Date: Fri, 27 Dec 2002 02:43:51 -0800
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: Fender Bender

			      "Fender Bender"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


Fender was stoked and stoned and sledged and dusted and
wasted. Being in short or long, himself. Fevers pearled over his
naked body and made his very nipples laff. For the tall rocker, for
the stone soul picnic that was his wastrel body in the middle of
wasteland stew, they, on him supped, the boys did, and Fender
appended himself part and parcel of the menu of music that was
his muscles gut kicking.

And his lads frolicking round him on the great round rockin' bed,
surging and spirals and stairways leading Fender to themselves,
and Fender grinding his cock against the salty air of sexual
rampancy that was little more than a Gulliver in the land of giants,
all tangy and savory, and incensed air. All likelihood's linked to
the go courses that he took every sweaty night with flicks of
ocean toweled off him by his lads of the fourth course meal.

And Fender there in his hotel room, all of the gills of him opened,
all of the amps of his fossilized fire water and words of insect
buzzing and stinging little flesh pots just so, all his steals and
thefts from artists who had something in their soul besides the
next easy as cake success, shot up with speed, like God intended.
Artists who were in short or long, far superior to him.
Somewhere on the ladder that they did not intend to climb, and so
looking down dizzily, fell screaming and kicking. The ones who
made it there at all.

As Fender felt this and sucked that and was fucked here and yon,
and all of the blazes of nocturnal emissions were the folk with him
and in that candle in the handle lit auditorium and football stadium
and coliseum and fields of wonder, and he was nothing but a
gyroscope which had gone so terribly wrong and had been so
terribly right at the same time.

For the boys, which Fender preferred, were pouring out
themselves to him, and he, like a huge pump, like a huge hose,
was sucking in their life and their sex and their little sturdy asses
under his fingers fake red raw from those guitar strings that he
tumbled them over time and again, not knowing the first skillet
about what composed something more than the skeleton rip offs
of what had come before.

Things these little duodenums never knew came before, for all
they knew was Fender was hot and Fender could blow all night
and rock all day and the essence of him was that he was A STAR,
for nobody knew how he had gotten that way and nobody cared.

For he was Billboard's darling and nothing would topple him until
another Fender wanna be started ripping off Fender's rip offs, but
now was Fender who dared perform to masses of hundreds and
sometimes thousands, by being buck naked, and hard and horny
and pushing his indefatigable crotch audience-ward. As the
crowds cheered and stripped for him and pushed their own young
crotches stage-ward.

And it was all a sexual rush. A sexual bonanza that opened pores
the boys didn't know they had had before and perhaps had not,
but a riff, but an off key salute to someone or other back in
prehistoric times circa 1972 was a rush to instant blood loss to
the brain as the liquid nitro ran to the penises, his and theirs, and
edged the arpeggio up a certain class scale that made everything
like dicks pouring out of every single pore of his and their bodies.

For it was all the liquid crimson rush, and it was the high that
poppers worked on them, handed out at the door or the gate, or
the rush of field hands popping up the neon and the psychedelic
schisms that would link hands with old golden feelers that made
the audiences dancy and legerdemain verbs coming out of them as
though their bodies had developed Braille underpinnings.

And they needed, they waited for Fender to stroke them, to pick
the prize fifteen for the night of sexuality that was the fourth of
July extras that dazed into the smoking lights and the hurt eyes
brightness of the klieg lights shooting them off in to a crowd of
Madrid and Spanish febrilities that lost a country, that took a
world of a toke and then inhaled and the world blew huge and
crashed deeply into the throat harsh and acrid and into the lungs
and there to hold in clouds of mayhem and sharpest razor blades
that could be formulated. And then expelled again, blood cuts
again.

To be a country unknown, to be a universe uncharted, to be in the
entourage with Fender, to know the man, to feel his powerful
indulgent grasping greedy fingers on them and their naked bodies,
to have him stroke them hard and deep and hurtful, to know that
the man with his eyes closed knew what it was to be young, knew
the cat gut scream and claw scratch fever of it.

