Becoming Cliché
Author’s Note: This story is a work of fiction, and just one girl’s fantasy. The characters are fictitious and not intended to represent any living person. All characters are eighteen or older. The author does not condone any violent activity, in any way. This story contains awful, immoral characters. Awful, immoral things happen to them. Topics included are forced/non-consensual sex, public sex, substance abuse, kidnapping, manipulation, among other things. If the reader is not comfortable with these topics, please read no further.
A quick aside about consent: informed, enthusiastic consent should always be given for any sexual interaction! This book forgoes all of that, in the name of scratching a very dark and particular itch. This book is merely fantasy, the ramblings of someone with a few wires crossed. I implore you, be safe, be kind, and allow fiction to stay just that; words on a page. This story contains extremely explicit situations. Read at your own discretion.
***
Am I happy?
No, I suppose not. I had a lot of good things going for me; decent job, friends, reasonably good looks, and as healthy as could be expected of a 22-year old with a penchant for partying. All of this didn’t really make me happy though. No, something was missing, and I had dedicated every waking hour to figuring out just what that something was.
I had tried it all; alcohol, drugs, random sex, bungee jumping, all of the standard thrill-seeker activities. My current and longest-standing form of self-destruction was getting high on some mystery powder or other, and throwing my slim and fragile body into the middle of the pit at punk shows. Usually wearing outfits that accentuated all of my better features; so basically just a bralette and booty shorts with fishnet stockings. I was very popular at my local music venues.
I even went so far as to drastically overhaul my appearance every few months. New tattoos, hair color, piercings, none of it helped. I was bored. I needed a goal, something to chase. Even if I never caught it, at least it would give me something to do.
I decided to chase a rock star.
Given the level of interest that I received from guys (and girls, as well as assorted others) these days, I felt sure that I could get anyone if I really put my mind to it. Tall-ish, bustier than was usually expected for a girl my height, and with tattoos from fingers to toes. I had been told that I was easy on the eyes on more than one occasion, and I decided I would put my looks to good use.
I know I know, how original. Girl gets bored, centers her life and identity about some gaunt, androgynous icon of capitalistic wealth and music industry marketing. But I figured I had tried all of the other clichés, why not see where this one took me? Besides, I really liked music. Like really liked music. I listened to music 24/7. I was always hungrily looking for new music, since I would burn myself out on almost everything that I listened to. It was a problem, to be honest.
Something about howling guitars, driving basslines, and serially unhappy lead singers crooning about how hard it is being rich and famous really did it for me. Ironically, I had grown up in the local punk scene, so it was an adjustment for me once I started listening to more approachable stuff. Most of what I listened to in years past was music from bands that seemed purposefully unsuccessful, as if that were something to strive for. Starving artists do make the best music, after all.
But if I was going to chase down a celebrity, it might as well be one that was rich. I started working my way through assorted mainstream music voraciously, and actually found that I liked a decent amount of it. So much for being an iconoclast.
The problem was, all the shows that I went to of more popular artists just felt so bland to me. After sticking to violent underground shows, the gently swaying crowds holding their phones in the air as they recorded videos they’d never watch was a bit uninteresting. If no one was trying to kick my teeth in, or rip out a handful of my neon-pink hair, I just wasn’t having a good time. So I started looking for other ways to have fun.
I wondered if that’s what led to the so-called “rockstar” lifestyle; the fans were just too boring to be around without spicing up the rest of your life. Sadly, it seemed like this was a fading ideal. The more I researched the band members of new groups I liked, the less possible it seemed to find someone worthy of my obsession. Until I heard the single “Powder Girl” from a punk-adjacent artist who went by the overly-pretentious moniker “Nothing Pit.” Clearly, someone I could be friends with.
His real name was Caleb Inscoe, and I decided that I wanted to meet him and make him like me. His music was actually really good, for someone on a major label. I shook my head. Who was I to call other people pretentious when I still thought that way? His music was really good, and he was really hot.
I obviously wasn’t the only one who thought that way; his social media pages were all stuffed to bursting with thirsty comments. For whatever reason, his angular face, greasy hair, and dead eyes drove a lot of folks simply feral, myself included. The way that he belted out his vocals was miserable and just slightly off-key, except for the oddly gentle verse here and there. I was hooked.
His stage presence was as bipolar as his vocal style. Sometimes violently energetic, sometimes dark and haunted, always unpredictable. He clearly had issues with social interactions, and possibly designer drugs as well, since he always seemed standoffish and abrasive when on stage. This of course only made him more attractive to me, since I couldn’t imagine being with someone who wasn’t as negative as I was.
Unfortunately, Nothing Pit was based out of a city on the other side of the country, which I took as a challenge. It had been years since he played anywhere near me, but with the success of his new album, he had a nationwide tour planned, and I intended to go to as many of the shows as I could.
There were a few shows scheduled at assorted venues near me, and I decided to focus my attention on the one in town. It was still a month or two out, which was good because the tickets were incredibly expensive. Thankfully, I had just finished a big programming gig and had some money and time to burn.
