"NO!" No.

"Dude, wake up!" came a voice from far away, from a distant place where there was no longer Mr. Hodgkins, a place in New England where there was no one who loved him, no one that cared for him besides a 16 year-old juvenile he had devirginized only hours before. Munky awoke to a reality far less tortured than his dream—but not by much. He was yanked back shaking, his eyes watering over as he pulled the blood-stained Pooh Bear blanket around his firm, naked body.

Hey, at least Talena wasn’t there anymore.

"What’s wrong? Are you okay? You want me to get some help?" Fieldy offered. His eyes were slitted with concern through the lenses of his darkly-rimmed Oakleys. David was right to his side, holding him by the shoulders.

"Jimmy, what happened?"

Munky pressed the palm of his fist into his forehead. "Nothing," he insisted. "Nothing. I’m fine." He attempted to stand, but decided against it. If he stood up, butt naked, they would know something had happened. It was an unspoken rule among them: you never, ever slept butt naked on a piece of furniture. They had many unspoken rules. His offense was right up there with double dipping into the tub of Vaseline in the back of the medicine cabinet; you just didn’t do it.

His boxers and wife beater were in a pile near his head on the wooden floor right beneath David’s Skechers. Luckily, David didn’t notice. They had gotten drunk the night before and their disgruntled faces told much about the severity of their hangovers. Calmly, he convinced them that he was fine. They finally left, giving him the opportunity to slip into his clothing once more.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath as he saw the blood stain on the Pooh Bear blanket. It appeared as if Pooh had decapitated one of his circular ears. In an instant, the night before flashed through his mind, sumptuously slow, lingering, delusional. Where was Talena? A lump rose into his throat. How old had she been, exactly? It didn’t really matter. She wasn’t legal. Last night, even though it had been consensual, he had still violated. She was just a child.

Funny how it hadn’t seemed like any sort of rape the night before. The dark can work wonders when someone is desperate enough for it to.

Kaitlin was gone forever. His eyes brimmed. After all those years, all those wonderful nights and days, she was gone. It had been a meaningful and lusty romance, deep-rooted and, he had thought, eternal. The fleeting way in which she had excommunicated him was still surreal. "I’m sorry, baby, I can’t do this anymore. Goodbye. This is for our own good. High school ended years ago. We should get on with our lives. Don’t try to reach me. I’m going to Connecticut tomorrow." She had finally taken the offer from Yale; she was going off to be a law professor or some shit. And though he was a rock star, making millions, he felt inferior to her right then.

She would make the perfect lawyer. She was passionate, extremely intelligent, and intimidating. Kaitlin was one of those people that you could never even attempt to argue with. Even in casual conversation, if someone made a light-hearted comment, she would ask matter-of-factly "And why would you say that?" or "How do you know?" Anything but a conversationalist, Kaitlin was as independent as Munky was musically inclined, and so they never connected on a higher plane intellectually. Physically, however, that woman had everything Munky wanted. Sleek, fit body, tall and slender. In bed, her matter-of-factness gave way to sensuality as keen as her genius. Munky’s time at home consisted of making love until dawn and reading the newspaper with her in the morning. In other words, heaven. He had always been so good to her.

Which was partially why he felt so goddamn foolish about the night before. Munky lumbered into the back and showered. Then dressed. He didn’t even bother to brush his teeth or check his dreads. Grabbing a cigarette, he picked up the newspaper and a beer. Last night, he had used Talena. He had prolonged it, but when he was ready, he forgot about her foolishly. He hadn’t cared that it was her first time. Instead of being gentle, he had done as he pleased. He had clamped his large hand over her mouth to hamper the small, misgiving whimpers she made, each one threatening to reveal their activities. Whispered Shhh….

(just as Missur Hodgkins had, Shhhh)

Head didn’t say anything to Munky that morning as he enjoyed his Cappuccino Latte and Marlboro cigarette. When the tour bus stopped in New Mexico (they would be driving all morning to Las Vegas, Nevada) he went straight to the roadies’ bus; he could no more stand to see Munky in his delirium than he could stand to see him dead. Head obviously wasn’t getting through to Munky, so why even try anymore? Munky needed help, as well as Head; seeing Munky this way was tearing him apart. He wasn’t about to give up on his best bud, but he couldn’t do it alone. One of the roadies was a certified psychologist. She was appointed for Jon’s mental health, though she gladly helped David on a regular basis.