Knew what it was to be scared and alone and at odds with
everyone, to be a nodule that no one got at the least excitement
out of unless the person in question on the opposite side of the
Quaalude was himself fifteen or thereabouts and wasted and
blitzed as they, and being thereabouts meaning no where at all.

But Fender. Put life in him put life in them.

And he put music in his veins of his shaft that boys went onto and
saw each other onto and tickled the balls of the main man my man
Fender. Hear the sweets and taste the colors of the loud lewd
CDs of his work playing full yonking blast; his work that broke
the backs of the ones who wrote it and wrote it some more, but
did not have to take time off to endorse those huge grungy
mungy checks for millions of smackers that Fender did.

Other scribes and boys who laved him and loved him and washed
him and bathed him and sat on all the various parts of his machine
tooled, if you so prefer, hot humpy sleek still body that was
forever salvation, made that happen in little vanilla pop Teen Beat
styles. In the only religion worth a damn.

And coming to his hotel room, the crowd, all naked, all illegal, all
scandalized, but money does the talking, as horror struck stands
and trussed up, watches; and the boycheering, the amplification of
his name shouted all the decibels loud and free and knife wounds
in the psyches of those who knew what he was doing but could
do nothing about it, so remained mute, who knew his being a
leech did not stop only with boy groupies, as naked feet ran
across rich carpeting, and to the elevator to be whisked up to the
penthouse suite sweet sweat ready for action.

All the cattle songs and all the Bar T singalongs, he could have
stolen these if this had been the forties or the fifties, and he could
have turned Roy Rogers on his head and have become Roy
spelled backwards out of the ass end of the horse. And no one
would have known. For old Fender, his magic was timeless ye
lord.

Because Fender had something that was nothing, and the ripples
that went along his legs as two boys licked between them, and he
stroked his toke of two incher in his mouth and with his fingers
and he played them badly, he played them clunkily. He played
them like he played his purloined music, from the loin, from the
depth of his recessed rungs of sexuality and not for nothing was
he laughingly referred to, behind his back, from time to time, but
never by his fans, as the Spelunker's Delight, because one boy
one time fell in and never hit bottom yet, to this very day, drive a
Mack truck through it you could, and it keeps on traveling.

Because Fender was wrecks of tattoos and Fender was boys'
butts he craved so much, and he could get slobberingly droolingly
drunk and they would not see him as a quaint series of cliches,
but an enigma. As someone who took a world and upended it to
the canted left or right just a bit, and made everything clown
house fun, made the creases in his stomach so lickable and so
penis rubbable that anyone would have been out of their clothes
the minute he gave any impromptu harem the word, go fer it
dude.

The world of Spain was Fender, for this week at least, then on to
Me-he-co, and the world of Spain became the world in which he
was now with these olive skinned boys who did not know a word
of English anymore than he did their world of Spanish.

All he knew were they were gorgeously olive colored and their
bold puppy dog breathtaking bodies seemed made of crushed
velvet, and their penises were as sweet as the winds up a culvert
where Fender always lived inside himself, somewhere
caticornered to his intestines.

Sitting there deep inside his body. Watching the world watch him.
Watching the world play Fender Says, and buying tickets and
CDs and T shirts and Fender condoms and Fender's own brand of
Fender guitars, hang the copyright infringements. Some people
just had a damn right to copy whatever and whoever they pleased
and that's all there was to it. All of it netting a nice hunk of
change, making him a millionaire more times over than most TV
evangelists.

He took comfort in that irony.

The olive boys were all over Fender and some pink boys who had
followed from the USofA.

