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Clown did it first.
Joey was standing, flipping the crowd off, and Clown came up right behind him, ducked between his legs and lifted Joey onto his shoulders like it was nothing. Joey took it in his stride, at least on stage. Off stage, he called Clown a stupid fucking asshole.
But it stuck.
Clown did it the most. Get Joey on his shoulders and stand there in silence while Joey talked a mile a fucking minute, swearing up a storm and making the interviewer look antsy or the fans look giddy. Mick did it too—with Mick, Joey was up even higher. Mick didn’t move as much as Clown—who’d sway and agitate his hands. Always pulsing with anger and energy and violence. Mick just stood there. Creepy fuck. With Mick, Joey had to slouch down to speak, drooping on him like some spooky haunted doll or a puppet with its strings cut, hair lank—the appearance of grease—around his emotionless mask, while Mick did not blink and did not move.
First time Chris did it, the first thing that went through his mind was, Jesus, Joey is heavier than he looks, followed by, he smells like piss, and then, his thighs are soft. That had him stuttering, his steps stumbling—just for a moment—and, being up on stage, stared at by hundreds of manic fans, he had a momentary oh shit moment that it’d been caught. That every fucking forum would know it—that Number 3 had got Number 1 on his shoulders and had thought his fucking thighs were soft and had almost collapsed at the fact.
But, of course, he had the mask. And, of course, the music was loud, and the lights were violent, and Joey was screaming obscenities at the crowd even though none of them could hear it; no one but Chris. He slouched across the stage, Joey’s small feet hooking under his pits and round his ribs for stability, Chris’ hands holding his ankles (bony and small, like a wrist). Chris could hear Joey’s voice, cracking with the aggression of the words—fuck you, fuck you all, you fuckers, you motherfuckers, you ugly fucking motherfucking assholes. He was shouting so hard his body would clench with each vocal exhale, thighs squeezing around Chris’ head. Chris clambered onto his drums—it was hard, without his hands, and both of Joey’s went to Chris’ head for stability. Mindlessly, thoughtlessly, all energy and heat and the insanity of the performance, Chris’ hands slid to Joey’s thighs.
The boilersuit legs were cropped. Joey was the only one that did that. Everyone’s suits fit pretty well, apart from Sid’s (which was oversized and gave him a dopey, slumping appearance. It made him look more crazed, more nonsensical, especially when he was tripping and his movements were like hiccups, his eyes bouncing and dragging) and Joey’s, which was cropped. Like that, Chris’ bare hands could slide over Joey’s bare kneecaps and up the side of his thighs, the fabric of the suit bunching up. Chris moved his hands over the top of Joey’s thighs and gripped the meat of his inner thigh hard. He could feel Joey’s thighs tighten, the muscles going rigid. Joey’s hands gripped the leather straps on the sides of Chris’ head, he curved over Chris, his wet, black hair falling into Chris’ vision and said, loudly to be heard over the bass and Corey’s screaming, ‘you good?’
Chris nodded once, squeezed once more. Joey cocked his head—creepy and blank and hot under Chris’ hands, around his head—and his grip on the straps tightened, before he straightened and pressed his groin against the back of Chris’ head. It was a blatant movement. Chris was on his knees on his drums, beside him Clown was kicking Sid in the ribs and Chris could faintly hear Sid’s loud, winded cackle before he swayed to his feet and punched clown in the temple. Sweat dribbled down Chris’ spine. Joey rolled his hips—tiny movements (like his ankles or his shoe size), only enough for Chris to feel. He was shouting again—Chris pulsed his grip on Joey’s thighs. He’d been aware of Joey’s relatively light body hair. His chest was bare; his legs had hair, but it was so thin and fine that—even with the dark colouring—most of the time you couldn’t see it. It gave his legs the feeling of being almost girly.
These soft, warm, fleshy legs around Chris’ head while a hot, hard groin pressed into his nape. One of Joey’s hands moved to grip the mask more, twisting it as his index went into Chris’ eyehole and his pinky into the corner of the zipper mouth. Chris stood slowly, unbalanced and wobbling. He heard Joey’s breathing catch and he curled over Chris’ head more. He was still cursing—but at Chris.
Fuck you, fuck you, ah shit, fuck you, the fuck’re you doing, you want me to do this shit? You fucking dirty asshole, you fucker—
It was nonstop. If Chris hadn’t been sweating bullets, dehydrated, angry, so angry, so full of fucking anger that it was close to spilling out his mouth like bile, he would’ve found it over the top. Joey yanked Chris’ mask and shouted into his ear, high and verging on frantic, I gotta drum.
