Groupies.

In one day, the good ones literally "worked it" up the hierarchy. They fucked a ticket salesman to get a chance to blow a security guard. After brushing their teeth, they screwed Korn’s caterer (and/or bus driver, random roadie, etc., etc., so on and so forth…). If they were lucky, they would 69 the guitar tech (you know, the one who’s anal about "Sponge Bob"). From there, they ended up fucking all of the guitar tech’s friends: just as a random sexual favor.

Seems like a pretty hectic schedule for a young, charming lady, right? No siree. These chicks had prepared for this for months. They were ready, man. Obsessed groupies are snipers in G-Strings. Once the primary people had been blown, fucked, whipped, and/or otherwise sexually satisfied, the weak had been weeded out. Only the Special Forces Groupies could fight for the Korn guys’ attention, and they usually lusted after Jonathan. He was single, hot, and horny. But just because Jonathan was the only single one didn’t mean that the groupies just tried to get with him.

Korn was one of the rare bands where the singer wasn’t always the most popular member. Many Korn fans were unsure of their favorite picks. Jonathan was a slut; he probably fucked two out of every three groupies he met that he liked. Which added up to a lot of pussy, considering that he had been on that binge for a couple years.

Munky, however, knowing what he knew about Jon, snuck a sideways glance at him as they walked beside each other in the dark. Right after the show. They were backstage, and heading into the reception area, where they would do meet-and-greets with those obsessed sex-divas…and the few who were lucky enough to have gotten backstage passes. The groupies stroked Munky’s ego in a good way—always had—until lately.

He had only fucked one groupie. He was going to keep it that way. The others, as far as he knew, hadn’t at all. They were prone to watching them strip, and were subject to the occasional lap dance, of course. But none of them had laid a groupie. And by "them", I mean David, Fieldy, and Head.

David was very strategic about his desires. If David wanted to see a naked chick, he did it right: he went to a strip club. Gave her a twenty. Accepted when she asked if he wanted a private lap dance. Then, they disappeared into a back room together. When he returned, David was mighty ruffled and horny, but worn for the better. He saw, but never touched. He had more self-control than Munky, or Jon, for that matter. David only went to the strip club when he was absolutely desperate. Usually, he felt bad for the strippers: couldn’t stand the thought of them demeaning themselves by taking their clothes off for money.

That was usually. When David needed some tits in his face, his perspective did a 360.

He was hypocritical like that.

Sure enough, in a back room, there were about thirty women and ten men, waiting eagerly for signatures. Munky had met half the people there when he looked around and saw that Head hadn’t shown up. Uncharacteristically, Head had seemed detached during their performance. Nervous; uptight, even, and it made Munky worry. Usually, Head was head-banging, bent over

(Munky stop that)

his braids whipping from side to side, breaking a total sweat. Not tonight. Tonight, he had stood up straight, looking only at his guitar and not at the audience, sprawled like ants before him.

Munky told the others that he would be back and left the room. He searched for five minutes, asking the roadies if they knew where Head was. None of them did. So Munky chose an unlikely place: backstage. Just behind the curtain, Head sat on one of the amps. All by himself. In the pitch darkness. Munky wasn’t aware that he had found Head until he revealed himself. "Who’s there?"

"Me," Munky replied. Silence.

"Man, everything is so fucked up right now," Head said suddenly. Munky jumped when he realized how close Head actually was. He was immediately behind him.

"Fucked-up" was an understatement. They were all on the brink of hell.

"You miss her, don’t you?" Munky asked Head, referring to his wife, Rebekkah.

He sighed. "Yes, I do. A lot. I’m going home to her this weekend. Just for a day or two. I need to see her. And my baby."

"Yeah." Munky didn’t really know what to say. There was tension between them. Just a twinge of nervousness, of apprehension, to Head’s voice. A quiver.

"That must be hard."