And they were making it with each other and they were making it
with a giant scab that was the sole reason they could attain such a
morbid curiously saddled with sad topplings high they felt with
the man who provided the jewels of Opar that of course were his
own and theirs were always lacking, always toking up to try to
find his approval. That could never be found. For he was their
everything as the old song went, what the hell--Fender wrote that
too--and they were the flanges, the extensions, the poke outs for
him and from him, and the posters of him that plastered their
bedroom walls. In the dark night of time.

That was any night without Fender and his magical calves and his
magical lambs that crawled all over those magical calves, their
nerves like his bursting almost. Their dreams lathered with his
sperm and his spunk and his sweat and their bodies squirming like
seal pups over and around him and feeling him feeling them while
they felt each other and it was a huge mud pile of childhood
effluvia

It was expensive and it was costly and it was consuming emotions
and some would make it and some would not. To His next venue.
To His next hotel room. To His next bed. While others were
chattel laid beside the roadway, never more to be heard from
again no how no where.

He was starlet. He was stud. He was muscular. He was thin and
wan. He was Dad and big brother and he was little kid brother
always getting into crap and getting in trouble while little boys
grown into giants had to get him off the griddle with the hotcakes
one more time.

All was salvation and all was negation, all was taking the prizes
won and the Grammy awards he blitzed time after time, all of it
was the bed round that he made sure every hotel installed just for
him and his compadres. All laughs and all the brain cells trying to
fry for one good high. For one good high and all. Silver cakes and
jack off smokes, and tilting into a kind of connubial bliss that is
the death of something inching up like silverfish in dreams that
spark and spoke and wheel around, and get their nipples sucked,
the dreamers do. By the man himself. Or by the boy who has just
sucked the nipples of the MAN HISOWNDAMNSELF

All flighty and floaty and hot and sticky and the moon outside the
steamy windows easy and lustful, easy and white and bright
balloon of bone.

All the suggestions and all the boys ass whipped and the  boys
who got on their knees and let Fender watch them have at it, little
caverns that would hopefully shortly before the night was through
entertain the wang of the dervish of all the aerobics that were dust
furred. And alcohol soaked. And weed induced. And coughs like
the flint of sex was growing fine and full inside their stomachs and
it would grow a sex tree out of their mouths, the all of which
would fit into Fender's massive mighty armor of lotions and herbs
and spices and spells and tropical exotic dreams of malady read as
suggestion alone.

All they had to do was make up their own minds, and all they had
to do was keep a false god done up like paper maiche, done up
like an El Morte, day of death, and pretend the puppet master
was not the puppet himself, like they all were puppets, there in
the deep crimson lines of fatigue even the drug numb bangs
would not keep out.

The bodies getting tired and sluggish, no matter the brains slam
ram electric storm lightning bolts from Olympus itself. All stars
and all the boys with their crimson pain bodies in the midst of
their night time apogees. Where anything sexual is nothing in the
raw but razor blade mountains made to climb onto and push
upward on, on their naked bleedy elbows and knees. While
Fender wielded the guitar, the skin guitar was one thing, but the
electric guitar was another, atonal, tedious, not an ounce of
worthwhile sound, amateur night in the pizza restaurant, but some
how both had made it all possible.

 And dangled future, gwangs, and twangs, and electric Kool Aid
ice blue, in front of them, for they were too young to know was
based irrefutably in past.

On their stomachs, the boys were, as they began to feel Fender
assembling them, and rearranging them and using them as conjure
sticks. Lost tribes of ancients and the play huts of bodies became
clay huts of a distant anciently shared past, so far ago as to be
amenable to first run now.

Amenable to what could pass for the moment of ginger snap
glory that was resurrected into second fervor or body piling,
naked boy on naked boy, in pyramid power awe and scope, and
Fender climbing on top of them. Till they all fell into a giggle pile
of limbs and faces and chests and dicks of varying hardness and
butts of varying girlishness or boyishness and Fender hopping in a
bed made of boys.

