2 #2
All I can remember is every day my dick was inside another woman, pounding her hard. We got hotels and my life had become just touring on the road and heavy nightlife.
The more money we made, the more the world opened up, and it wasn't just the women and the fame, it was the chemistry.
We were young, we were rich, and we were invincible, so we tried everything.
We started with the basics, but eventually, the standard high wasn't enough to keep up with the pace of our lives. That’s when I found it.
Its first name was “Neon Sight,” some designer synthetic that felt like it was brewed in a lab specifically for gods.
The first time I took it, the world didn't just change; it expanded.
I could see in a spectrum that wasn't possible for humans.
The air had a texture, a vibrating violet hue that moved with my breath.
It made the booze taste sweeter, like liquid gold and honey, and the sex...
it turned every touch into an electrical surge that felt like it was resetting my nervous system.
I remember the first time I had to perform on it.
We were mid-tour, somewhere in a stadium with thousands of people screaming into the humid night air.
I felt the peak hit just as I sat behind the kit.
I looked at my drumsticks and they were trailing lines of light.
When I hit that first snare, the sound didn't just go into my ears; it vibrated through my marrow.
I wasn't just playing the music.
I was the music.
It was this heavenly, ethereal feeling, like the stage had detached from the crust of the Earth and we were floating in some divine pocket of the universe.
I played faster than I ever had in my life.
My hands were moving at a speed that felt automated, perfect, and tireless.
I felt like I could hear every heartbeat in the crowd.
When Malcolm and Shawn looked back at me, their eyes wide and pupils blown, I just grinned.
We were locked in. People were screaming my name, a roar of "KING!
KING! KING!" that felt like a physical pulse against my skin. It was unreal.
The set lasted three hours straight. By the time we finished, the energy in that place was combustible.
It was a wave of pure worship. Girls were ripping off their shirts, pressing themselves against the barricades, screaming their lungs out just for a glance.
We weren't just musicians; we were Gods.
I remember standing up at the very front of the stage, a drumstick held high in each hand like scepters, reaching for the sky.
I was laughing, my lungs burning, breathing a million miles per minute.
Sweat was gleaming down my black hair, dripping onto the stage.
It was funny, honestly, because I had no idea what state I was in or even what city I was in. I was absolutely crazy off that drug.
I didn't see the reality until the videos started surfacing later. There I was, standing right at the edge of the stage, screaming and smiling at everyone. People started making these sexy memes about me, but it wasn't because I had my shirt off and I was sweating and girls thought I was hot.
But because I had a fucking boner.
That clip of me happy as a free bird completely unaware of my meat print went so viral.
The comments were hilarious:
“Bro was drumming with three sticks this whole time.”
“He's going to take someone's eye out with that.”
“Dude almost decapitated the crowd.”
“Now I feel insignificant.”
“It's always the drummers.”
Followed by my favorite; the comments that the girls would leave:
“Damn daddy impale me.”
“I want him to beat me to death with his dick.”
“He's as long as he's tall.”
“Guess what they say about tall guys is true.”
“Guy must be a fucking pdf cuz why is there a baby arm in his pants?”
“He needs a giraffe to suck him off.”
My friends and I had a laugh.
I wasn't worried about the video because… to be honest I was proud. I was vain. People loved me, and I loved the glory.
Most of my off-time was spent in New York. I’d bought three properties by then, but the guys and I mostly stayed together in the city. Every night was a reckless adventure.
A different girl every time I blinked.
Exotic cars. I was hanging out with celebrities; people I never thought would even notice a kid from Ashford.
They knew my name.
The King.
Buck.
KB.
Whatever they wanted to call me, as long as they were calling for me.
But that was my life and I loved it.
The thing is I never looked back at home.
My mom called so did Uncle Daryl. Suddenly, now that I was famous, they wanted to pretend they'd been my biggest supporters, or like my mom was there for me my whole life.
Guess who had interviews and told people shit about how she fostered my musical talent from a young age.
She didn't tell them how she used to beat the shit out of me for accidentally going into her room, when she was fucking her men friends in there, or how she blew smoke in my face when I told her I was hungry only to tell me,
“Eat smoke. I just fucking fed you. You think we have money growing on fucking trees here? How much more do you want from me? You want my skin? You want to eat that too? I'm doing the best I can. Find something!!!”
Where was her love and her kindness when one of her guy friends in particular, that came to visit her, always, for some reason, wanted to spend more time with me? Touching my hair or asking me to lift my shirt so he could see my abs, telling me I had a great physique for my age and shit.
She didn't tell anyone any of that. Of course she didn't.
Apparently, one of the times my deadbeat dad came back around, the only thing my mom told me was that my father came to see me. I told her I didn't know who the fuck she was talking about, 'cause last time I checked, I didn't have a father.
That was that.
I didn't want to come back home.
I didn't belong there anymore.
???