FicWad

When it came the time to interview the guys who had answered to their ad placed on The Recycler, Dave and David had their ideas very clear about the kind of people they wanted in their group; they had talked at length about it. Or better, David had illustrated his vision of the ideal band and Dave had nodded along.
They needed skilled, competent people, ready to take things seriously; no time wasters, who only wanted to play as a hobby. “This band is gonna be our life. Everything we do, every effort will be channelled into rearing ‘the beast’.” David had said. “If anyone wants to be in it, they have to show the same dedication we do.”

‘The beast’, as the redhead liked to call it, was almost a living being in his words, or a perfect machine; a merciless, implacable, heinous force that would crush the bones of everyone who listened. The plan, plain and simple, was to conquer the world.
Being a perfect fit for the group also meant having the right lifestyle, the right attitude and, yes, the right look, because everything in you had to reflect the music you played. The band needed to project a certain feeling that went straight to people’s guts, ripping them to shreds and having them coming back for more. Kids were supposed to hang your posters on the wall with pride, and parents were supposed to be worried and scared of your bad influence.

But, as they say, ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry’, and David’s plans fell apart in an unexpected way.
The first guy who called Dave for the audition was a young drummer named Kenneth; since it was easier for them to reach him than for him to move his entire kit, the Daves hopped into the bass player’s van and drove to his house.
They didn’t even go as far as hear him play.

They rang the doorbell and a blond, lanky guy with a Judas Priest t-shirt greeted them.
“Hey, I’m Dave and this is Dee; you’re Kenneth, right? We’re here for the band audition.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you. Come in.”
Dave and David sat down on the couch as Kenneth took his place behind the drums.
“Anyway, will your guitarist join us later? I thought we would also jam together.”
“I’m right here.” David said, raising an eyebrow. “Our instruments are in the van. I thought we could start…”
“Wait, I’m sorry, you are the guitar player?” Kenneth interjected, chuckling nervously. “I thought this was going to be a serious band.”
“That’s the plan, yes.” David replied huffily. “What’s your problem?”
“Ok man, listen.” Kenneth addressed Dave. “Just because she’s your girlfriend…”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” David growled. “I’m not his fucking girlfriend, I am the fucking guitarist, and if you have a problem with me, you better talk to me!”
“Whoa, calm the hell down.”

Before David could jump at Kenneth’s throat, Dave barged in, trying to cool off the situation.
“Hey, let’s take it easy. I assure you that Dee is a great musician and songwriter.” Dave told Kenneth. ”If you want, we can take our gear and play something together.”
“Nah. No disrespect to you, man, but the last thing I want is to be in a band with a chick. Especially a crazy one like her.” Kenneth pointed to David.
The redhead got up and sternly marched out of the drummer’s house, cursing him. Dave forced a smile and apologized, quickly following his bandmate to the van.

~֍~

“Un-fucking-believable.” David fumed. “What a piece of shit, I should have punched his fucking face.”
Dave bit his lips and didn’t reply, letting the young woman vent her frustration; he decided to wait until she was less angry to share his opinion with her. The guitarist was impossible to reason with when she was pissed off, and he certainly didn’t want to grind on her already tense nerves.
Dee was still vexed when they arrived home, but most of her anger seemed to have died down, so he invited her to his apartment and offered her a beer –that she actually had bought– and crossed his fingers in hope she wouldn’t lash out at him.
“You know, I was thinking… maybe next time we could suggest we directly start jamming, you know, to see whether we fit well together musically with the guy.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Dee, narrowing her eyes.
“Hey, ok, don’t get all defensive. You have to admit that a chick who plays guitar is rather unusual, especially for a metal band.”
“That guy thought I was just a joke!”
“Ok, he was rude, but you didn’t need to get all worked up. You could have proved him wrong just by playing; guys are gonna be weirded out by a female guitarist, like it or not. It’s not like many women musicians have left a mark in rock history.”
Dee sighed and gazed into space for a few seconds, then lit herself a cigarette before speaking. “All right, I see your point. I need to prove myself first.”
“Yeah. I understand it’s annoying, but don’t worry. Just show people what you can do and don’t immediately attack them for not responding the way you want; things are gonna get better.”