Chris tightened his hands.
‘Seriously,’ Joey panted, ‘I gotta drum.’ Chris moved his hands up more, bunching up Joey’s suit more. More of Joey’s legs were on display than hidden. ‘Shit,’ Joey heaved into the side of Chris’ mask, ‘shit, man,’ he rolled his hips hard, pressing hard and rutting twice. His thighs clenched and he yanked on Chris’ mask enough that it got squint, half of Chris’ vision obscured by the twist. Chris gripped Joey’s pale thighs as hard as he could, digging his nails in. Joey was groaning loud in his ear, every exhale this loud throat noise. Loud because no one could hear but Chris. They were on a stage in front of hundreds of people, and no one could hear Joey cumming from grinding against Chris’ head but Chris. When Joey’s muscles eased, he shouted, ‘I gotta drum or Clown’ll break my fucking face.’
Chris released his grip and Joey jumped down. While he straightened his mask and dug his mic out his back pocket, Chris looked back at Joey darting through the band, like an arrow or a bullet heading true to his drums. He’d barely put his ass on his stool before he was slamming. Chris let the music take him over.
—
You don’t talk about what happens on stage. You don’t say to Shawn that he shouldn’t push Sid into the drums and slice his fucking head open, you don’t say to Corey that he shouldn’t scream so hard he coughs up blood, you don’t say to Mick that he shouldn’t slam his head up and down violent enough to seize the nerves in his spine—so Chris didn’t say to Joey, I liked it when you came in your pants from grinding on the back of my head.
Joey didn’t say shit to Chris either. Didn’t even get awkward with him. He still talked at Chris, still got fucking drunk and high and ran his stupid mouth. Like it was nothing. Like it was easy. One night, as he watched Joey snort a line, Chris blankly thought, did he jizz on Shawn and Mick too? But those two were so fucking straight that the idea of Joey even trying it made Chris’ gut twist in anxiety. But Chris thought he was straight. Well, he was straight. Because he didn’t wanna fuck a guy in the ass and he didn’t wanna get fucked in the ass—it was just Joey.
Joey was weird. Joey was a weird guy. Joey talked too much and swore too much and drank too much—Joey used to perform in little black dresses and thigh highs or fish nets and fucking panties. Joey had this weird fucking wacko thing about him that had Chris all confused and twisted up inside. Clown and Craig were violent—Clown loudly, Craig silently, Sid treated his body like a percussion instrument and threw it like it was one of the kegs, Corey’s furious misery was sometimes so intense Chris couldn’t stand being in a room with him, but Joey. Joey was so fucking peculiar. Sexual, coked up, drunk, puking, pissing, pale, hairless chest, insane drummer, insane guitarist, needed to learn to shut the fuck up, needed to learn how to back the fuck off, needed to shut his stupid fucking mouth and use a fucking toilet and get a Goddamn fucking grip. His thighs were so soft. Joey rubbed his nose and sniffed and looked at Chris and grinned.
Chris raised his beer in acknowledgement.
—
The day of a gig Joey would be pounding water like he was a man who’d been stuck in a desert for five days. Then, after getting in his suit, he’d pour water over his head and, at some point, he’d piss himself. Sometimes he’d also hurl. But they all also sometimes hurled. Chris had barfed in his mask more times than he could count. Clown would laugh at him when it happened. Because he’s a fucking dickhead. Pissing was Joey’s thing. Usually, there wasn’t much fucking fanfare about it. Chris had seen Joey talking to sound guys and he’d just started pissing. The sound guys knew that Slipknot were freaks, but they always looked pretty fucking annoyed about the short asshole pissing on their backstage in front of them. If there was someone with a camera, Joey would call them over to photograph the moment.
But this was different.
This was Joey tapping Chris’ shoulder, rising on his tip toes and saying, ‘gotta talk to you, dude,’ into Chris’ muffled ear before jerking his head down a hall. Chris just nodded. He didn’t like speaking when he had his mask on. His mask, with the zipper mouth, made him feel like he had to keep quiet. Like all he could fucking do in it was scream. Nothing else seemed important enough for him to speak. He moved down the hall after Joey. His steps dragged with a shuffling sound, Joey was quick footed. He was probably high. Chris was pretty sure Sid had snorted a speedball and taken some acid; knowing Joey, he’d likely joined Sid in snorting a line. Joey didn’t drop acid before a gig. It made his playing sloppy, and Joey was too proud for that. Chris had just taken some straight coke. It didn’t make him feel any better. They rounded a corner, it was quiet and isolated.
