I know more about Dave’s jerking off than he probably wants anybody to. For somebody obsessed with privacy, he’s not particularly discrete about it. I know frequency, length, intensity. I know sounds.

Dave’s a smart boy. He should be able to figure out that hey, thin walls equal good acoustics. Apparently not. I don’t know whether to complain or be grateful.

I think this is a case of straight boy under pressure. I say think because frankly I have no idea. I suppose this is just protocol. Considering that half of Alanis’s touring band was as gay as a tree full of parakeets, I really haven’t had much practice with straight touring masturbation rules before this crash course.

He does this daily, but not like clockwork or anything. It varies, sometimes with no warning at all. Always private, of course, for all it’s not particularly discrete. Dave at least waits until it seems all clear. He’s not an asshole about it, just not obsessive about keeping it behind locked doors. For all my bitching, if I wanted to ignore it I could. That’s what headphones are for.

So I’m a dick, or at least thinking with one. So sue me. It’s fucking hot, and my libido made me its bitch a long time ago.

Anyway. Normally, he does it in the bunk across the way, when he knows I’m either out cold or sacked out on the couch rotting my brain. Occasionally, though, occasionally I end up pinned in the bunk, listening to him out there on the couch, when he thinks I’m asleep. Times like these, I learn to voyeur again.

That’s probably not a verb. Oh fucking well. Dave’s the one spawned from English teachers, not me.

I put down the headphones I was about to put on and sit up, carefully. Any loud creaks and he’ll stop. I edge over to the wall closest to the lounge, lean as near to that curtain as I can without falling out and straight on to my head.

Yeah. Yeah, there it is again. Short breath, ragged, almost like a sigh. Just the edge of it. Then the rasp of a zipper, careful slow, careful. Can’t let anybody know, after all. Never mind the stalker bandmate listening so close he can almost hear a heartbeat.

I feel bad about this, sometimes. Not bad enough to stop. It’s only fucking me over right now, and I’m not really high on my own priority list. Dave never has to know; Dave never will know. Funny how familiar that thought process sounds. I’m not addicted, I can stop anytime I want. That just doesn’t happen to be now.

Excuses are my friend.

The nice thing about not wearing underwear is that it makes this a hell of a lot easier. Just the long slow slide of hand under shorts. Been a while since I did this, too long, long enough that I feel keyed up. Irritable. It’s bad enough that the slide of my own hand on hipbone, for fuck’s sake, gets a shiver. I need to get laid more often.

Ha. Right.

Outside, close, I can hear the hiss of hand on skin. I close my eyes and let my mind go, back into those places I don’t normally let it wander. What does he do? How does he like it? Fast, hard, that jolting secret kind that’d make him hiss air through his teeth and leave little half-circle nailmarks in the arm of the couch for me to run my finger over later, after? Slow, the lazy drag of hand on skin, the kind where I can almost see him arch?

I sound like a stalker. Probably because I am. Me, an aural voyeur?

Not usually. Only when it’s all I can get, everything I shouldn’t be doing. I was never great with ‘do not enter’ or ‘trespassers shot’. Besides, I figure it’s better than sliding out of the bunk, dropping to my knees in front of him and sucking him off without a word.

Out there, Dave’s breath catches, like he shuddered. Like somebody just dragged a tongue along the underside of his cock, real slow.

I want to go out there. I want to do it so bad I can taste it, metal-salt, feel the weight on my tongue. I even know the words I’d use to get my way. Something about boarding schools and male bonding. I’m no fag, really, Dave; just close your eyes and let me do this.

I bite the back of my wrist so hard my eyes water and the want eases. Not coincidentally, it muffles the whimper. Pleading myself. C’mon, what could it hurt?

Other than everything that matters?

Concentrate. I missed a minute there, amid the Deep Gay Thoughts. He’s breathing a little less steady now. The couch creaks as he settles in, shifts, stays restless. Hips arched, probably, strained against his hand. Has he touched yet, or is he waiting, dragging it out? Not normal, yeah, but nobody said Dave was normal. Normal is boring. Besides, this is my brain, damn it. So he’s been dragging it out, stretching on, hot and hard and with that manic ‘I’m Dave Grohl, line to worship starts at the bathroom’ grin on his face.

I hear him blow out a breath, sharp and hard and sudden, echoed by the faint thump of the back of his head bouncing off the back of the couch. He sighs, long and a little shaky. Couch creaks as he moves again, long thighs falling apart, and I don’t want to think about what I’d give up to be kneeling between them. Just once.

At the end of the day? It wouldn’t be enough, not for right now, not until the shine on this… this whatever the fuck this is wears off. And that is the only thing to keep my ass on this side of the curtain. I suck, yeah, but I’m not fucking stupid.

Anyway. Back to this, if only to get keyed down enough to stop snapping and twitching from every sidelong look. I shift my grip, get a better hold of my cock, and nearly have to bite through my wrist on the first stroke to keep from making noise. Ow. Damn. Too long since…

I breathe with him, best as I can hear, slow and easy until my head spins. I want to pant, but it’d be too easy to hear. But hey, that’s me, trying to go too fast and too hard and too much even when even I know it’s a really bad idea.

Closer, now. Dave makes a low noise, like a groan, breath coming faster. I match him, stroking to each breath, trying not to move more than just my hand. Still, still, quiet. Have to-

I want it to be his wrist against my mouth, his hand against on my cock. I want…

Dave hisses, and my hips jerk, and after a few bright seconds it’s over. I lean against the wall, trying not to breathe too loud, one hand against my mouth and the other… well, sticky. Ugh. Chicks have it easy.

Maybe if I wasn’t a fucking stalker, I wouldn’t have this problem.

Yeah, maybe.

I grab the shaving kit I keep in here for just these occasions and pull out a Kleenex. My dick gives a few cursory twitches, but mostly ignores me. I wipe off my hand, feeling like hell, then consider the bite mark on my wrist.

Out there, Dave sighs again, then turns on the TV. Muffled voices in the dark. I’d normally wander out, but not tonight. This close to a mid-tour break, we’re all sick of each other. I’m kind of sick of myself, to be honest.

The bite marks look red, raw. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Wish everything was that easy.
****
End.