Searching, searching, searching.

Just when Munky thought that he was done searching, there was more to search for. He had to reach deeper inside himself everyday, had to pull up things that made him feel as if he were scraping shit off the crum-infested walls of a septic tank.

All this new shit, this profound confusion, fucked with his head. And as he searched deeper, he started thinking things (and feeling things, for that matter), that he hadn’t remembered ever truly feeling.

Munky wasn’t just sifting through emotions as he rummaged through Jon’s stuff carefully in his secluded locker room. He was searching for something that everyone else in the band believed was very real. A kind of myth among him, Fieldy, David, and Head, if you will. David had claimed to see Jon with it, but that was the only proof they had.

His heart thudded heavily in his chest. He put aside a heavy box—what he was looking for wasn’t in there, he had checked—and discreetly sliced open a new box with a Swiss army knife. He began taking things out of it. Carefully. He couldn’t get caught by anyone. Not Jon, especially. Or Head. Fieldy. Or David.

He’d rather die than be caught with what he was looking for.

This was the ultimate test for Munky, the final battle between himself and the questions that his searching had wrought upon him. The answers to the questions in Shawna’s eyes as he opened up to her about his unfortunate childhood, of his affair with a man who was at the time more than twice his age. And as he explored the possibilities, he became curious. What was happening was something Shawna called "surfacing" emotions. According to her, he had buried all this shit deep down, so much so that it couldn’t affect him—‘til now. She had warned him that this new stage in coping might be shocking, but that these feelings were natural, and that he should try to accept them. He was doing his best. At the same time, however, he wanted to be sure that this was all true. That this was real, and not just some passing notion. He had to know that what he was feeling wasn’t something Shawna convinced him to feel. If that makes any sense.

Shawna was definitely right about one thing: he was feeling very different.

His movements were tender as he sliced open the duct tape of the last box. Around him hanging in portable closets were all of Jon’s clothes: everything from his Tommy Lee Short Shorts and his kilt to his phat-ass body-length trench coat. In the corner was his mic, an iron maiden with nipples from hell and a body to kill for, her eyes sleeked back into the microphone.

And, at the bottom of the last box. Finally. what he was looking for. Heart thudding. Hands shaking. Take them out, he instructed himself. And he did. Two issues. The other four…would stay. He couldn’t even think as he stuffed the magazines into his bag, and zipped it up with a trembling hand. His plan was to take the gay porn back to his cubby, to hide it underneath his sheets until later that night, when he would look at them. If he threw up, he wasn’t gay. If he wasn’t affected at all, then he was probably still straight. But there was a third possibility, a possibility Munky couldn’t fathom…

As soon as he entered the tour bus, he made a change of plans. David was sitting on the couch in his boxers watching "Sponge Bob Square Pants" with the guitar tech. "Dude!" David said, calling to Munky as he stiffly entered the bus. "Pantera’s on Sponge Bob! Can you believe it?"

Munky knew that David had a plausible excuse for deriving so much pleasure from Sponge Bob. He watched it because his little boy loved it. It made him laugh. Whenever David watched the show, he imagined his little son, in front of the television, the big foolish smile plastered across his face…

It connected them somehow.

"That’s cool."

"What’cha doin’?" David asked.

"Shhh!" cried the guitar tech in frustration. He genuinely loved the show. Genuinely. "No talking during Sponge Bob!"

Munky stood in the kitchenette, trying to ignore David’s sleek body, his toned physique. Tried not to notice what the absorbed guitar tech hadn’t: the little fold in David’s boxers that revealed, from where Munky stood, a little bit of David’s—

"Huh?"

It was driving Munky crazy. And not in a bad way.

Houston, we have a problem.

"I asked you what you were doing."

Munky realized that he was staring at David’s boxers when David followed his gaze and quickly adjusted so that he wasn’t flashing Sponge Bob (or Munky) anymore.

Munky licked the sweat puddling above the crest of his upper lip, grating his bottom teeth against his skin. He forced a weak smile after. He could feel the blood pumping hard through his veins…oh no, shit, goddammit… Houston suddenly had an even bigger problem.

Literally.

(Why’s this happening to me??)

"I—uh—I just came back from a session with Shawna."

David nodded. "So, you ok?"

"Yeah."

"Munky, you sure?"

David got up. To walk towards him. Something that Munky wanted but didn’t want at the same time. His crotch was growing at a fantastic rate. He turned around, to make a break for the hallway, but before he could, a strong hand rested on his shoulder. It almost made him melt. Made him want to turn around, to press against him, to kiss his stubble-ravaged face, and then completely surrender to him, to lean over the table and feel David’s tight body on top of him. Right there. Right now.

This couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

"Look! I’m fine, alright?!"

Hand off the shoulder. "You know, if you ever wanna talk, I’m here." David sounded hurt. Munky didn’t want to hurt David (of course), so he thanked him sincerely and made a beeline to the bathroom.

He was in there for a pretty long time. The latter of the three reactions occurred as he flipped through the magazines, not much to his surprise. The overwhelming shame he felt as he perused them with a hidden eagerness confounded him to the point of tears, and when he was done, he was thoroughly turned on.

Instead of doing something about it, he climbed into the shower, cuddled into a corner, head in his hands, and wished he was dead.

Because he would rather be dead than be what he was turning into.

Again.