The Mercy of Strange Men: Erotic Stories Read Online Free Page A

doesn’t pretend to be anything but a filthy rock pub, and
I love it for that. Plus, it’s tiny and dark and sweaty, which is
perfect for me. Rock ’n’ roll might be my hymnal, but I am not a
mega church girl.
    I am
particularly partial to rock boys who own the world, and if I am to
be perfectly honest with myself, that is why I am here tonight at
the Old Bar, ready to watch and listen and hunger. I am not averse
to going to gigs by myself; in fact I prefer it in some ways. I
love to let myself fall fully into the flow and thrust of the
music, losing myself in a world of rhythm and stage lights.
    When the second
support act comes on, closest in the set-list hierarchy to the
headliners, that I know I’m going to have a good evening.
    The singer is
longhaired, rangy and shirtless by their third song. His lanky
limbs would make him seem awkward in any other context, as would
the way he flails them about like he is not quite used to them, but
here they make him look like the spiritual progeny of those who
have gone before: a flesh homage to Nick Cave and Iggy Pop. He
paces and convulses on the stage, all ribs and cock, howling into
the microphone, artifice that might miss its mark were it not for
his frenetic energy, a one-act psychosexual catharsis.
    The other
member who catches my eye is the bass player, who straps his
instrument low on his body, his crotch thrusts to meet it. I
appreciate a musician who wants to fuck their instrument. It makes
me want to let them play me. The sole band member without a
microphone in front of him, his voicelessness makes him look aloof,
beyond the touch of mere mortals, like a chiselled classic statue
behind a barrier at a museum. Here at the Old Bar, there’s no
barrier except for my fellow audience members, and we surge and
fall back in thrall to the music, threatening to spill onto the low
stage ourselves.
    After their set
they head off stage – the singer stalks, whether by default or
still in character I can’t quite tell – and are besieged by fans. A
mix of beautiful young things surrounds them at the bar and hail
them with drinks and everyone is talking over everyone else all at
the same time. The queue is four people deep but I angle myself so
that I’m at the outer edge of the throng of adoring fans so I can
eavesdrop.
    It is the usual
‘you guys were so awesome!’ circle.
    I wait for
attention: of the barman, of the rock boys drenched in sweaty
post-performance euphoria. Their fans slip away, head out to the
beer garden for a smoke, or back to their other friends. The queue
at the bar grows shorter, the natural press and release of it ebbs
me closer to the band. The drummer breaks away, follows a pretty
girl outside, and is closely followed by the guitarist. I feel a
predatory surge.
    They turn,
scanning the bar, and I recognise the look of those who are open to
the world and the delights it has in store for them. I smile at
them as they notice me.
    'Hey, great
gig.' It's not an original opening line, but it's not a terrible
one either. The singer smiles, head tilting down and away from me.
So his stage persona is an act; I make a mental note. The bass
player offers me a lazy, full-frontal grin.
    'Thanks.' They
both offer, the singer quietly, the formerly voiceless bass player
more directly. He's not the unknowable stone carving he appeared to
be.
    ‘Why haven’t I
seen you guys play here before?’
    ‘We used to gig
around here a lot,’ he says, ‘but our drummer moved back to
Brisbane so now we’re more sporadic. We gig when he can get down
here. Or when we can get up there.’ The singer nods.
    'That's a
shame,' I say. 'You guys are awesome. People should get to hear
you.'
    'That's very
kind,' the singer says. He is only a little taller than me –
although I am quite tall myself – and I only have to tilt my head
back slightly to look into his eyes. What I see in there makes me
smirk inwardly. For all his rock posturing, he is doe-eyed in the
way that only a