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Obviously they all jerk off. Five twenty-something year old guys, ranging in levels of bi-curiosity and drunkenness on any given day, all on one bus, leads to pillows shoved firmly over ears and fists rapped sharply on the bottom of bunks. It’s not like Ray’s an exception. He’s been nearly caught, caught but thankfully ignored, and caught by an oblivious Gerard who initiated a whole, innocent conversation while Ray’s hand was shocked-still in his boxers.
So, to combat this, Ray has decided to, for the foreseeable future, not jerk off.
It was an alright idea at the beginning, but it’s been weeks now and Ray is vibrating out of his fucking skin. Everything is turning him on. Fuck his band of beautiful, weirdly touchy guys with hands and mouths so musically talented Ray is starting to, like, becoming covertly sexually attracted to Mikey’s bass strings and Bob’s kick drum.
It’s worse knowing they do it, too. Gerard is fucking loud, his singers’ lungs are totally unaware of the appropriate volume for midnight on a bus and bounce sweet, breathy moans off the thin walls. Ray spotted a fading bite mark on Bob’s hand and got the fuck away from him before he could think too hard about strong thighs quivering and the kind of low, growling noises he stifles in a big, calloused hand. Fuck Mikey, for being actually quiet and covert about it and making everyone else feel like total perverts (or maybe he just has a new, pretty scenester every night and doesn’t even need his own right hand), and fuck Frank for literally announcing to everyone to stay in the lounge or get off the bus for twenty minutes (he’s a dude, he could do it in five, but Bob once made that joke and was met with a lecture on the importance of foreplay and afterglow. Fucker.)
After a show so intense it gave him half an adrenaline boner, right there on stage during I’m Not Okay ’s solo, Ray has officially had enough. He can’t bring himself to pull the rockstar move of tossing his guitar at the crew and strutting away, he’s too nice and he cares too much about the safety of his Les Paul, but he’s antsy and feeling like a total exhibitionist while he zips his baby back into its case and heads quickly to the nearest bathroom. Bus call isn’t for twenty minutes, and Ray does not value the importance of solo foreplay, so he’s in the clear.
The bathroom is single-stall, thank fuck, and Ray almost forgets to lock it as the adrenaline-nerves-arousal combination makes his hands shake. He takes a breath and sits on the closed toilet seat.
Pent up to the point of gasping desperation, Ray goes right for his belt buckle and the sound of his zipper unlocking down his thickening cock echoes off the tiled walls. He shivers, sweat drying in his hair and tee shirt and cool air prickling across the wet tip of his dick, well on its way to fucking straining in his boxers. Ray tugs his jeans and boxers down to his thighs and wraps a hand around himself, finally, finally, sighing in relief. His hand is clammy and his whole body is sticky and he feels a little dirty, physically as in he hasn’t washed his hair in way too long and inside as in he feels…slutty. Needy. Like the crowd and the sound crew and his band could tell exactly what’s going on, like the air and the walls and his clothes were teasing him, taunting Ray until he gives in. He strokes himself, long and tight, down the entire length of his aching cock and back up to swipe his thumb across the leaking tip. There are voices and clamoring and shit getting knocked over outside the bathroom door, muffled, and the base of Ray’s dick keeps twitching in his fist every time a noise is too loud, too near. He can’t decide if it’s out of fear or hot, shameful thrill.
He jacks himself faster, stops for a second to spit on his own hand, which is fucking gross and Ray is never gross in bed, thank you very much, he’s a perfect gentleman, but it makes everything slicker and makes him choke out a whine caught high in his throat. He claps his other hand over his own mouth, he thinks about Gerard on his knees on stage and on his back in the bunks and how the noises he makes when he’s about to cum are very similar to his onstage moans, he wonders if he slides a hand teasingly from his jaw to his hips when he’s alone like he does during the second verse of Prison. Ray groans into his palm and thinks about Bob’s eyebrows knitting together and the piercing glinting off his slack lower lip when the chorus starts to ramp up. He thinks about his heaving chest and sweaty hair when the song ends and wonders if Bob would quit being so shy for long enough to let Ray strip all the layers off him and pin his wrists down so Ray could hear him say his name.
He’s close. Ray’s really close and he didn’t think about how aggressively cum shows up on black cotton and denim. He hikes his shirt up and catches the hem of it between his teeth and really feels whorish, like a girl putting her tits on display. He watches his abdomen twitch, reddish hair curling up to his chest and tan skin gleaming with sweat. Fuck. He moans way too loud, wondering if Frank is looking for him so he can jump on his back like a monkey and picturing the girl Mikey has pressed against a back wall of the venue and he comes. He comes so hard it punches a sound out of him like a kicked puppy, his thighs shake and he doesn’t stop touching himself until the aftershocks turn into oversensitivity.
It’s fucking everywhere, hot and sticky, thick streaks of white up the underside of his shirt and dribbling down the side of his cock that isn’t quite ready to go soft yet. Ray lets his shirt rest just below his collarbone and licks his hand clean. Because, apparently, Ray is gross. He slumps back against the tank of the toilet and, face burning hot, cleans himself up with terrible one-ply toilet paper.
In a couple days, he’ll probably think this shirt is clean enough to wear again and will put it on before he remembers the frankly ridiculous amount of jizz soaked into the inside. Or one of the other guys will pick up and screech like a chick and fling it at his face, verbally accosting him for leaving his cumrag lying around. He flushes harder, thinks, slut.