Joey leant back against one of the concrete walls, his hands behind his back, his legs spread just beyond shoulder width. Chris didn’t speak, just stared. He felt a jolt go through his body when Joey’s crotch started to go dark and then that tell-tale splatter of urine hitting the ground. Chris stepped closer, hands either side of Joey’s head. He couldn’t get that close, the long nose in the way. It meant he could see Joey’s mask more clearly. Could see the blankness of it and the clarity of his eyes and his blown pupils—such an unsaturated blue they were almost grey, this tiny ring around big, black pupils. Abruptly, Chris could hear his own breathing.
It was ragged and rough and verging on mad. He sounded like an animal, like he was fucking desperate for it. Whatever it was. Joey tilted his head and rested his temple on Chris’ wrist. He blinked slowly. Chris shifted—curling his hands into fists and leaning his weight on his knuckles against the wall instead of his palms flat on it. He was almost ready to start slamming his head against the wall from the intensity of the energy in his body. He was almost ready to start gnashing his teeth and hitting his head hard enough that his brain rung like a bell. The splashing turned to a dribble turned to a drip. Joey blinked slow and long.
Chris moved a hand down—he had to bend his knees slightly—and slid up the outside of Joey’s thigh. The fabric bunched up at the crease of Joey’s leg and Chris’ hand tucked beneath it, his hand spasmed at the feeling of women’s underwear. ‘I wear it a lot,’ Joey said, even though Chris hadn’t asked. Chris didn’t respond either, just moved further to the sopping wet crotch. Joey’s pubes were wet, the lace was wet, the canvas of the boilersuit was wet. Joey was already half hard and he pressed the hard cheek of his mask harder against Chris’ wrist as the backs of Chris’ fingers dragged up the underside of his dick through the synthetic lace. Chris pulled his hand out—Joey lifted his head sharply—and then shoved his knee between Joey’s legs, hand instead gripping the back of Joey’s thigh, right beneath his ass.
Joey rolled his hips immediately, one hand clutching Chris’ wrist beside his head, the other one of the leather straps of his mask. Chris felt like his eyes had never been so dry, but he couldn’t blink. His throat was starting to hurt from the open-mouthed panting. Joey was grinding hard—his neat hips rocking all the way back to Chris’ knee before pressing along the length of his clothed thigh to grind up on his hip. The movement was agile and smooth, but rapid and hungry for it.
Joey was breathing hard, he didn’t take all that long.
When he came, he pressed into Chris’ hip and jolted small, aggressive movements against him; he wrapped both his strong drummer arms around Chris’ shoulders; he heaved a moan into Chris’ ear, through the leather and fabric. Chris just gripped his thigh tight enough that it would probably bruise and pressed all his weight into his knuckles on the wall. Joey’s body twitched and shuddered, and Chris thought his blood might reach a boiling point, that it would ooze out his eyes and nose and mouth and ears in steaming globs, because he’d never felt so fucking intense. Joey, small and confined and reeking of piss and maybe puke (or was that Chris’ mask? Likely), disgusting and incredible, was moaning heavily and from his chest right into Chris’ ear while he gripped at Chris like he was the only thing holding him upright.
When they performed, Chris burst all his knuckled from punching the metal rigs holding his drums in place, the white of the drum head marked a dark brown-red from it.
—
Chris shifted. Joey was on his thigh. The same one he’d grinded on few weeks back. He was speaking, it was some bullshit interview. It had never been decided that Joey was the main speaker, and that Corey and Shawn would only periodically butt in, but that’s what happened. The rest of the guys—Chris included—had the double job of sitting still and looking weird. They could’ve had Joey sit in his own seat, but the tendency for Slipknot to be handsy, to blur the line of what metal bands usually do with bandmates, was one of those weird little things that got under collars, that had the more refined interviewers eyeing them up and down with raised eyebrows. Chris—due to the fucking nose on his mask—had to rest his head on Joey’s shoulder, looking to the side. Like that, the vibration of Joey’s rapid speech buzzed through him.
All he could think about was the smell of Joey’s sweat and Joey’s bony ass digging into his thigh. He rhythmically pulsed his hands into fists and flexed them out, repeating the motion over and over so some drum beat he had thumping in his memory. Boom, tss, boom, tss, boom-tss-boom-tss, booooom. Someone said something and there was a rattle of laughter from Joey. Chris, in the privacy of the mask, ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.