They didn’t. Not in the short term, at least. Two of the other three guys who called for the audition –two drummers and one singer– didn’t prove any better than Kenneth; the fact that David was competent and dedicated didn’t seem to matter all that much.
The first drummer wasn’t interested in being in a band with a girl, simple as that; he didn’t even care about listening to David’s playing or to his ideas. “Chicks and heavy metal don’t mix, they just don’t have the rough edges needed to rock out.” He had said. “Also, a band is like a gang, and you can’t form a real comradeship with a woman. Sorry, babe, but men need their space to be men.” David was so stunned he didn’t even respond.

The second drummer commented that women are melodramatic princesses, but that he could get over it if there were other benefits involved, the nature of which was implied by the lewd tone of his voice and his facial expression. When Dee socked him in the lower abdomen, Dave didn’t bat an eye.

The singer, Matt, overcame his initial scepticism after David showed him his chops. Sadly, the guy’s biggest influences were 1970’s hard rock vocalists like Ian Gillan and Geddy Lee, whose style didn’t fit at all with the music Dave and David wanted to make. He wasn’t a match.

~֍~

David stood in front of the floor mirror in his bedroom, courtesy of Faith’s infamous piece-of-shit pimp boyfriend, and tried to take a dispassionate look at himself. The latest turn of events had hit him pretty hard, making him doubt of himself. In all the big talks and big plans he had made for his band, he had forgotten a detail. A silly, silly detail: he was a woman now.

He felt… unglued, for a lack of better terms. He had become accustomed to his new reflection, but he could never accept it as his own. Some days were worse, some days the pain of disconnection was almost unbearable. But nobody else could see it, and he couldn’t explain the lack of connection between what they saw and what he really was.

He closed his eyes, and imagined himself on stage with his band. Stupidly, he had always pictured himself in his old body, as a man. He chuckled. All that time spent crafting the ideal group in his mind, and he would forget about the obvious. Could he, as a woman, fulfil the expectations he had placed on his band? He had never considered the possibility of being in a band with one or more chicks, never in his life. He couldn’t even say he had been against it either, it just had never been an option; women didn’t play heavy metal, and the few who did, played together in all-female bands, or were vocalists at best.

Should he try to recruit other female musicians? Hell, valuable men were hard enough to come by, let alone women. He tried some poses in front of the mirror; arms crossed, arms on his hips, legs spread apart, chin lowered in a death glare, chin up for a contemptuous stare.
Did he look the part? Could he project that aura of danger that would make the world tremble? Was he the kind of person he would want to stare at on a stage?
No, those looks of awe and wonder he imagined were reserved for men. Women could be lusted after, even respected, but no guy ever looked at a woman and said: ‘that’s my hero’ or ‘that could be me, I want that to be me’.

David dropped on the bed and covered his face with his hands. He was the liability, the weak link of a band that might never come to life. All his big talks about finding the right people with the right edge and the right skills, only to discover that most people didn’t deem him worthy of being in a band with them.

~֍~

“Are you sure you want to go out? You seem so distressed.” Tiffany said, caressing David’s hair.
“I’m fine, just a little tired.” David replied. “Staying at home racking my brain won’t do me any good.”
“We can talk about it, if you want. I know we’re casual and all, but you can tell me if something’s wrong.”
“Thanks, but it’s nothing you can help me with. Let’s just go.”

Once again, David had let Tiffany have her way with their entire evening together. “Take me where you want, let’s do what you want, I don’t want to think about anything.” A good thing of being in a lesbian relationship was that the chick didn’t mind if you asked her to do all the work in a date.

