vampbaby (vampbaby) wrote in tarnishedmetal, @ 2007-11-19 20:11:00 |
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Title: Thunderkiss ‘65
By:vampbaby
Rating: NC-17, Sex, Language
Bands/Pairing: Rob Zombie/Gilby Clarke
Disclaimer: For non-profit, entertainment purposes only. The persons and events described herein are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental(ish).
“Wicked costume, Gil!” Tommy exclaimed.
I looked up just as he said that and dragged Gilby into the living room where the party was in full swing. My party. A costume party. We were just about to file into Tommy’s screening room for a showing of my new movie. Gilby’s normally smooth brown hair was twisted into wild, waist-length dreadlocks – extensions obviously. His jeans were frayed, his thighs almost completely exposed. Big, black combat boots hung open, the laces dangling. His black t-shirt was torn, the glow-in-the-dark skull in the middle of it blinking through his heavy denim jacket, one sleeve of which was ripped to ribbons, a long black bandana covered in skulls wound around his wrist. He had grown out his beard, leaving it shaggy and unkempt. His face was frighteningly made-up – his skin a sickly bluish white, his cheeks sunken, his eyes heavily shadowed. Most striking, though, was the black crucifix etched on his forehead, right between his eyes.
I was looking at myself as I appeared more than ten years ago.
“Thanks, man,” Gilby laughed, shattering the surreal moment for me. “I thought it would be a fitting tribute to Rob. Is he here yet?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Yeah, he’s here somewhere,” Tommy said, pushing hair from his blonde wig off his face. The long strands kept getting stuck in his bright red lipstick. He looked ridiculous and perfect in a high-cut red bathing suit and gigantic fake boobs with his skinny legs shaved but still pale. Like a scarecrow in high heels.
Gilby looked straight at me, then away, as he examined the other disguised party guests. His eyes seemed even bluer with all the dark make-up. It was a bit like looking into a mirror caught in time.
“Jesus,” Gilby said to Tommy as the host thrust a beer into his hand. “How original is it to wear a fuckin’ Michael Myers mask?”
It was true. Half the room wore a mask and a boiler suit. But I was the only one who wore the mask from the filming of Halloween. I had paid attention to other details, too. The spatter pattern on the front of my jumpsuit was accurate down to the directionality of the droplets. To get the effect, I had filled a pumpkin with fake blood and then hacked it to pieces. I’d even glued bits of hair and tissue to my butcher knife, dripped blood onto my boots from my hands. The bulky coveralls hid my tattoos and disguised my body, which was as lean as Gilby’s. The mask hid my hair and beard, which were as dark as Gilby’s. We’d known each other for a long time, gotten drunk together, performed together, most recently with Tommy, Scott Ian, and Slash, but I had never noticed the resemblance.
“Okay, dudes!” Tommy shouted over the crowd. Dozens of vampires and pirates and transvestites and serial killers stopped talking and looked up to hear his announcement. “Let’s go to the screening room. Show’s about to start!”
We filed down the hall to Tommy’s huge home theater, which was decorated just like a multiplex, replete with stadium seating and cushioned, reclining seats. I shouldered my way through the crowd to walk near Gilby. Caterers dressed as ghoulish ushers handed us little bags of popcorn as we entered the room. Fog from the smoke machine swirled around our feet making it impossible to see the carpet, the room lit only by tiny running lights in the floor shining eerily through the smoke. Gilby shuffled sideways down a row of seats, sitting at the far end of the aisle. I slid in next to him, setting my knife and popcorn on the seat beside me. He put his beer in the cup holder between us. The skull in the middle of his chest glowed green in the dark. He smiled at me.
“Hey, man,” he said. “Michael Myers, huh?”
I nodded. He didn’t recognize me, which was, in my opinion, the point of masquerades. What better way to be unrecognized than to look like everyone else? Gilby was friendly, a talker. He seemed unphased by my silence.
“This is a really cool idea. I’m glad Tommy did it. Rob’s a great guy, don’t you think? This movie is awesome for him,” he chattered. “I’m sure it’ll do really well. He’s so talented.”
