*** Disclaimer: Although the members of the punk rock band "fascist force 42" ARE mostly queer, this is a work of fiction. That said, it's a really steamy work of fiction and under 18s should either go cyber someone IRC or grow some hair on their chest before continuing. I am, and always have been a punk, so if you wanna call what I've written cliched or cashing in on an image, save it fer Oprah. Steal this story or any characters from it and yer soul better belong to Pacman cause yer ass belongs to me. Comments questions and croutons to webtrash@unpunk.com. Oh yeah, a bit of lust roughness in the bit where they root, so if ur a light-hearted pansy, I hear they're having a sale at Macy's.
"when the kids, are united
they will never, be divided."
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Wrink threw his entire body forward, attacking the toms like a wild animal, running thru 16th and 32nd fills as thousands of watts of pure music and energy fueled the seething, sweating crowd of punks, skinheads, mods and bootgirls. Shaking his fringe from his eyes, he concentrated on the final roll as executed the unrehearsed ending with military precision. This was what music was all about. This was what life was all about.
Wrink was a member of the punk rock band fascist force 42, a 4-piece rockabilly outfit from rural Melbourne, Australia. They had traveled 15,000 miles to Raleigh, North Carolina for the OI and StreetPunk Fest 2000, and this was their second last night. Stumbling to his feet, he kicked the bass drum aside and joined his buddies at the front of the stage, grinning like an idiot, feeling Mono, the bassist, pant like a dog in the desert. The crowd roared, pounded, and chanted, a blur of mohawks and chains and leather, screaming "FORCE!!! FORCE!!! FORCE!!!"
The parcans dimmed and dropped out and the boys, laughing and united, jumped from the stage into the backstage area, the trailer door being swung open for them.
Not Rebecca and snatchnation were on the couches in the trailer, and hooted as Wrink, Mono, Shanus and Good Measure threw themselves down and demanded their beer.
"You guys were fuckin' wild!" Jamie cried out, her pink hair spiked up. "Yeah, good set, I reckon." Wrink replied. "Looks like you aussie boys know how to play."
Thirteen heads turned, and realised the voice from behind them was one of the foldback engineers, Cain. White King to White King 6.
"Had ya doubts did ya boy?" Good Measure grinned, longneck in hand. "Don't call me boy. And after last night, I was wonderin' yeh." Shanus groaned and held his head in his hands. The night before, the combination of beer and one too many pills had got to his head, causing him to pull the band way out of time for a good 10 minutes.
"Anyways, come down and meet your adoring fans... The spit's all cooked and ready to eat. Anyone coming?" Wrink looked him over. About six foot one, cropped hair with a two inch fringe. Real lean, tight body, Sex Pistols shirt and a pair of the steeliest, clearest eyes he'd ever seen. "Or were you just going to stare at me all night?" Shanus looked up from his hands. "Well, ya cant blame the guy. You're pretty fuckable, mate." A silence descended on the trailer. "What?" Daniel from Not Rebecca broke the silence. "Your gay?" Wrink looked at Shanus, who looked at Good Measure, who glanced back to Jamie who was looking at Mono. They cracked up. "Yeh dude, we all fuck guys. We're poo punchers, fudge packers, pillow biters. Cept Mono, he likes a bit of the old tuna sandwich on the side." Cain cleared his throat loudly and stomped down out of the trailer, chain clinking with him. "30-hole cherry red shitkickers", Wrink thought, and felt something stir inside his pants. He could have eaten those boots for breakfast, no sauce, no salt, no sweat. He banged down out of the trailer and after him.
.2.
The spit was undercooked and threatened to cause more food poisoning than the stale week-old bread they were offering, so Wrink and Cain headed down to the Bar outside of the festival grounds for a couple of Heinekens.
"You know it's pretty shit they dont have Heineken at the 'fest eh?" Cain said, eyes on the road as they crunched through the gravel of the street that led out of Trinity Park. "Right on, bro. Heiny's my favorite beer!" Cain regarded the punk out of the corner of his eye. 5'7, red mohawk, stubble, and a blue/black ink right down his right bicep. He suddenly regretted wearing stretch-denim jeans to the festival that day.
"-- and then Mono -- Cain, cain mate! You listening?"
Cain snapped out of his daze.
"Oh sorry mate, was a million miles away. Nice ink by the way." "This? Naw this is nothing. Check this out!"
Wrink pulled up his sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a tattoo covering his abs. It was getting dark, so Cain stepped closer to get a close look, not noticing that Wrink hadnt stopped walking yet. A couple of stars later, Wrink was on the ground, Cain on top of him, hands on his abs.
