Sex Love and Rock N' Roll Read online

  Sex, Love and Rock n’ Roll

  Scott Mackenzie

  Metal Blonde Books

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Scott Mackenzie

  All rights reserved.

  Kindle edition.

  First published January 2017 by Metal Blonde Books.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Hang Le Designs

  Edited by: Laura Helseth

  Amanda Polito

  Proofreader: Rox Reads Proofing and Editing

  Created with Vellum

  For Bubby

  Preface

  WARNING: This book is erotica and contains scenes of an extremely sexual nature. Readers who are sensitive to reading about BDSM-style situations, dubious consent, drugs, multiple partners and dark sexual acts should NOT read this book.

  This book also contains harsh language. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

  Chapter 1

  Everything about this was wrong; it’s like a drug, an addiction. It starts as a thought, then soon all that matters are the feelings. All of the little problems in life evaporate and I can focus on one thing and only one thing—I needed her for this.

  I’ve always loved this time of day, here, in my home. It doesn’t last long; the sun has to be at a certain angle. The rays of golden light beam across the room from one end to the other. You can see the dust hover in the air, the hardwood floors and the large natural wood frame of the house seem to soak in the warm sunlight. I walked to the middle of the room and it was as if I could feel the warmth of the late summer sun pass through me. It felt good. I was running late but I didn’t care. I didn’t live far from the city, but before I got on my motorcycle and raced to the show, I wanted to take this moment in. This transition from day to night, sometimes makes me feel like a different person entirely.

  This is the only moment that I felt at ease; it didn’t last long. I thought of nothing and I felt nothing. I could hear her in my office, putting her clothes back on. Moments before I’d had her bent over my desk with her skirt hiked up, I had my cock in as deep as it would go so her ass was pushed hard against my body, and as I came inside her everything was right, for a moment. I could still smell what happened moments ago, my cock wet and heavy in my jeans.

  It’s fading away—fuck. She barely had time to get dressed and I could feel that part of me creeping back. I rarely brought a woman home, it just seemed slightly too personal. She seemed lovely and options were limited, so I broke my unwritten rule. Slowly, feelings and thoughts returned; I was human again and I hated it. I considered taking her once more but there are people counting on me. No one is impressed when I am late; it’s bad enough that I don’t bring my own equipment so I can travel light. I like to ride my old motorcycle when I can. Even when we play out-of-town I ride my bike. Today is an easy familiar ride to an old theater in Bonneville we have played many times.

  We are carefree, the three of us. We have been playing together in this band since we were kids. Sometimes fights would happen and we would break-up, but life would get boring fast without the band and we would work things out. We call ourselves B.S.R.—not a great name but Gregg came up with it when we were kids and it stuck; like that tattoo you got when you were a teenager. The acronym stands for Bearskin Rug, thankfully very few people know that is what B.S.R. stands for. Many people assume it represents the three members of the band; that would be nice if it were true, but sadly it is not.

  It amazes me that we sell out the rather large theater every time; our shows have become an event that people seem to want to be a part of. We don’t just play through the same old songs like they’re recorded. Playing with the same two guys your whole life has its advantages. We let things happen rather than force a rehearsed set list, and it makes for a very unique show every time. We have had offers on record contracts but we don’t feel the need to go that way. All of us are self-employed and enjoy what we do. We have made contacts over the years, we play big festivals, and the independent albums sell well enough. Living in a bus and playing every night just isn’t in the cards for us anymore. It’s all about keeping things interesting and honest. Not to mention we all have our addictions; I certainly have mine.

  I stood there with my eyes closed, in my living room breathing in through my nose, then slowly out of my mouth. I opened my eyes to see dusk had set in, the sun no longer shot beams of light through my living room. The moment was gone. The room darkened and the dust in the air disappeared.

  “You’re late again,” she whispered as she walked by me and sat on the bench by the door. Sonya works at a Cigar lounge that I frequent, we had gotten to know each other over the past few weeks. Last night was the first time we had sex; she is great but I knew this was going to be a one-time thing. I know she felt the same way, it was something we needed to get out of our systems.

  I could smell her perfume as she breezed by. Her face was still flushed and her low cut shirt exposed the soft skin of her breasts rising and falling with every breath. I clenched my jaw; I wanted her again. I was getting hard thinking about sliding my cock between her tits. Sonya zipped up her long black boots and led the way out the door. I followed - helmet in hand.

  I got on the bike and fired it up. Now about the bike; she’s an old girl. She is not shiny and new but she has been the most consistent thing in my life and I will never replace her. Any old bike, and most old cars, have a quality I like. It’s like when you first get into a motel room and you can feel the countless people who have been there before. The Metropolis Theater has a similar quality, but more on that later.