"My baby is growing up without me." Head’s voice crawled into a whine. Suddenly, an angry sob tore itself from him. "Before I know it she’s gonna be grown up—and she’s gonna hate me. I’m gonna be fucking gone her entire life. My dad did that to me, and I still hate his fucking guts for it—just like she’s going to hate me—"

"Brian, I know how you feel. My father didn’t love me, either. But you love Jen. Adore her," Munky soothed. They were approaching a lit hallway.

Head suddenly spun around. Faced the darkness. The twists of his brown braids trembled, dipping into the ebony below Head’s shoulders. Munky stopped short, too. He wrapped an arm around Head. Head turned away from him. There was something he was afraid Munky would see.

Feeling the tenseness of his shoulders underneath his arm, Munky knew. He could tell from the queasiness in his stance, the rigid way that one of Head’s knees bent in front of the other; Head’s fists palmed the front of his shirt. Munky saw it all, and he didn’t bother to play stupid. He just embraced Head anyway. Head shrunk away so that their stomachs were a safe distance apart. He tried to explain, but Munky massaged his lower back, and purred softly, "S’okay, man. I understand."

Head eventually eased up. Cautiously, he let Munky hold him. The conspicuous bulge in his pants poked into Munky’s lower abdomen.

Munky was too busy fighting himself to comfort Head as he sobbed. This was his best friend. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. That hardness, that protrusion, was enticing him. The soft caresses of Head’s twisted braids in contrast to his rough, stubble-ridden face, the sweet odor of his cologne diluted by sweat…

Munky knew why Head was turned on. And it wasn’t because of him. Being on tour for a long time did that to a person. Munky had a favorite saying: "Sex is like air: It’s not important until you’re not getting any." It was so true. While they were home, they weren’t plagued with this same obsession, this same need…but now, on tour, away from those they loved, deprived and lonely, their bodies were bursting at the seams with sexual energy. It bubbled just beneath the surface, craving release.

And distant thoughts at this point were enough to stimulate. Being onstage did it as well. The high they got from the pounding music easily turned them on. It was "testosterone" music, and a wave of the hormone more often than not warmed their groins as they created one immense sonic boom.

As he thought about this, and cradled Head, just on the edge of darkness, he was jealous. Head wasn’t attracted to him; he was aroused because of his wife. Or maybe even just because of the stupid show. He despised himself for being envious, but by now what he felt was beyond his control. The more he denied it, the truer it became: Munky wanted a man. It was a guilty, dirty pleasure. He didn’t want to believe that he did. Believing would be accepting the truth.

Head adored his wife; if he knew of Munky’s sexual confusion, Head would never ever touch him again. That would be horrible, because they had made such a habit of it lately. Caresses, tickles, noogies, long embraces, massages. They even cuddled—when they were both really drunk. For the past two days Munky had greeted the day halfway on top of Head on the couch, one leg sprawled over one of his, his head on Head’s chest. In other words, heaven. Good thing Head wasn’t an early bird like Munky.

He had been lucky thus far. Head would hate him if Munky ever consummated those desires. Ever tried to experiment. Ever told him of his rediscovered secret pleasures.

Why? Because there was enough tension already. Boys are brought up to reject homosexual thoughts of any sort, never mind acting upon them. This had tormented Jon as well as Munky as they had grown up. Because he was extremely introverted and secretive, Munky had avoided most of the ridicule Jon had fallen victim to. Munky’s relationship with Hodgkins had, however, affected his relationship with other boys. Definitely. When he had met Head, though, it had been different. He had never had any real desire for Head. Since they met back in middle school, Munky had probably had a couple dreams about him, but that’s it.

Would Munky ever be able to reenact those things with any man? He might be able to entertain the thought quite easily, but would he really enjoy himself? Would he relish the submission, as he had so many times when he was a child? Would it be different now?

Yes or no, he would never find out with Head. Head was beyond his reach; he was so opposed to fagots and sodomy that, now, it scared Munky. They were too good of friends, with too genuine of a relationship. Even touching him the wrong way could change things forever.

There was no way that Munky was going to fuck up what they had.

They hugged for several minutes. Munky swore that Head brushed his lips against Munky’s neck once, but it was so faint that he couldn’t be sure. All the same, it excited him—almost to the point of no return. Munky simply couldn’t have that.

