When I crash onto the crappy bed of the motel bedroom I'm in, I land with a soft thump, pressing my face into the pillow. Then, a moment later, I hear a much more violent creaking sound, though the sound of wood giving way and breaking entirely that I expected doesn't follow it. That's good, I thought that Zeke collapsing onto his bed was going to smash it to bits, given his weight, but it seems we won't have to deal with an angry motel owner this time. I don't think I would've had the energy for it. God, this gig was some hot garbage. Instead of being the warmup act for some other bands, one out of three acts on that evening, both other bands canceled last minute, and the organizer had the hot idea of just making us do our set three times in a row as to give the audience the hours of music they paid for, so now we're completely exhausted, and we didn't even get paid more.
Of course, just because we're exhausted doesn't mean we're going to sleep immediately, no. Before we fall asleep, we usually share some sort of dumb, idle conversation, and I'm sure Joe and Alex in the other room are doing the same right now. I roll over onto my side, looking over at Zeke, who's looking back at me. "Hey, Matt... I wanted to ask you something," he says in that soft, gentle tone of his, and I just give him a vague nod of acknowledgment, silently telling him to continue. "So, like, I've been thinking. You know how Alex's voice gave out on the third set and we had to play the rest instrumental? Wouldn't it be nice if one of us could just take over and sing when he can't?" he asks, musing out loud in a way that sounds like he's genuinely wondering why we're not doing that already.
Where is this coming from? I mean, I guess I know where it's coming from, but... "Well, that'd be nice, but it's not like we can just absorb each other's talent or something like that," I reply, hoping I won't have to explain that concept to him.
"But... what if we could? I read something on the Internet..." he trails off, as if he himself is recognizing how ridiculous this sounds, before making another attempt. "I read something on the Internet that could help us out. Imagine if you were sick and Alex could just take over on guitar? It'd be great. Remember how terrible you felt when you were sick with the flu, and we had to play that festival, and you vomited on stage?" he asks.
Ah, fucking hell, I would've preferred it if he didn't remind me of that. That sucked so bad. It did have us going viral a little bit—which is a terrible pun and I hate myself for it—but it didn't last, sadly. Never mind that, though. "What do you mean?" I ask in return, half curious, half dreading his answer.
After that, Zeke looks away for a moment, hemming and hawing, but eventually spits out what he's thinking. "Well, like... it said that you can get better at something if you know someone that's good at something. So like you, with guitar. And all I'd have to do to get better at guitar, according to that article..." he trails off, again. "...is let you cum in my ass."
It takes me several moments before I even process what he just said, and even after I do, all I can do is stare at his face, expecting him to tell me that it was a joke any moment now. But of course it's not a joke. It's Zeke. This tubby motherfucker couldn't make a joke like that if he tried, everything he says is just painfully earnest. He really believes this, and because it's something he believes will help the band, he is absolutely going to want to go for it. That's just who he is. He's not the smartest guy, a bit too gullible... but I can see it. Right in his big, dumb, adorable eyes. He looks like a fucking puppy that wants a treat for being a good boy, and it's the most precious thing I've ever seen in my life. "So... how's this supposed to work?" I ask, wondering what kind of explanation he could possibly have for this.
And boy, it's a good one. "The website said that there's, like, DNA in cum, right? And that's the stuff that makes you you, and makes your babies like you. And so it said that if you were to cum in my ass enough times, like, twenty or thirty, then the natural talent would just kinda seep into me and make me better at guitar! It makes sense to me!" he explains. Of course it makes sense to him.
Right now, I see two options. One, I try to argue, and I just don't have the wherewithal to argue. Two, I go along with it, get the added bonus of getting my rocks off, and then we can go to sleep. So, really, from that point of view, it only makes sense for me to go with option two, right? And with that thought, I roll off my crappy motel bed, walking over to his crappy, slightly more creaky motel bed. "You know what? Sure. Let's give this a shot," I say.