  When I was a teenager my girlfriend and I were on a road trip in the country. I saw the bike with a ‘For Sale’ sign on it in front of an old farmhouse. When I sat on it I felt the old stories it would tell if it could, good stories; these old machines don’t always tell good stories but she did. Far from road-worthy, it went in the back of the truck. Over the next year or so I brought her to life, and we were making stories of our own. I have to rev the bike up when I first start it, twisting the throttle gives a throaty scream and the heavy frame vibrates. My companion swung her leg around and draped herself over the bike; I released the clutch the moment she wrapped her arms around me. My street is canopied with hardwood trees and the fallen leaves flew in the air as we raced down the familiar road. I’d missed sound check, but with a few shortcuts we would be at the Metropolis Theater in twenty minutes. Plenty of time.

  Bonneville is my home city and I know it well. When one of my idols described Bonneville he said, “It’s like the ship is sinking and the ocean is on fire.” Less than complimentary but I knew what he meant. It can be a dangerous place; during the day the cobblestone streets and heritage
buildings seemed like a fairy tale, but with night came the deviants—the night people, my people—many of whom would be at the Metropolis Theater right now waiting for the show.

  There was something special about this evening, like the change in air pressure before a storm. My bike was running better than usual, and my friend felt great behind me. She playfully wrapped her legs around me and I responded by opening the throttle and picking up speed. This shortcut required us to take a dirt road that is private property owned by the railway. I try not to do it too often because I know the police will be called and it’s not usually worth the hassle, but my being late for shows had been getting on everyone’s nerves and I just wanted to get there. It’s really too bad the white hats in the rail yard always call the cops because I truly love this route. Bonneville is on the horizon to our right and the road climbs and dips perfectly, at times I felt weightless at the crest of the hills. The bike, my lovely passenger, and I floating together. There is one minor flaw with this route, as its intended purpose is to service the rail yards, naturally there are trains.

  With a lady on the back I wouldn’t usually be so daring, but I felt good this evening, confident, focused. I know this route well, so I was very aware the train tracks we had been riding along side would soon cross our path.

  There was a train rumbling along on our left, the locomotive spitting air, grinding metal, smoking and shaking. A weathered looking engineer was waving and yelling; I didn’t look directly at him but I could see him from the corner of my eye. In my mirror I saw two problems: first, the length of said train. If it had only been a few cars long I could have just slowed way down, let the angry engineer go on his way and then carried on once the train made the crossing. Unfortunately, this train disappeared into the horizon behind us. If I’d let him go ahead, we would be stuck; he may even stop the train, straddling the crossing and it would be game over. Problem number two: the police cruiser with the red and blue flashing lights behind us.

  I had no choice: I had to make that crossing before the train did. I pulled back on the throttle and Sonya squeezed me tight. The front of the train was a few car lengths ahead now and it took all this old bike had to get to the locomotive again. A few twists and turns kept us neck and neck with the head of the beast and my heart began racing. We were close. I could see the crossing. The train blasted its horn, it may have been the loudest thing I have ever heard, our bodies shook, she squeezed tighter still. I could faintly hear the siren from the cop on my tail, it was quiet compared to the ugly beast of a train. The weight difference between a train and a car is the same as a car to a can of Coke, a fact I picked up somewhere.

  My wrist had the throttle all the way back, the engine was screaming. There is a point of no return when a jet is taking off, at this point, the plane must take off; at a certain speed on the runway, the pilot and co-pilot say velocity one and that’s it, even if the plane is on fire, you have to fly or die. My heart could not go faster; I was losing focus. My vision was tunneling; the engineer must have applied the emergency brakes because the sound of metal grinding on metal was deafening. My god we were not going to make it; the engineer laid on the horn and kept it going, my passenger squeezed me harder again, I squeezed the bike with my legs, the three of us were molded together and I said velocity one in my head. The sirens behind us, screaming metal beside us, blasting horns shaking our bones—it all stopped for a moment. We were there, at the crossing. I held my breath and the bike’s wheels left the ground from the lip of the rails. We flew across the tracks, for a moment, time stood still and everything went silent.

  We touched down on the other side.

  I still do not understand how we made it, but we did. The terrible sounds of the locomotive faded away and Sonya let out a delayed scream. She was yelling something but when I turned to look at her she stopped, and we both smiled, our eyes were wide and we were very much alive. I slowed down for the rest of our journey through the industrial landscape.

  The Mercier Bridge was condemned many years ago, but the other bridges into Bonneville were always slow and backed up. You couldn’t get through the barricades with a car but it was easy with a bike. There were a few spots where you needed to negotiate around construction junk, but it wasn’t a big deal. Without question the best view of Bonneville is from the Mercier Bridge at night. Dusk had turned to night and the glow of the city lit the sky.