It was nearly impossible though.

They stopped hugging when David saw them. They had been gone for awhile. He had been sent to get them. He froze dead in his tracks. "You guys?"

They immediately separated. Head quickly wiped his eyes. Munky wiped his sweaty hands on the sides of his corset. Tonight had been the first time in a while that he had worn it…he had received an astounding applause. It made him feel good; feel sexy. Though he would never admit it.

"Dare I ask why you two are so affectionate?" David and his perfect fucking grammar.

"We were just talking." Good thing Head had said it, because he said it with authentic nonchalance. To him, that hug hadn’t been sexual; to Munky, it had been.

In the locker room, Jonathan undressed with the rest of the band, as he had been doing for the past week. He helped Munky untie his corset, and as he pulled it off Munky tried to look composed. Not entertaining any ideas of any sort.

This was crazy.

Munky wasn’t a flaming fag.

Then why was he feeling this way, so profoundly? He had expected the magazines to prove that he wasn’t gay, but they only served to confuse him more. He looked at them every night, and quite suddenly preferred them over the best Penthouse. His favorite centerfold, Tom, was there for him every night after the show, and Jimmy looked at him and jerked himself off guiltily. He was tired, because the night before he had waited until the others left the living room. Even after Head left to go to bed. Head, after his late-night shower, had checked in with him to see if he wanted to drink some more. If Munky said yes, he knew there would be friendly touching, knew that they would probably get so drunk that they would fall asleep together. But he refused Head tonight. In the dark, with a beer and some Vaseline, he had roamed the Internet for gay stories. Munky loved good porn, but a great story was even better. The stories he found kept him up all night.

He was obsessed.

Was he crazy?

He undressed quickly, as a girl would among a bunch of good-looking guys. Nobody seemed to notice his self-consciousness. There wasn’t really any reason for him to be, after all these years, and none of the others expected it. Once undressed, he entered a kind of community shower (the only showering utility at the New Jersey Coliseum). For a passing moment, he wondered if Jonathan had ever checked him out.

Probably not. Or if he had, he would never admit it. He had gay porn, though. That Munky could affirm to for sure. But making a move on Jon would be too risky. Could break up the band.

But what if Jon was exactly like Munky? What if he, too, wanted to experiment? What if all Jon needed was a little nudge in the right direction??…

He forced himself to shut out those thoughts and concentrate on getting out of that shower as soon as he could.

One by one, they all joined him. All of them. Naked. As he had seen many times before. Habitually, they went to their own little private showerhead, spaced as far away from each other as would suffice. David, the most confident and indifferent of the group, turned on a showerhead next to Munky. Head was on the other side of Munky, using a soapy lotion to wash the sweat off of himself. Munky fought not to look at them, but he caught some glances edgewise of their tall, lean bodies. He began to tremble.

(But he isn’t gay. No way. This is all Shawna’s fault. Fucking with his mind. Head shrinker. He isn’t, no way…he’s not like that anymore…

Jon brought two groupies with him. Into the shower. The only sound besides the pounding water against the tile were the three of them, giggling, hooting, moaning, and laughing as they lathered each other up. Jon had brought girls in with them a million times. Fieldy seemed to enjoy it as he showered, but he kept his distance. He, too, had a wife of his own. Head was too busy drowning in his own despair to pay attention, and David was trying to ignore the tender glances of the two girls.

(Still remembers how it feels)

Munky was happy that the girls were there. It would explain something if he got aroused, or if he happened to glance in David’s direction more than usual. But…

(DAVID/HEAD I’ll show you how it feels)

He wasn’t gay. Couldn’t be.

Though decidedly not gay, he was still aware of the possible danger of this situation, so he took long, deep breaths, and quickly washed his body…but not so fast that he caught their attention. One of the times that he looked over at David, he was washing the back of his neck, leaning his head back into the spray of the water. It was such a sensual gesture; his back arched, all the weight on one of his muscular legs as the other one stood slightly bent. A muscular ass, one large hand on his chest, the other moving down the back of his neck…

(Oh my god, David, I want you…let me…show you…please)

"Munky?"