He couldn’t see the smile behind my mask. He looked like me, but like a happier, more carefree me. The way I wish I’d been. Gilby had a clean, grounded, midwestern air about him, even dressed like an undead hillbilly. Though we were close in age, he had an innocence that I never could. Raised in a traveling carnival, I was never able to wash off the filth of the road, the stench of poverty and human misery that clings to me, even after attending college, working in the New York design industry, selling millions of albums, and rubbing elbows with Hollywood’s glamorous elite. My parents were good, honest people, but we lived in a world that wasn’t always good and honest. The constant migration from one town to the next isolated me, leaving me without friends, without a home. The people I grew up around were society’s cast-offs – freaks, criminals, losers. Some of them were the smartest, kindest, most real individuals I’ve ever known. A lot of them were not.
Gilby quieted down as the movie started. I’d seen it a thousand times in the making of it, so I found it much more interesting to watch him. It was like watching a better version of my past self catch a glimpse of the future as my movie flickered in the distance, the light and shadow playing over his face. His eyes were riveted to the screen, his mouth slightly open. I grew up watching old horror movies to escape some of the real horror for a little while, but I always identified with the monsters. They were self-reliant and bizarre and tragic, while their victims were boring, ordinary, petty, and weak. The way Gilby watched my movie fascinated me. He tried very hard not to jump during the scary parts or to wince during the gory parts. He watched with the naiveté and enthusiasm of someone who had never worried about being butchered by a knife-wielding maniac. It was a purity that I had never known, and it gave Gilby’s costume away even though his makeup was otherwise uncannily accurate.
There wasn’t a lot of innocence in the carnival. I lost my virginity at twelve to the burly ex-con who ran the ring toss. Got me drunk on cider one November night in Milwaukee, lured me away from the bonfire, and then left me alone, face down on the platform of the Tilt-a-Whirl, naked and freezing but determined not to ever let anyone see me cry. I lost it again when I was fifteen to a townie I met on a hayride in Des Moines, a thirty-something woman named Daisy who wore skin-tight Calvin Kleins just like Brooke Shields. We snuck off to the haunted house, and she laid me out on the “Torture Doctor” H.H. Holmes’s gruesome operating table in the Hall of Serial Killers and made me a man. My childhood, in one way or another, was awash in blood and caked in filth. Movies and ghost stories and comic books put me in control of it, music let me rise above it, and I eventually made my fantasy world come to life over the airwaves, on the silver screen, and in the pages of my comics.
Gilby must have felt me staring at him, even in the dark. His eyes darted self-consciously between the screen and me. As soon as he’d finished off his beer, an usher appeared with another harvest ale, which he drank quickly, prompting a third in a very short span of time. He reached again for the bottle in the cup holder between us, but I stopped his hand before he could bring it to his mouth. He looked at me, shocked. I just shook my head, and he let go of the beer, never taking his eyes off me. Dropping his hand into his lap, I left my own hand on his knee. My fingers were covered in fake blood and looked sinister creeping over his leg. His knee was warm. I felt his skin through the frayed fabric of his jeans. He froze in his seat, looking at me wide-eyed as I slid my hand up the inside of his thigh. I wondered if he would deck me, but I couldn’t resist trying. My anonymity let me do almost anything without fear of reprisal.
“Who are you?” he said quietly, tilting his head. His eyebrows were furrowed, wrinkling the painted cross between his eyes. I shrugged affably – as affably as I could considering my attire – sensing that this encounter was about to become much more interesting. My hand slid further up his leg, my fingers tangling in the loose threads of denim. His breath caught, and I could see the possibilities whirring behind his eyes.
Maybe his costume had made him bold. Maybe mine had, too. My palm found the hard bulge at his crotch, and he gasped, sliding down in his seat and letting his legs fall open. Still he didn’t look away from me. His eyes, shaded heavily in black makeup, were entrancing. He breathed deeply through his open mouth as I massaged him, and he watched me with the same honesty and openness he watched my movie. I scooted closer. His passion and intensity intoxicated me. The mystery clearly aroused him. Gesturing with my head, I wordlessly suggested we leave the theater. My heart beat in my throat as I waited for his response.