As the date for the concert drew closer, I decided that I needed to get a backstage pass. I wasn’t generally one for things like this, since it felt like a waste of time and money for all involved, but it might be a chance to meet Caleb in person. His online presence was sparse, and seemingly run by PR folks of some type. I wanted the real him, or as real as I could get from attending one of his shows.
Thankfully, I knew a lot of folks from the punk scene that also had connections with the wider music industry. Some of my best friends all worked at a local radio station, where they fought the losing battle of playing actually good music without getting fined left and right. They were all very close, and some of the few people that had known me before I went through my gender transition.
Did I mention I was trans? Well, I’m trans. There. I mentioned it. It felt pretty punk rock to me, carving out a new person from an old one. And something that I embraced wholeheartedly.
Back to the radio station. The current captain of that particular sinking ship went by a surprisingly lame DJ name of “DJ Moonrocks.” He had picked it, naturally, as an homage to his love of various mind-altering substances. His real name was Richard, and he was an adorable loser.
While listening to the latest slop on his daily afternoon radio segment, I smiled as Rich plated Nothing Pit’s new single. Apparently even underground anarchists were on board with my current obsession. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad.
Laying in the cot that I had stuffed in the corner of my studio apartment, I reached lazily for my phone. DJ Dumbass was giving away backstage passes to the upcoming show. Rich had always had a soft spot for me, especially now that I was curvy and dressed like a pissed off mall goth. He was a good guy.
“Rich! Any chance you have a spare ticket to the NP show?”
I purposefully avoided asking about a backstage pass, better to have him bring it up and think that it was his idea. I set my phone down on the bed next to me. I knew that he would take a while to respond, he never looked at his phone when he was on air. What a true professional.
A couple hours later, he replied.
“Heyyy Aspen! Haven’t heard from you in a minute. I don’t have tickets for this one, just backstage passes. Dunno if I can spare one though, this guy’s pretty popular right now.”
I pouted at the screen. Why was he making this difficult?
“Yeah that’s fair, his stuff is super catchy and angry enough for me. Could you spare one if maybe I sent you a picture of your favorite boobs?”
Rich and I had always had a bit of a flirty relationship, even before I had transitioned. Not quite to the point of messing around or anything, but he seemed to enjoy the spicy pictures I would send him every now and again. With this motivation, he replied immediately.
“You’re so wild, Aspen. You know I love your boobs, but can’t piss off the boss. Sorry.”
Well. I suppose that was fair, his boss hated him and the whole crew that worked at the station. Something about “accidentally” playing uncensored versions of thrash metal songs repeatedly. I was sure they would make up someday.
“Fine fine. Wanna grab a beer then?”
Giving up for the time being, I knew that I could persuade him in person. Especially with a beer or five in his system.
I showed up at the local hole in the wall bar to see Rich already halfway into his first beer. He lived a block or two away, and always beat me there. He took advantage of this by starting a tab in my name and ordering us each a beer, a habit that I thought was amusing. The poor guy didn’t make shit working at the radio station, so I figured it was fine.
Rich was wearing his normal outfit, a threadbare flannel and jeans, and of course combat boots that were more scrap leather than anything else at this point. He waved at me, clearly fighting the urge to drop his gaze to my low cut top.
I had decided to wear a band shirt from Nothing Pit I had just bought, just to drive my point home. Naturally, I had rubbed it in the alley behind my apartment and carved it up with a pair of scissors before deciding that it was fashionable enough for me. The effect was very noticeable, my thrifted lingerie very visible underneath the top.
My beer was sitting on the bar next to him, untouched and inviting. I grabbed it with one dainty, heavily tattooed hand, fixing him with a stare as I took my first sip. A stare that screamed “I’ll suck your dick in the bathroom if you give me a backstage pass.” You know the one.
“Subtle, as always. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
I blinked at him innocently, licking the beer foam off of my lips. I had probably just fucked up my hastily applied black lipstick, but that just added to the effect. Nothing wrong with being messy.
“What am I doing?”
I responded flirtatiously, cocking my head and dropping my eyes to his studded leather belt. He shook his head and laughed, turning back to the bartender.
“Another beer for me, and a shot for this one. Little seductress needs to catch up. Start a tab for me, would ya?”
I laughed at that. I must have looked especially hot if DJ Mooncakes’s broke ass was buying me a round. I suppose that that was a compliment.
We drank for a while more, the bar filling up with a motley assortment of regulars. It was an extremely seedy and unreliable group, but they made the shithole bar feel like home.
Finally, after we had drunk just enough cheap beer for me to embrace my severe lack of social tact, I made my move. Leaning in close to Rich’s ear, I spoke loud enough that he could hear me above the crowd.
“I really think it would be fun to go backstage at the Nothing Pit show.. That guy is such a dreamboat!” Rich laughed at this, but before he could interject I continued my breathy proposition. “I kinda think that I wanna suck his dick, and if I gotta suck your dick to get there, I’m down for that.”
Leaning back, I beamed at my friend. He rolled his eyes, but I could tell his drunken brain was weighing the possibility of pissing off his boss, with getting sloppy head from yours truly. As expected, Rich’s horny side won out over his cautious side. He slugged the last of his beer, nodded at mine, then yelled at the bartender to close out our tabs. I smiled into my beer. Horny always wins.