She had, in fact, seen every member of Korn at least once—except Munky. Until he had cheated on Kaitlin, it had seemed as if Munky was the only Kornster who had his shit together. He was the cool, calm, collected one, and always had been. If that foundation fell apart, then what would become of them all? Head didn’t want to find out. The psychologist’s name was Shawna; she was beautiful, perceptive, smart, and charismatic; when Head yanked her from her cubby that morning and pulled her to the back of the bus, she knew that something was very wrong.

For the first time, she saw Head cry. When she offered to hug him—she wasn’t one of those cold therapists, married to the notepad—he crushed her against him.

When he had gone, she opened up her black appointment book and wrote with a vibrant red pen in between a session with Jon and a session with a pregnant woman she counseled over the phone: "James Shaffer. Locker Room. 4:00." She put a star next to his name, meaning: "Get to him. Fast."

…………………………………….

Munky had to sit through a press conference. Yet another one. Sometimes he felt as if he were a puppet, showcased in front of aliens with camera-like eyes that ogled at him in stupid wonder. Some reporters asked fairly decent questions, having covered the basics with the band years before. More and more rare now were such traditional questions as "Where are you guys from?" or "How did the band get started?", though the occasional dumbass did inquire of such well known info. Munky felt bad for Jonathan; as the singer, he was seen as the leader, and therefore the other members could plausibly sit, silent, as he answered in a quiet voice all of those redundant interrogations.

Unless Fieldy tried to steal the show. He did it, in fact, so often that sometimes their manager scheduled interviews without him. Why? He loved to boast. He talked about cruising around in his carzzz (accenting the plural), his little girlzzz, his homies back in Long Beach, his family, his humongous-ass mansion… instead of Korn time, it almost always became Fieldy time.

Yes, most of the questions asked were the same old, same old, and some interviewers couldn’t seem to quite to catch on. Someone from Hit Parader (a magazine Korn somewhat respected) asked, "What were you guys like in high school?" The answers to the question were the complete antithesis of what one would expect from the five coolest rock stars on the planet.

Jon: "Fieldy was a bully."

Fieldy: "Jonathan was a gaywad."

Head: "I was, like, an outcast."

David: "Nobody liked me."

And then, Munky, after careful contemplation: "I was a fuckin’ loser."

Artificial, almost uncomfortable laughter filled the room. Munky had noticed for a long time now how Head had managed to avoid his gaze perfectly all day. Obviously, he had done something. Something Munky wouldn’t like. Munky knew that he just had to wait to find out what it was. He would know soon enough, and so didn’t pry. Besides, they were in a press conference, which was all business; no personal stuff here.

Or so he thought. A reporter from Circus Magazine snapped a blinding photo of Munky and then raised his hand to ask a question. He was a tall, slender man in his mid thirties, the majority of his facial features masked behind a gargantuan camera. "Munky, are you willing to confirm rumors of the recent split-up of you and your long time girlfriend? If so, is there a specific reason why you two are no longer together?"

Already the fucking bastards are all over it, Munky thought with a shudder as his tongue ran over his caramel lips in nervousness. He bit his thin upper lip, wondering when they would find out about Talena and him. He could just see the headlines now: "KoRn Guitarist Rapes Bassist of Kittie"…

He fingered his goatee. It needed a trim. He realized that he must look like a fucking mess. He leaned forward to the microphone and said simply, "Yes. It’s true. No further comment." Then, just as simply as he’d answered the question, he stood up, grabbed his leather jacket from the plastic chair, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out. Head buried his head in his hands as the entire questioning floor went amuck in a blinding flash of camera shots.

No matter how much his manager wanted him to go back out, Munky would not. He retreated to the bowels of the building. He finally found a room named

This tour was taking a toll on all of them. Testing the limits of their patience. Munky knew that he was tipping over the brink of some abysmal hell that, when fallen into, was inescapable. In the silence he had convinced himself that he was some sort of sexual deviant. If there was one band that was against rape or abuse, it was KoRn, and he had gone against his own beliefs and violated some girl. Whether she knew it or not.

Shawna walked in the room as dark thoughts flittered through his head. He had seen her before, walking down the hallways or eating in the cafeteria with Jon. She had been the first to come running to Jon’s aid when on Family Values Jonathan had had panic attacks; on certain occasions, she even spent the night on their tour bus. She had an intimacy with the guys that any psychologist, or even lover, would never. When they cried, when they laughed, she was there. She got drunk with them, played cards with them, brought them back from the edge of suicide with her tender words and caresses. However, she hadn’t, in her mind, gone too far or come too close to any one of them. Many times had she held Jonathan to her breast as he wept like a child, and she would do it on a whim, if the time called for it.