“I guess Rob will never know we skipped out a little early,” he whispered coyly. Looking over his shoulder at me with the most scandalous smirk, he stood and walked up the aisle towards the back of the room. I gathered my knife and followed.
Through sheer force of will, I kept my hands off him while we walked down the hall, passing the idle caterers and bartenders waiting for the movie to end to resume their duties. The first empty room we found was a bathroom. His coat hit the yellow tile floor before I had even turned the lock in the door.
His body felt so good as I ran my hands inside his shirt, but I wanted to taste him, too. His face was flushed under all that makeup, making his lips as red as apples. My mask was a problem, but I didn’t want to give up the excitement of being unknown. I grabbed the bandana around his wrist, pulled open the knot, unwound it, and shook it out. Advancing towards him with it grasped in both hands, I stopped when I saw fear cloud his eyes. Chuckling, I realized how menacing I must look, dressed like Michael Myers, covered in blood. He probably thought I was going to strangle him with his own scarf.
My laugh apparently did not sound terrifying, and he smiled at me again with that warm, inviting grin. The smile widened when I put the bandana over his eyes and tied it at the back of his head. I was so close to him I could smell the cinnamon Tic-Tacs on his breath. As soon as he was blindfolded, I pulled off my mask and dove straight for his neck.
“Ohhhh…” he moaned, throwing his head back to give me better access to his throat. His skin tasted salty and sweet. His lips were soft and full and moist. He responded eagerly to my kiss, his enthusiasm fueling my desire. My beard tickled his neck as I sucked on his earlobe. I yanked open his jeans and reached for his dick. His unkempt beard and tousled hair were obviously not the norm because the rest of his body felt smooth and hairless. He gasped when I started stroking him, bracing himself on the marble sink and arching into my hand. I unzipped my bloody coveralls and let them fall to the floor, leaving me in my undershirt and boxers. His hands explored my uncovered body and face, touching me and caressing me and groping me. He moved his hips against me, grinding into my erection. He was so sensual – the way he used his hands, the way he moved his body, the way he put his lips on me, the way he made those noises in the back of his throat. I could have kissed him and held him and listened to his little sighs and grunts and moans all night, but that was not why people snuck off to the john at someone else’s house during a party.
I turned him around and pushed him into the vanity. I knew any bathroom in Tommy’s house would have plenty of condoms and lube. Opening the medicine cabinet, I was not disappointed. On my knees behind Gilby, I couldn’t help but squeeze his firm butt as I pushed his jeans down, and then wiggle my tongue in his crack. His squirms and vocalizations delighted me. I stood, shimmying out of my boxers and pressing my body against his. I bit my lip to keep from telling him how hot he was, or how turned on I was, because I didn’t want him to recognize my voice. My fingers drew more urgent moans from him as I worked them in and out of his ass. He gripped the edge of the counter and tossed his head back and forth, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of me through his blindfold. I tore the wrapper open with my teeth and rolled the condom over my dick with clumsy hands.
Looking at him in the mirror, I had to steady myself. The expressiveness of his face, even with his eyes covered, was breathtaking. His mouth hung open and he breathed heavily, moaning each time he exhaled. I held him against my body and rubbed my cock up and down his crack, pushing lightly but persistently, until the head slid into him. He gasped and held his breath, his knuckles white from clutching the countertop. Pushing back, he rolled his hips into me, trying to take me in further. My pulse pounded in my head. It felt like electricity ran in my veins as I penetrated him, so deep, so tight, so hot.
I thrust in him, watching us both in the mirror. Seeing our faces together, even with his costume, I could tell the resemblance was only superficial. I was guarded and often withdrawn, putting everything into my movies and music, the fantasy world where I felt safe, but shielding the rest of myself from other people. Gilby put everything he had into everything he did – music, cars, friendships, even fucking apparent strangers in the bathroom. His passion and honesty were written all over his face, showing through the harsh makeup and wild hair. The blindfold covered the angry black crucifix between his eyes, but even that didn’t seem so angry when the rest of his face showed such pleasure.