That night, the Lhasa Club was hosting a deathrock show, and Tiffany had suggested they went to it, so she could show David her scene. The redhead had accepted, believing he would end up surrounded by a bunch of gloomy punks; still, he was shocked to see what the crowd looked like.
He thought his girlfriend, with her blue hair, hot pink tights and all-black make-up, was quaint enough, but many of those dudes and gals had seriously embraced the extremes of the stereotypical punk style and brought it to the dark side.
Big black boots, huge mohawks, fishnet stockings and tops, chokers, ripped clothes… it was like stepping into another dimension.
“Wow, some of these guys really take their fashion seriously.”
“And you think you don’t?” Tiffany chuckled.
“Hey, I’m nowhere near these levels of gaudiness.”
“Maybe not, but every youth subculture has its own style, and you conform to it too.”
“What the fuck would my style be? ‘Thrift store desperate’?”
“Let me see… tight jeans, denim vest, white Nikes, bullet belt… oh, so hard to guess!”
“Whatever.” David rolled his eyes. “Let’s get something to drink.”

The three bands that played that night delivered pretty much what David had expected; a straightforward, macabre –albeit in a campy way– punk rock, with the addition of a keyboard player for two of the groups.
Toward the end of the last set, he realized that all three of the bands shared one common feature: Kommunity FK had a girl on keyboards, 45 Grave had a female vocalist and Super Heroines was a trio with two women on bass, guitar and vocals.
Normally, he wouldn’t have made much of it, but now he was trying hard to remember whenever he had seen three, or even just two bands, one after the other, with one or more female members at a metal venue.
Never, the answer was never. Sure, he had seen Girlschool open for Motörhead; Slayer and Metallica had opened for Betsy and her band Bitch, but that was about it.

Once the gig was over, David asked Tiffany if it was common for a deathrock band to have a girl in its lineup. Tiffany laughed and explained that many women had migrated to deathrock after the advent of hardcore punk.
“It just made sense; after all, punk opened the door to everyone. If you wanted to make music, you could just pick up an instrument and go at it, whoever you were. That attracted many girls to it.” Tiffany explained. “And when hardcore made the scene more violent and confrontational, the girls moved elsewhere.”
David nodded. “It must be nice, not being treated as a fucking curiosity.”
“Oh, honey, feels lonely in the mosh pit?” joked Tiffany. “Listen, would you mind if I scored some weed?”
“I would mind if you didn’t share.”
“Don’t worry.” She giggled. “This time it’s on me. C’mon, I’ve seen ‘my man’ passing by.”

~֍~

Sitting on the floor of Tiffany’s living room, David watched the girl preparing a joint silently. He observed her as she grind the weed and poured it on the paper, prepared the roach, rolled the joint. Her pretty, little hands, painted with black polish, performed every gesture with knowledge.
When she passed the tip of her pink tongue over the adhesive strip, Tiffany looked at him in the eyes, and David felt a warm feeling heating up his belly. He wanted nothing more than pin her on the floor and plunge into her hot, dripping cunt. Except he couldn’t. Even if Tiffany hadn’t wanted to take it slow, he couldn’t have done it. Because he didn’t have a fucking cock anymore.

David wanted to feel good, fuck, he wanted it so bad, but he didn’t know how. After his first botched shot at masturbating, he had tried a few times more to pleasure himself, but could never do the deed properly. David had heard wonders about the female orgasm, of its supposed greatness compared to the quick rush of the male’s, but all his attempts had been disappointing. That brief tingling feeling really wasn’t worth the effort of the long build-up.
His last girlfriend had been able to come –hard and loudly– from his fingering (plus some kissing and groping) alone, so it wasn’t like his handwork was lacklustre. Why, then, couldn’t he figure out what worked for himself?

Tiffany twisted the end of the joint and lit it; she took a drag and passed it to David, who did the same. Maybe Tiffany could help him finally get off and figure out what lesbo sex was all about; that look she had given him wasn’t the look of a woman who needed much more time to feel ready and willing. Unless she was just teasing him, pushing him to make the first move, maybe just to pull back indignant once he did. But no, lesbians didn’t do those stupid tricks, right? When she was ready, she would tell him. All in due time.