  Sometimes I wonder how I can love a place so damaged. Bonneville is a city run by thieves, it is survival of the fittest and the weak are left to die. I don’t know what the murder rate is, but it’s not good. There is a kind of desperation here, it seems everyone is hustling for something. The police have become something of a paid service; they can be very effective for the right price. They don’t choose sides; the highest bidder always wins. Nothing is illegal if you can afford it. Sex, it’s everywhere, that might be a part of the problem for me.

  It has been a problem for as long as I can remember. I’ve gained some control over the years, I know what I am, when I feel it creeping in I have my ways of dealing with things. I won’t use the term sex addict, but looking back I can see I was.

  What is right and what is wrong? Sometimes it’s clear, other times the line is less obvious. Take for example the women I have been with over the years—in an elevator, corner of a library, public park, the train—these are all places I have had some kind of intimate encounter with women who were complete strangers. Almost every time it worked out because I am able to see when a woman has the same affliction. These were not party girls or prostitutes, they are normal girls on their way home from work, or from the gym, maybe midday on their lunch break. In almost every case I would bet these women had never done anything like that before and possibly would never do it again. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not hiding in the bushes or lurking in alleys. Like these women I’m a fairly normal guy, I know what’s right and what is wrong.

  Think of all those times you had a brief moment with a stranger, then self-awareness takes over and the both of you break the moment and dart away in different directions. On a train, at a red light, on the beach; it happens all the time. What if you didn’t break the moment? What if you had simply let things progress? You might be surprised; we are just animals after all. I admit that in my younger years there was a learning curve, it took me time to find that line. When the moment comes you have to commit, I would rarely say anything. Maybe just a soft kiss—it can feel like lightning when it’s from a stranger in an elevator. Let it happen. Recently in a park a woman was walking my way on a narrow path. Both of us were trying to avoid one another. We briefly made eye contact and did the classic dance, she went left and so did I. Eventually we found ourselves within that personal bubble that was desperately being avoided. Then it happened; I exhaled, relaxed my face, and just said, “Hi.” I leaned in to kiss her and she met me halfway; just let it happen.

  This is not some sort of bravado. It is just two adults having a private moment that would never be discussed. I know it helps that I’m a good looking guy. I know women find me attractive, but there is more to it than that. If I can make them feel safe they get the message that this is the chance to do that thing they have always thought about. No one will ever know. You can be a dirty little slut, you can fall to your knees with a hand in your wet pussy and shove my cock in your mouth. This is the time in your life you’re going to do this kind of thing, and I’m the guy that’s going to do it with you. Most people will have an experience like this once in their life, my problem is I need it to happen often. I have methods to keep this under control. There is an establishment I go to where we can all be who we need to be, my favorite little house of sin.

  I’m only thirty-three but I know who I am, and I probably want to fuck you.

  My passenger and I made our last twists and turns around the final barrier of the Mercier Bridge. The air seemed to change as we motored into Bonneville. I pulled over next to the entrance of the cigar lounge where Sonya worked. The
motor hummed along and she slowly came in for a kiss, had her hand under my button up shirt, her touch felt good. I didn’t move, with my hands on my hips I sat on my bike and pretended I wasn’t painfully late for the show. Her lips touched mine for a brief moment, then she pulled away and strutted to the door. Before she could turn around, I opened the throttle and let out the clutch and the bike screamed. I wasn’t sure if I would see her again.

  I arrived at the back entrance, killed the engine on my bike and slid off the seat in one motion. The bouncer/light man, Blake, opened the door and gestured me in.

  “Jack,” he said with a nod.

  Walking down the familiar hall I could hear the crowd, I passed a few familiar faces that glanced down at their watches. There was a familiar bass line rattling the hall; they had started without me, those fuckers. “Jack!” I was on the wing of the stage, about to join my mates but Franky halted my progress. Franky was a questionable character who owned the Theater and had become our self-appointed manager.

  “They said if you didn’t make it in time they would play the show without you. Nice of you to finally show up!” Franky shouted.

  What were they thinking? Things would get strange for them if I didn’t show, let’s let them sweat it out, I thought. Franky passed me the wireless mic and motioned for me to walk on-stage. I yelled in his ear, “Tell Blake to fire a spotlight on H17 on my cue!” I took off, knowing I had a couple of minutes to get to the seat I had chosen at random. It was Rob’s idea for the long bass intro, needless to say Rob played bass and he wrote this song called, FuzzFace. With the mic in my back pocket I made my way to seat H17.

  “Jack, darling!” I smiled in reply to a familiar local vamp.

  “What the fuck Willow?” I heard from somewhere close-by.