There was something about her touch. The way her blonde curls and fragrant perfume reached them. She seemed to know the right answers all the time, even when she didn’t say anything. She was a goddess.

So this was why Head had been acting fucked up. Thanks a fucking lot, man, he hissed to himself. Just expect me to talk about it and feel all happy-go-lucky again for your comfort. He winced.

She settled next to him on the couch, and could sense the already withering patience of her patient. His hands were shaking, the ashtray beside him choked with cigarette butts. Stubble roughened his face. A wild look lay dormant in his eyes, from a lack of sleep…and a lack of reason.

"Hi, Jimmy. How have you been?" she asked gingerly, naturally.

He wanted to say that he was just fine. Wanted to tell her that he didn’t need help. "Head sent you," he accused, when he realized that he didn’t know how he was. No one had asked him how he’d been in a long time. They just figured that they knew him so goddamned well. Turns out they knew nothing.

"Yes. Head sent me because he’s concerned about you. He says that you’ve been going through a lot lately. If you want me to go, I’ll go, but if you want to talk, I’m here. Anything you tell me now will never leave this room. Understand?" She moved closer to him.

"Well, he’s probably told you everything there is to know, so…"

"He didn’t tell me anything," Shawna soothed, only partially telling the truth. Head had been incoherent for the most part that morning, but what she had caught had made her cry after he left. "And from the looks of things, if he had told me everything he knew, it wouldn’t be the half of it."

Munky looked at her now with deep, sad eyes. "You promise? You won’t even tell Head?"

"Promise. No one."

His sweaty hands had been gripping his tan khakis, but now they smoothed out. She took one of them. That’s when he started talking. And as he talked, parts of his past started coming together, faster and faster, the repressed memories bubbling up beneath his tears. He told her about how rocky his relationship with Kaitlin had been.

Then he told her about the rapes. All that Head knew about them, anyway.

"Why do you think that this has started happening? Why are you getting these memories back now, after all these years? Oh man, it must be so hard." Shawna was leaning against Jimmy, who had lowered his head as he talked shamelessly, honestly. Her voice led him to believe that everything was okay. As every word came out, the weight on his heart lessened. Just a little bit, an inconceivable amount, but it did. He was feeling bad, but better than he had. For once, someone was actually listening to him, hanging on his every word.

He weighed what he wanted to say next carefully. Then, it came spilling out in a torrent of trembling emotion. "Last night was when Kaitlin—you know—when she finally broke up with me. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t believe it. I just was so lonely, it was so sudden, I didn’t know what to do I fucked her—"

"Who?" Shawna interrupted.

"Talena, you know, from Kittie? She’s like fucking sixteen or something. I just couldn’t help it. I knew she was a virgin and all but I—"

"Did you do it because you were lonely? Shocked? Afraid?"

"I don’t know. I was just feeling all these things. I couldn’t take it. I had to take my mind off of it, and she was just so beautiful. I wasn’t thinking."

They were silent for a long time. Then, low, came her voice, "You may have a problem, Jimmy. We’ll have to talk about this in more depth later, about what you do when you feel these kinds of things—I’m not taking her side, but I wonder what Talena is feeling right now. I know that my first time was very special, and I would want at least a bit of closure with the one who shared that experience with me. You have to be careful, Jimmy. What you guys did was important to her, no matter what it meant to you, and it’s essential that you two stay on good terms."

"But how am I going to do that? I can’t have a relationship with her. Obviously."

"You don’t need to. Do what you think is right. Tell her that she has a special place in your heart, but that the age difference is why you can’t keep seeing her. It’ll be hard for her to understand at first, but she’ll be better for it. Jimmy, keep crying. You make these little cute noises when you cry," she said, laughing lightly, as Munky tried to gain his composure.

The tone of their conversation gradually lifted. They talked about Head, about the tour, and finally about the next time that they would see each other, Munky a bit nervous. When she said that it was time for her to leave, she leaned over him, and kissed him lightly on his stubble. He returned the gesture. But before she moved away, he wrapped his arm around her to prolong the embrace. "Don’t go yet. Please." Wet tears moistened her neck. She settled back down onto the couch. His broad chest heaved.

"Jimmy, is there something more?" Patients often waited to reveal their most personal vices at the end of the session. It usually took a little while for a therapist to peel away the layers. But here was Munky’s final layer. She couldn’t see his face; it was buried in her slender shoulder.

