where the writers are
SOUND MAN (part 14)

I turn to see the two groupie strippers and their girlfriend. She’s gorgeous, my little head say, as my big head nods hello.

“Sorry darlin’, I was miles away, wasn’t I.”

I affect what I think of as my winning cheeky grin and puppy dog eyes. Miki had once told me that the only thing puppy dog about that particular expression was that I looked not unlike a constipated toy poodle trying to squeeze out a log.

“Luke.” I say, holding out my hand.

“Chantelle,” she says, her expression softening a tad. I take her hand and gently steered it toward my lips, my eyes locked on hers. At the last second, I turn her hand over and gently kissed the back of my own hand. Everyone, including Chantelle, cracks up and I reckon my shag after the gig is well on.

“You’re cute.” She says.

“Yeah, I know.”

The fact that she manages to repeat this statement about fifteen times in the next half hour should have alerted me to the fact that, as opposed to complimenting me, she was more likely trying to convince herself. Just goes to show that it’s self-love that’s the blind one then, eh.

I hare back to the hotel after the second set and book an illicit, non-Annette approved room. I smile as I lie on the bed thinking how good I am to our sound man, tonight he’ll get a room to himself. Unless he gets lucky as well.

And no the cab she promised to take to join me at the hotel after the gig never arrives and so I lie on my arm trying to make it go numb enough so the hand job will at least feel like someone else is doing it. But all that frotting just gets the blood flowing again, so even that doesn’t work. Honestly, I think as I fall asleep, it’s enough to make you write a song about the size of the bleeding bed!