All of it enhanced by the words of the world that were like paper
chains round the wrists of Fender, the bender of all time, and the
pills of rainbow colors, all hail PFL:AG, long may it bore
everyone to tears, that they tossed in their mouths on the way to
the great brain works gearing up for one last push and one last
high before the bones collapsed for good and all,  the boys not
knowing the mission of the nanocomputers in these pills and not
caring any at all, for any high at all was a high Atilla.

That boys ensconced in the act of coming fifteen or more times in
a night with this human dynamo, such a high was to die for fer
sure.

Not knowing or caring the none to bright jackass in their midst,
for star dust was star dusted and star was STAR WHOEVER
THE RIGHT PEOPLE SAID WAS A STAR AND YO MAMA
IS SHAKIN' TOO BY DAMNNNNN.

All Q and all talentless and all grungy sex and all the mania of
slipping slippy hands on slippy flesh and two boys fucking Fender
and another boy trying to get throbbo member in Fender's left ear
socket, all the stats, all the struts, all the stables of boys that he
had had for millions of sex partners and who knows maybe one or
two million or more too

All intelligenced and all distillated and all stoked to the guttifoils
with sexual and bottles and capsules and lost and limbered and
falling through all the feathers that are this earth tonight, and a
man who had led them the way.

A man who had found the little children who needed something
more than a Miltown every afternoon after lunch at school, just to
jerk them along and joke them into private little dreamy happys
and knew they had to have the sound, the Sound, the music in
their bones. Like he had the music in his bones, when in actuality
all the music he had in his bones was powdered fear that someone
would catch him at, not screwing and screwing over his fans, not
using these boys and them losing them, who cares?, but
something else, something unnamable when he was awake and at
himself completely.

Which was almost never. Mostly though he kept it stowed deep
until such nights as this..

Something etched around his soul, what he still had remaining,
when the acid etched into him and through him and from the
inside out to the him of the outside, and these boys who collected
skin and hair and sperm samples in little glassine cases he always
provided them for an extra five dollars each, did not see the fear
snake coiled in him at times like these,  fearing being skinned alive
when he would be found out as a thief and graverobber, and he
would no longer be blissed into extreme erect-itude.

Instead, cornered and gamboled with no more and his scam cover
blown, because he was as electric as one of Lovecraft's eldritch
gods who had bent the arthritic Old Ones around his waist and
legs and stomach and thought that mere osmosis would let the
levers of what they had once into him.

As he cheated on life as he cheated on a test, and someday no
matter everyone in the world was told lay off him, cause God
decreed he can rip off what he likes; someday someone would
face him not with the point of a boycock, but at the point of a 38.

At that point of delivery that was nothing even close to boys
rushing the stage and pushing him and his guitar over and the
electric sparks go swishing and swinging and bluing everyone in
the place it seemed, almost, as the boys, not caring, couldn't wait
to get to his oddments. To his sweetmeats and devoured him up a
storm and the boys who could not make it in the crowd rush
crush diddled each other and offered it all up as a sacrificial gift of
lambs to THE GREAT GOD FENDER LONG MAY HE ROCK.

And as Fender and the boys lay not in lachrymose daze.

As Fender and the boys felt the groove glued to them and bodily
fluids sapping their once former homes, fluids now stuck to them
and the others and it, and Fender, there was this little nascent
bloom of noxious flower in Fender's gut.

In his intestines where he hid out and observed the world go
rocketing by but now half as fast as he rocketed, and this little
bailiwick of caution, if fear was too strong a word, was a capsule
that whispered in all the hallucinogenic colors he could bite off
and chew and then more and more electric currents and levels of
them that he could not begin to devour, and that fell blazingly
fired down his naked chest,  that whispered your time may be up
real soon.

His hair matted, hair free, or buzz cut or Mohawked, whatever;
his body a chameleon.

He could be anyone you wanted, not because he did not have
talent one, but because he was like a horoscope, like psychology,
like sociology, like fortune telling, like psychic readings; it's all
the same crap; it fits all one way or another, and everybody could
and did read whatever they wanted into him.

