music from the cacophony of metal that surrounds him is something I’ve only seen hints of before. My mouth waters at the sight of him in his true element, an image that up to now has lived only inside my brain. I can feel my thoughts starting to swirl, growing drunk on the vibrations stretching across the room. I anticipate every cymbal, every cadence until I’m on the edge of the seat, my pulse pounding wildly in my throat and my fingers digging into my own thigh. I don’t bother to applaud, I need more and mentally urge them to move on, quickly.

With every song, I sink deeper, my mind spinning until rationality is brushed aside as a pointless waste of time, my heart pounding in perfect rhythm with Brent’s foot on the pedal. Tongue darts over a lip swollen from lust, I notice I can feel my own heartbeat inside my head. Songs I know blend into songs I don’t recognize, but I know his words, the ones he’s written echo inside my chest. Yes, I can tell - his essence weaves ribbons of fudge through his songs. By the end of the sixth song, I can barely keep my eyes open, my breath comes in ragged gasps, and while my mind and heart don’t want the set to end, my brain is sagging with relief as the silence washes over me. Snippets of his voice as he walks away from the microphones send aftershocks through my nerves as I come down. Nothing, nothing makes me feel as intensely as the sound of his voice when he speaks. I wonder if watching him sing will give me more of a rush than just hearing him. Will it compare to the echo that resonates inside my chest with a few simple words?

A deep breath or two and a gulp of watered-down schnapps help ease my frazzled nerves. I catch sight of him from the corner of my eye headed down a short dark hall. I wait, mentally picturing him as he moves through the door of the mens room toward the wall. I slide from the booth, and take a turn down the same darkened hallway, catching him as he comes back out the door. Our eyes meet and he starts to ask me what I thought. I gaze at him, searching his eyes for the passion I’ve just seen, my breathing rapid again at the sight of it, at the feel of him so close, heat radiating from him in waves. I take a step or two, closing in, running my hands up his arms as he starts to stammer and I stand on tiptoe, pressing my lips against his very quickly to quiet him. But an ache pounds in the soft flesh between my thighs and I have to kiss him again, not so quickly, not quite so gently. One small palm slides across his neck, into his hair, clutching him, pulling him closer as his moan echoes from his chest to mine and back again. I feel warm hands cross my back and I am undone, my body shaking as I push him back against the corner in the darkness, his head dipping lower, his arms pulling me in. My mind goes blissfully blank as I feel him lean into me, it feels like he wants me, and that’s enough to make me quiver. I know its not me, it’s the music, the rush, but I don’t care because I’ve fought it so hard for so long that I’ll take him in any way, shape or form. He raises his head to look at me, weighing the consequences in his mind and I feel panic start to well up, shoving it back down in my gut, pressing against him to make the thinking stop, anything to make the fear go away. I sigh in relief as he lowers his mouth to mine again, allowing one hand to drift down his stomach, drawn toward the pulse that I feel pressed against my thigh. I fumble briefly with all the things that stand in my way, until I drop to my knees and free him, my breath hot against exposed skin before my tongue darts out, wrapping around his cock and I hear the back of his head hit the wall with a moan. I cum as my mouth glides down his shaft, tears of relief welling up. The skin of his hips is pliant beneath my hands as I stroke them, my prayer of gratitude vibrating around this center of existence as his pulse pounds against my tongue.