Munky leaped back. His surprised cry echoed off the walls. Suddenly, all eyes were on him. Trying to just look at his face. Head was the first to resume washing. Munky was grateful. Head’s long, gray face didn’t hold much interest in the present.

Munky turned around to see Jon, with the two chicks. He was just asking for some shampoo for his dreadlocks, but it had scared the fuck out of him. To see that he could be snuck up upon so easily, that he could so easily have someone behind him while he was naked, was a scary thought Munky didn’t want to think about.

Another pang of sorrow resonated through him when he found himself looking at Jon, although there were two very fine naked women standing to either side of him. But damn, Jon looked good. He was tall and slender, his wet dreadlocks dripping water onto his chest. Munky tried not to look below his waist. And succeeded. He quickly gave Jon his shampoo. One of the girls, as Jon went back to his showerhead with a blonde, hesitated a moment. She was a Mexican beauty, her complexion caramel and her long hair sleeked back. Munky had resumed washing. She placed a soft hand onto his back. He felt her fingernails slightly dig into his skin. He whipped his head around.

For a moment he felt a wave of heat in his body when he saw how beautiful she was, how slender, but the intensity of the notion faded quickly. She said softly, "I heard you broke up with your girlfriend. How sad."

Her tone was so fake. "Don’t pretend to care," he snapped.

She was swayed for a moment, but only a moment. She moved her body closer, pressed up against him as she slid between him and the white tile wall. She fit easily. Her pelvis an inch from his, her long slender legs spread before him. "I care about how you feel. I can make you better."

He absorbed her body with his eyes; knew that Head peeked guiltily. This was Munky’s chance to prove to himself that he was straight. She might be able to rid him of these thoughts, these ideas, these foreign and disgusting desires. If she could make him forget, it would be enough. It would mean he had put everything—his childhood, those magazines, the questions— all behind him. It would prove that he still enjoyed women as his one and only.

Fat chance. But it made sense to him right then.

So, he leaned forward and kissed her. He did like it. She was very sensual. Their tongues intertwined, her plush lips occasionally sucking on his thin bottom lip. Their mouths mingled for about half a minute, her hands caressing his torso, his waist, and his slender abdomen, until finally her finger traced agonizing ellipses around the insides of his thighs. When she squeezed him, he bit back a moan. Their kiss ended when she started rubbing. He pressed his forehead on the tile above one of her shoulders as blood flushed his face. Her chin rested on his other shoulder.

He couldn’t believe that he was doing this. Couldn’t believe that he was letting her do this. Even as he winced and told her not to stop, he knew that he should. Despite the tension building in his body, the blood rushing through his veins, the breath never coming fast enough to provide fuel for his shaking body, his wandering hands, he knew that this was wrong. Being intimate with someone in front of his best friends was just crossing the line. He turned his head. David was watching from the corner of his eye. And he was having a slight problem. That problem caught Munky’s attention; made him catch his breath.

Munky didn’t notice Head leave.

As the girl moved her head so that she could lick Munky’s chest, his torso, and finally what she had been rubbing, David’s problem got bigger.

Munky was thinking about David. Even as a girl’s tongue explored his body, all he could think about was another man. He imagined that it was David between him and the wall, David who was manipulating him so tenderly. And worst of all, he wished that he could take it upon himself to make David’s problem go away with caramel kisses.

He couldn’t stand it anymore, for in his heart, he knew the absolute truth. David left the shower, embarrassed. Munky did, too. He pulled away from the girl’s imploring mouth, apologized profusely, and left. His conscious thought was a cloud of dense yellow fog. He snatched a towel from a shelf, and heaved a heavy sigh as he buried his face in it. He squeezed the towel for all it was worth as anger welled up inside him.

He needed to go get drunk. Go out on the town.

He would be by himself for one night. Alone.

For the first time, he finally understood the weight of the simple question that had always alluded him:

All my life, who am I?