It’s Only Rock and Roll, But I Like It

When I see his name on my calendar, I cringe. Horatio Slice. Just the name sets my teeth on edge. According to my editor, Patty Shane, this interview is top priority.

“Like him or not, the kid sells,” Patty says. “Have you seen the proofs of his cover photos? Sweet Jesus on the cross, Caleb, if I was thirty years younger, I’d be all up in that.”

I stab out my cigarette. “Why the fuck do I have to meet with him in person? No one does that any more. I interviewed Bono over the phone just last week.”

Horatio Slice, Patty informs me, hates talking on the phone, something about a fear of being misquoted, which I think is bullshit. But, Patty signs my checks and I like to eat, so I reluctantly agree to meet with this new era rock god in his hotel room.

I think I’m prepared, until he answers the door. The dude is huge. Linebacker huge. And I’m not talking about his persona—I mean his physical form. Muscles I didn’t know existed pressed through his tight T shirt, making me painfully aware of the extra padding around my midsection.

“You look surprised to see me. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Yeah, I did. Sorry.” He smiles and thrusts out his hand. “Wow. Caleb Wallace from Rolling Stone magazine, I feel like I’m dreaming, man.”

I don’t like the firm way he shakes my hand while staring into my eyes. It’s unnerving. The fucker. People look at that guy and claim he was created by divinity. I disagree. Satan himself conjured up Horatio Slice, because God wouldn’t be that fucking cruel to the rest of us.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mumble, feeling just slightly like a dick when I notice the hurt expression on his face. “I mean, you’re probably sick of talking to reporters, right?”

The smile returns. “Yeah, maybe a little, but I can’t wait to talk to you. You’re Caleb Wallace.”

By now I’m thinking the kid is a little stoned. I follow him inside, and we both take a seat in the living room of his fancy suite. I set my audio recorder on the coffee table and press record.

“So, Horatio Slice, how goes the tour?”

“Amazing. Happy to be in New York, my home base.” He flips that long hair out of his eyes—the same startling sky blue orbs that I’ve heard too much about. “Hey, would you like a beer or a joint or something?” A glance at my recorder. “Sorry. You can edit that out, right?”

Yup. Stoned.

“No worries,” I say with a forced smile. “I understand you’re quite the sex symbol. What’s that like?” Glancing around the suite, I don’t see what I expect, namely women’s panties draped over every available surface.

His expression tightens. “I don’t consider myself a sex symbol. Just a musician.”

“Come on, Horatio, dish me some dirt. Strictly off the record.” He just stares at me. “I’m an old man, kid, let me live vicariously through you.”

After a long sigh, he says, “I thought you’d be different. I thought you’d want to talk about the music.”

The music. Fuck.

That’s the reason I became a rock journalist in the first place. When did I turn into such a jaded prick? “Let’s start over,” I say, rewinding the tape. “Let’s talk about the music.”

And we do. Minutes turn to hours. One beer turns into four. The conversation drifts from sixties acid rock to nineties grunge and beyond. Somehow, we end up sitting next to each other on the couch. His knee touches mine and my balls tighten.

I realize this is why I balked at the interview. I knew I’d want him. Knew I’d want to touch those firm muscles and stroke that olive skin. Slide that zipper down and suck and suck and suck. Even at 40, I’m in shape, attractive even, but this guy is way out of my league.

And I hate accepting that.

But a few whiskey shots later, my dick tells my brain to fuck off. Something about the way he’s looking at me—lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded—makes me think he won’t mind if I slowly slide my fingers over his bulge.

“I want to suck it,” I say, enjoying the way his dick hardens beneath my touch.

“This is, like, the best interview ever,” he says, a blush highlighting his perfect face.

I unsnap his jeans. “So, it’s okay with you?”

“It’s great with me.”

That smile of his… I’m about to turn into a goddamn groupie. My fingers tremble as I tug down the zipper, reach in, and pull out a cock that makes me gasp like a maiden aunt.

The rumors are true.

Horatio Slice has a behemoth between his legs. Erect and majestic, I lick the tip and the taste of him goes right to my head. An extended “Mmm,” rumbles from my throat without permission.

“You like my dick?” He strokes my hair like a lover. “I like your mouth.”

Fuck if I’m letting go of this hunk of meat to answer that dumb-ass question. I just nod and keep licking from the crown to the base and back up again. His precum tastes like the sweetest mistake, but that doesn’t stop me.

I want him.

In my throat. Up my ass. A ride on his pony might kill me, but what a way to go. I take him deep until his cockhead tickles my tonsils. Then deeper.

“Holy fuck, dude,” he rasps, and I fight back a chuckle. I can’t be the first one to deep-throat this masterpiece, right? “You’re amazing.”

Years roll off my skin and I’m 23 again, sucking off the lead singer of Bad Times while the bass player rails my ass, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Gods not only exist, they dress in leather and play hard rock.

“Yeah, baby, suck me with that hot mouth. Feels so good,” he says.

Most guys in his position would grab my hair and fuck my face, but not him. Instead, he tickles his fingers down my neck and back—every touch sensual and sweet.

Fucking asshole.

I don’t want to like him this much. He’s young and hot and probably the best guitarist I’ve heard in years. He should have an ego as big as his dick, for fuck’s sake. But he doesn’t.

I stroke his balls and his legs open. His breath comes faster. The throaty moans heaving from him rival his singing voice.

Then he says something that blows my mind.

“I want you to fuck me. Will you please fuck me?”

Like he even needs to ask.