(S)Punk Rock Show

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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Ed blindly twisted the tuning peg of his bass’ E-string, thanking the audience for their support. He adjusted his cheap Mediterranean marketplace rip-off Ray-Bans and threw the guitarist—the Diva—an approving glance.As always on stage, he reminded himself why he, a guitarist of over twenty years, had filled the vacancy as bassist in a barely-three-chord amateur punk band: he didn’t need the hype—nor the pathetically young groupies that preferably swarmed the sun-kissed, long-haired dreamy-looking surfer beau who could barely count to four, let alone play non-accidental free jazz on his out-of-tune Duesenberg. Teeth for a blowjob, he chuffed in his thoughts, signature grin on his lips.Ed preferred to be the weirdo in the background, radiant in his sheer presence, eccentric performance and shrill attire: fluorescent-laced, worn-out isvecbahis Bordeaux-colored doc Marten’s, baby blue Bermuda shorts, synthetic unbuttoned Hawaii shirt revealing his xylophone-rib abdomen and a reversed baseball cap with his favorite rapper’s logo on it. Why? Because punk rock, that’s why! Even the washed-out fifties rug bass strap only added injury to this blatant insult to the eyes and yet he pulled the stunt with his trademark knowing grin.He crouched to grab his PET water bottle he had re-filled with can-beer. “Only water bottles allowed on stage,” the club manager had said. Needless to mention, this had not prevented Ed to get his habitual piss-warm stage beer. No good punk shows were ever played sober.As he toasted to the audience, one particular fan stepped to the stage, empty cup in hand. Giggling, Ed poured some isveçbahis giriş beer into Fanboy’s container, spilling half of it over the dude’s face. Laughing, Fanboy reached up to grope Ed’s half-exposed, pitifully malnourished-looking belly.“You gotta look for that a little bit lower,” Ed huskily mouthed into the microphone; a quick glance to his girlfriend who was shaking her head, laughing.“Let me tighten the strap of my ax to give you access.” Of course, he wore his instrument as low as possible; who wanted to play in a prissy dream-son-in-law band anyway? Not him, that’s who!“Just for you, I’m gonna strap it higher and go full Sunday school cover band bassist for one song,” he offered, adjusting the strap. A murmuring in the audience accompanied the action.Sneering self-contently, he threw his girl a kiss as her eyes isveçbahis yeni giriş widened when Fanboy indeed unzipped Ed’s fly and she realized what she was about to witness.“We’ll play our extra-long song for you—that’s almost three minutes! We even had to introduce a fourth chord—impressive, right? Who knew progressive punk was a thing—fuck, you know what you’re doing!” His last words came out moaned from the feeling of the unkempt stubbles grazing the shaft of his steel-hard erection.The murmuring was slowly turning to cheering as Ed’s girlfriend stepped closer and tousled Fanboy’s hair for motivation. Ed pointed to Fanboy who was now tastefully gobbling down his cock and nodded towards his bandmates who were dumbstruck by the unexpected turn of events, somewhat jealous of under what circumstances the forgettable instrumentalist in the band got his dick wet. Diva shook his head in disbelief, eyes bristling with disgust and envy while the drummer just shrugged it off as nothing really surprising anymore in the ever-growing list of bassist anecdotes.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32