“Jesus…Fuck…Goddamn,” he gasped as I began stroking his cock. We were both close to orgasm, if his swearing was any indication. I sped my hips, slamming into him until I couldn’t take it any more. My lips were pressed against the side of his head, and my breath was warm on his ear. The softness of his hair brushed my cheek, making me want to rip out the coarse dreadlock extensions and let his real hair fall through my fingers. I kept my eyes open as long as I could, watching his enjoyment, and my own. I clamped them shut when I came, the sensation so powerful it threatened to unbalance me.
My heart was racing. I got my bearings again, and he was begging me for release. I turned him around and lifted him onto the vanity. The muscles in his legs and abs were tense. He was right on the edge. I took him in my mouth, letting him thrust off the counter into my throat. Just the barest friction of my lips on his cock sent him into convulsions of ecstasy. Hot cum exploded into my mouth, and I held his hips, licking and sucking and swallowing until his spasms subsided.
“Oh God,” Gilby sighed. A satisfied smile spread across his face. I noticed in the mirror that I was smiling too, giving my sharp features and heavy brow a lightness that surprised me. He reached for the bandana, only I wasn’t ready for the fantasy to end. I stopped his hand and kissed him, stopping his mouth. I didn’t know if he’d admit it tomorrow, or he went around fucking strangers at parties all the time, but in that moment, that kiss, something happened between us. He held my face and blindly stroked me with his thumbs, tracing the line of my cheekbones and over my lips. His touch was soft, gentle, and I couldn’t believe he would touch just anyone like that.
Working quickly and with trembling fingers, I tossed the used condom in the wicker wastebasket and covered it with a wad of tissue. Then I pulled up my underwear and coveralls and picked up my mask. I had to have one final kiss, and it was slow and light and sweet. I inhaled deeply, imprinting the scent of his skin in my sense memory before I put on my mask and untied the bandana, letting it fall from his eyes. He blinked several times in the light and looked at me, deep into my eyes. It seemed that he was looking through the mask, that he saw me behind it. And not just my features. He saw into me and knew the part that I tried to keep hidden. I barely noticed his make-up or his hair extensions or the glowing skull on his chest, either. When I looked at him now, I didn’t see the past. I saw the future.
I kept his bandana, tucking it into the pocket of my boiler suit, and picked up my knife. Gilby slid off the vanity, pulled up his jeans, and put on his jacket. His eyes smoldered, the heavy black makeup smudged and streaky from sweat. I expertly twirled the knife in my hand, nodded my head in silent gratitude, and left him in the bathroom.
The movie had ended, and Tommy and his guests were just leaving the theater. The ushers had done an excellent job – everyone looked much drunker than when they’d gone in. I tried to overhear what people were saying about the film, but he blood was rushing so loud in my ears and my mind was so scattered, I didn’t comprehend anything.
“Where’s Rob?” Tommy shouted over the noise. “Rob? Dude? Where are you?”
I reluctantly raised my hand and walked towards Tommy.
“Hey, dude, take off the mask!” Tommy laughed. I did so, and the room erupted into applause. I smiled self-consciously.
“Thanks, everyone,” I said. “Hope that means you liked it, and not that you’re just glad it’s over.” Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Hey, guys!” Tommy exclaimed, holding up his drink. “A toast to Rob!”
“Rob!” everyone chanted, and I heard bottles and glasses clinking. I couldn’t help but smile. Looking down at my shoes, I tried to slip away from Tommy and all the handshaking and backslapping and congratulations.
Of course I ran headlong into Gilby.
“Hey, Gil,” I smiled, not letting my eyes betray me. There were still at least a dozen people in Michael Myers garb, so I felt pretty unidentifiable.
“Hey,” he said amiably.
“You like the film?” I casually asked.
“Yeah, I really enjoyed it,” he answered, making me smile. Maybe I’d torment him later by quizzing him about the ending. “One thing, though,” he said pleasantly.
“What’s that?” I asked. I didn’t look up because I knew one glimpse into his hypnotic eyes and I would be useless, and that scared me more than any monster or machete-toting psycho ever could. He leaned in very close. My heart started to pound again, just his proximity enough to make me want more of him. His lips brushed my ear.
“I’m gonna want my scarf back,” he whispered. He winked at me, and waved as he walked away.