The Wolf’s been calling every night. I sit and wait for him every day, all day, just barely focusing enough to get through work till I can get home to my phone. Sometimes when times are hard for The Wolf I wire money to him in Richmond for his dope, or his kid, or his dope. Some nights The Wolf tells me that I am beautiful and that he misses me, and I talk to him about wanting his huge cock in my tight pussy until he explodes and shakes on the other line. We spend every night together in our apartments; phones in hand. I spend every day fantasizing that it could all be real. Then finally a month later his band (Alabama Thunderpussy) rolls into Brooklyn and I am poised and ready to soak him in.
When I walk to the trailer I see him standing there scummed out in a denim jacket with patches, tight jeans, long golden hair, and his baseball cap pulled down over his dark eyes. He sees me and runs over, and I melt into his arms and inhale deeply. He smells sweet and salty, like patchouli and dope sweat. His eyes are pinned and he has that crackle in his voice that tells me he started his pill party early. He brought me a methadone and an oxycontin but things got rough in the van and he ate my oxycontin. He then pulls out a box of gifts for me. The box contains a portion of his old cassette collection, a little coin with the Gemini twins logo stamped on it, some vinyl, a photo of him rocking out topless, and a bronze Alabama Thunderpussy belt buckle. The Gemini coin means the most to me as it unites us in our dual insanity. The Wolf wants me to know that I’m special. He is sweating and needs to rest, so we crawl up into the bleachers inside the club and I hold his head in my lap and stroke his hair while he nods out. Sometimes he comes to and we make out feverishly and talk about how hard we are gonna fuck each other when we get back to my apartment that night.
After hours of heavy petting in the bleachers the Wolf takes the stage. He took too much Oxycontin and can barely stand up straight. He is drenched in dope sweat before the first note of the first song. He squats down and wraps the chord of his mic around his arm and begins to growl directly at me. The spit is streaming down his chin onto his chest. I feel myself growing wet as I picture his plush mouth on my pussy. No one else in the club exists at that moment.
A few hours later I take my road weary wolf home in a gypsy cab and drag him up the three flights of stairs into my bed. He clings to me and tells me how much he has missed me and needs me and then passes out with his hard cock against my ass, his arms clutching my breasts, his sweet breath on my neck.
The next day I wake him up and he is in a puddle of his own dope sweat, he is ill and gray. We drive to the bands next gig in Pennsylvania and get a cheap room. In the motel he eats half a methadone to take the edge off. We lay in the bed next to each other in our underwear holding hands and sleeping until it is time to go to the gig.
After the show that night, in the darkness of the strange dirty motel room, under stiff white sheets, The Wolf finally fucks me with all the passion and love that he has left in his battled body.