"No one ever hugged me—ever held me—when I was a kid. They just fucked me—it’s not fair." Pause as he choked on his words. "When I was nine, he stopped coming to my house, stopped babysitting me.

"But it didn’t stop there; I kept going to him. He would pay me. I got money for messing around with him. I’d do whatever he wanted. It’s how I bought my first guitar. My amp. Everything. Drugs.

"When he moved across town, I rode my bike there. It didn’t stop when I was twelve. It—it stopped when I was seventeen—" Another pause. His voice cracked. "I say twelve because I FUCKING lie." Her hands rubbed his back. This was important for him. "I went there. He became my—lover. It was our little secret. He sometimes let—me do what I wanted—and I—I’m such a liar. I say that I hated it. I did, at first. But I started to— to like it."

He moved away from her, and looked her deeply in the eyes. This time she wiped away his tears. The silence was deafening compared to his hollers and sobs. "You say that you were just now starting to remember the first times. You’ve always known about the later times though, haven’t you?" What a dark secret for someone to keep.

"I’ve always remembered—liking it. I guess I didn’t want to remember how—our relationship—all started," he whispered. "I lie about liking it because people would think I’m gay."

"Are you gay, Jimmy?

"No." Firmly. As if the question was irrelevant.

"Are you sure?" This time it took him quite a while to answer. And even then all he could do was shrug his shoulders. I don’t know. "If I was in that same kind of situation now, I don’t think I would—"

"Do you think about it sometimes? About men?"

He didn’t answer.

"Jimmy?"

"I’m not a fagot, Shawna."

"That’s such an awful word. I mean, I’m straight. I have thought about women. You’re telling me that you don’t think about it at all? Not ever?"

He laughed. "I have a theory that all women are naturally lesbians, so what you said is pretty funny. And no, I don’t think about men. Ever." He was lying.

"But you thought about Hodgkins."

"Well, yeah."

"Was it the money? Is that why you liked it?"

His eyes took on a faraway look. "I don’t know. Yeah, I guess it was the money." She was about to leave it there, but he continued after a pause, "but I also liked the way he knew my body. He just knew what I wanted."

"That’s why a lot of people are gay—or at least partially gay. For that aspect."

"But you gotta believe me. I’m not gay. Or half-gay. Or a quarter-gay."

"If you could be with any man, just once, who would it be?" she asked. "And this is just hypothetical."

"Probably Head, just because he’s everything to me." He smiled weakly, as if uncomfortable with the idea. He forced a laugh. "Look, yeah, I’ve thought about guys. It’s no big deal. I’m fucked like that. I don’t think about them a lot, but I guess, yeah, sometimes. I’d never ever try—" He stopped.

"What?"

"It’s nothing. I’m okay now. I don’t want to be with men. I want to be with women. And it seems that I want them a bit too much lately."

Shawna decided not to press the issue further, having noticed in the band a profoundly high degree of homophobia. She knew that Jon was a closet bisexual, but she could no more tell Munky that than try to make him realize that he was the same. Ever since he was young, Munky had learned to attach sex with pain, with money, and with everything but what it was meant to be attached to: love. Because he had been exposed to homosexuality long before heterosexuality, he had a disposition to homosexual acts. And sexual insecurity. To offset his leniency towards both sexes, he was subconsciously trying, like Jon, to prove himself entirely heterosexual by being as intimate with the opposite sex as possible. She was happy that he was willing to come back to her at a different time. It was a start.

When Munky was once again alone, he picked up his jacket. This day was a long one, yes, and he was rather fatigued. He was questioning himself: was he, in fact, bisexual? Probably not. And if he was, would he tell the others? Could he? How would they react? Would he ever again be with a man? The thought made him shiver nervously, sent a prickle running across the back of his neck. He rolled the concept around in his head as a child would a piece of candy in their mouth, playing with it, remembering the times of his adolescence. He didn’t act gay. He didn’t look gay. And he didn’t get the sudden urge to wear pantyhose.

Yet, maybe he wasn’t entirely straight. He’d have to sleep on it. Think about it. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted the best of both worlds. Shawna had planted a seed in his head. It was growing. The day had been long, yes, but it was far from over. See, he would have to confront Talena. And he would have to be careful. Very, very, careful.

He had a long way to go, but as Munky left that dressing room, he felt more optimistic, albeit a bit more confused, than he had in a long while.