And thus he became what they saw, without any effort or most
slim of attempts on his part, and now, he drifted into sleep,
knowing he would have steel band nightmares tonight. He never
knew when the really bad ones would come.

As his boys pleased him all night long, as they pleased his body,
having no idea how at that moment, how he warred with himself
in a certain specific part of his brain that they could not touch,
that was forever betrothed to something that occurred under an
ether of a ghostly flick of a flap of shirttail known heretofore as
consciousness and once upon a time long ago as conscience; not
connected with the boys he shook off next morning like a dog
does fleas, but something more instrumental, using appropriate
terminology.

That cast the runes that whispered what if they've run out, you
hack, what if they've run out of material and you can't cadge
anymore, even when you fool yourself into thinking it's all out of
the deepest brine of your most original noodle? And then where
will you be when those ungrateful bastards go and split to the
seven winds, man, on you and you have to rely on yourself  in the
music and in the sex too?  How damn dare they be so self
centered and such users of great talent like himself!

It would mean he have to rely on himself doing some of it, and
not having it all being done to and for him. No more all handed to
you on the unlined paper of their quivery druggy hands.

And then--crash of symbols--then it's only you there that is
getting its dick chewed, and you and it are objects, as you and
guitar are objects, that mesh very badly, but still wired hot and
hard together.

And then the boys want to sex you and you don't know how like
you don't know how to play however clunkily with whatever
pedestrian death warmed over half hearted who gives a damn?
interpretation of someone else's material, but all you do is
produce nothing but the barest framework of the love, and the
kids screaming all to hell and back again from the very beginning
of the concert, so they don't hear a note you play, a word you
warble anyway, so what's the diff?

But as Fender drifted deep into his pit where even the most
knowledgeable and heartiest of spelunkers could never climb
down and find him, as Fender entered into tonight's purgatory:---

--there was the creepy sharp flint edged shadow image of a
broken guitar, blazing white lights, and a bent over tired old man
made up of faces, none of which were ever his, that are melting
and running floor-ward, and they are like little waterfalls curling
over the lip of the stage or over the green green grass, and Fender
standing bent over like he's about to receive a spinal tap.

And his guitar falling in pieces at his feet. Then Fender falling in
pieces.  Then the kids would stop screaming in sexual glee, and
would scream for different reasons, and in time, in time there
would be laughter, derision, in that scream, and they would know
he had stolen music and words and life and boys and sex and
souls and dreams and pain and joys and drugs and nightmares and
daymares and childhood and adulthood and the birth canal and
the grave at the end of things--

They--these boys making sex with each other and the sleeping
man seeming so content, so buzzed to the world--maybe these
very ones would rush the stage then and would take him apart,
and would have little pieces of him in the crush of each other's
twisting turning caked sweat sex nodes bodies, and he would be
nothing but little pieces of a huge part that he was never of to
begin with. He didn't even take the time to bother to understand
the songs he stole. What worked worked after all. That was up to
his agent.

And maybe somehow these little pieces of soul of song of talent
of imagination rung so dry by this corn husk of a man, pedaled so
simply and with such dullness, counting one two three then losing
count and counting one two three again--marching the rhythm
into a chain gang and destroying and pillaging it as he did these
boys all these years--would exact their vengeance on him. Since
most of their creators could not do it for themselves.

And maybe those final boys he would ever come in contact with
again, could be the same boys here and now, and each time, the
same boys over and again, never aging, in stasis, this entire
decade of his flush success, since he was a rerun, then why could
not they be?--and they sucked him and kneaded him and they lay
on him and kissed his  lips to their sweet ones

--and the dreams swirled sickly onward, as the boys drifted to nod
land, themselves, holding on tight, wishing, wishing, wishing this
night need never end, and how oh please god how much they
aped to ache to aspire to the Gulliver god known as Fender--

MAY HE ALWAYS PRAY BE PRAISED.