"Cain Cain Cain, you wouldn''t be trying to seduce me would you?" Wrink playfully cooed, ignoring the pain in the back of his head. "Well I've always had a thing for guys with mohawks" Cain replied, calling his bluff.
The two rolled over into high grass beside the road, Wrink's eyes now burning down into Cain's. "I suggest you fucking kiss me before I get the wrong idea." "I suggest you fucking make me."
Wrink snarled, grabbing Cain's wrists and mashing his lips against Cains. Cain let his mouth slip open and soul-kissed Wrink, his eyes closing as the smell of beer and sweat and raw testosterone intoxicated him, drinking the scent of the young drummer, more powerful than any ale or spirit. They rolled over again so Cain was on top, his steel-grey eyes glittering in the fading light, the sound of thousands of feral punks in the distance, fueling their passion. Cain licked down his sweaty chest, sucking hard on Wrinks nipples, his hands sliding up his ripped jeans in his crotch.
Wrink moaned. "You sure know how to treat a boy, mate." "You aint seen nothin' yet, homeboy" Cain sniggered, and the punks laughed, hands exploring eachothers bodies. "Lets get out of these clothes." "ya reckon it's safe?" Wrink looked around and realised the sun had called it a day. "We're at a punkfest bro. The only risk is being sprung by a couple of Gucci-fags going for a Chardonnay Sundowner. Now take your fucking clothes off before I take them off for you!"
Cain decided to call Wrink's bluff one more time. Black King to White King 2.
"make me, fucker."
Wrink grinned, evilly, then pulled a long curved object out of his belt. The steadily rising moon bounced off the blade's edge as he reached down with the knife and cut deftly away at Cain's jeans.
"What the FUCK do you think yer fuckin ---" His voice was cut off by Wrink's pierced tongue, holding him at bay while the shreds of his jeans were scattered by the wind. Check mate. "No underwear, huh?" Wrink sneered, kicking off his own jeans over his boots. Bending down, Cain gasped and arched his lower back as his cock was drawn heavily into Wrink's mouth, who hungrily pumped up and down on his six inches of uncut cock, rubbing his own.
"Oh fuck yeah man, dont stop, suck my cock, oh wrink, oh yeah..." Wrink pulled off and looked up. "No time for games, I'm ready to blow man. Top, bottom or vers bro?" Cain looked at him, head cocked, then realised what he was being asked, and laughed abruptly.
"I wouldnt know. Never taken it up the ass." Wrink's eyebrow arched. "Surely you jest Sir." "No, seriously." "Well, umm-- I dont know if--" "Shut up and stick yer dick in my butt already:" Wrink grinned and leaned over, pressing his cock against Cain's sweaty hole, sweat dripping down his face onto Cain's lips. Cain trembled in a mixture of cold and nerves. He had known this guy for all of 2 days, and was about to lose his virginity to him. No love, no curtain shopping, just two punkdudes locked in a coupling of mad, drugfucked lust. He winced and sucked in his breath as he felt Wrink enter him, and waited for him to stop.
Wrink looked down, hands cradling his face and neck, knowing if he pulled out now, he would hurt him more. He let it sit, then began to fuck him in slow, gentle strokes.
"That OK?" "Mmmm." "Mmm good or Mmm bad?" "Mmm good." "Good." "Mmmm."
Wrink began to fuck him a little deeper, a little faster, a little harder, his chest and abs pumping as he looked down at the object of his passion, a boy of barely 18 years, who he had been wanting since the moment he got off that derelict wooden stage. He was drawn back to the moment by a gasp from Cain. Looking down, he caught a blast of come down his cheek and jaw and Cain, lost in a world of heat, sexual energy and flesh, orgasmed in a blazing display of youthful lust.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck man, oh fuck - yeahhhhh...." Wrink pulled out and jerked his cock furiously, but knew the beer was holding him back. He let his wang go and hold Cain in his arms, kissing him madly. Then they lay in the cold breeze, the afterglow of their fling holding them together closely. Somewhere in the distance, someone was covering a Not Rebecca song. Wrink smiled and mouthed the words down to his newfound buddy
"And all those fucked up things I do
I wanted you to know
They're just for you."
"Dude, what am I gonna do about pants?"
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(C) 2000 Christoph Sol, webtrash@unpunk.com Not Rebecca and it's material appear courtesy of Johann's Face Records, Addison, IL.