GARY BRANDNER

Behind the stage, as usual after the concert, chaos reigned. The air conditioners were turned off, so that dust, tobacco smoke (no one paid attention to the “Do not smoke” signs) hung in the air, and the smell of sweat. Strong guys in jeans and T-shirts with the inscription "Brain cancer" laughing and cursing, disassembled and packed sound amplifiers, speakers, lighting equipment, smoke machines and other accessories of heavy metal. Broad-shouldered guards held back screaming female fans trying to break through to their idols.

Farley Zmeris wiped his palms on a red jacket and looked at them covetedly. The look ran through the young breasts, thirsting to be felt, plump lips, ready to embrace the penis. But only these breasts were not intended for Farley's hands, sponges - not for his penis. At first glance, realizing that he was not a musician, the fans forgot his existence.

Farley showed the employee’s pass and the hefty guards let him through to the dressing room, which Jojo Kingman, the Brain Cancer lead singer, was using. Farley paused at the door to remove the plugs from his ears. In truth, although Farley himself would never have said this, he could not tolerate heavy metal. He hated explosive percussion and screeching guitars. And most of all he hated the wild cries that stood out for singing. If he had a choice, he would rather listen to the choir of the deaf trumpeters. In the privacy of his bedroom, he enjoyed the music of Harry Connick Jr. But he would never, ever admit it to anyone. He would not only be told that he was hopelessly behind the fashion, he would be expelled from work. And having lost his job, he could not even come close to Valerie Mons.

Farley took a deep breath and knocked.

“Fuck off,” they rasped from behind the door.

Farley's legs had already agreed to obey, but the brain ordered to stand still. He promised himself that today he will achieve his goal. Knocked again.

- Fuck off.

“I'll only borrow from you for a minute,” Farley asked. - You are welcome.

“Holy crap ... well, come on in, just fast.”

Farley opened the door, entered. I saw costumes, tubes and jars of makeup, wrappers for hamburgers and chips, cigarette butts. There was a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey on the dresser. Jojo Kingman, hunched over, sat in front of the mirror. Pale, saggy skin glistened with sweat. The remains of the make-up stained the face, a black strip of mascara stretched from the left eye down. Bright light ruthlessly opened many wrinkles, bags under the eyes. Kingman's hair dyed in a blue-black light. Like the eyebrows.

Farley had seen rock stars up close before, and he was always outraged by the injustice that reigns in this world. This thirty-year-old ruin, which looked twenty years older, who screamed on the scene like a slash, shouting something incoherent, could fuck any woman at a convenient time for him. But the nineteen-year-old Farley Zmekis, handsome, healthy, with a good voice, could not approach the only girl in the world he wanted.

- Who are you?

Farley named himself.

- I'm working here. Usher.

- Good. There are lots of pictures at the door. Take what you want and leave.

“I don't need photos.” I want to ask you something.

The rock star coughed in a towel.

- Ask and leave.

- The thing is, I ... All the girls are yours. Outside, a crowd of those who simply can not wait to surrender.

- So what?

- How do you do it? What's the secret?

- Damn, I'm a star. Women love to fuck with the stars. That's the whole secret. Goodbye.

“But isn't there something else?” I have seen many concerts. Not everyone is so attracted to girls. You pull. A few more people. Do you even hint to me how you do it? What is special about you? Why do women stick to you?

Jojo Kingman turned away from the mirror for the first time and looked at Farley.

- Why did you take it out so?

- My girlfriend. Well, in general, not mine, but I want her to become her. She's a cashier here. Maybe you noticed her?

- Why should I notice the cashier?

- And besides, I have not seen the second such beauty.

- Yes, of course. And you want to fuck her.

Farley felt himself blushing.

- Well ... you understand ...

- Do you want or do not want?

“I want to,” Farley squeezed out.

- So what stops you?

- I can not approach her. I tried everything. I tried to charm, did not notice, gave gifts, wrote letters. No effect. And, before retreating, I decided to turn to you. Suddenly you know something that will make her notice me.

“By the way, I know,” Kingman answered unexpectedly for Farley. “But are you sure you want to hear my secret?”

Farley's heart beat fast.

- Dreaming about it!

“Let it be your way,” the rocker stood up, stood up to face Farley. - Watch me carefully. What do you see?

And Farley realized that he could not take his eyes off the lower half of a rock star. Light brown pants covered the lower abdomen and legs like a second skin. Tiny rays of light seemed to penetrate the fabric, revealing every mole, every pimple on the skin. A special cylinder stood out, like a sausage lying on the inside of the thigh.

- What do you say? - broke the prolonged pause Kingman.

- Your ... your ... your ...

- My dick. What's the matter? Can't you say that word out loud?

Farley just stared at him. Kingman shook his head.

- By the way, everybody has a member, right? And yours may not be any worse than mine.

Farley returned speechless.

- So what's the secret?

- In the pants, man, in the pants. They are custom-made. Put on your pants and, I promise you, women will not leave you alone. Including yours ... what's her name?

- Valerie.

- Exactly.

Farley stared at his pants again. Even in the shabby dressing room, they fascinated eyes.

- Where can I buy them? He squeaked.

Kingman sat down. Gorgeous pants stretched, completely repeating the bends of his body, on their flat surface did not appear a fold. On the top of the notebook, I wrote a few words, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Farley. He read:

“Mr. Pants *.

Modi Place, 369 "

 — — ----------------------------

* From English pants - pants

- Moody Place?

“It's on Beverly Hills, next to Rodeo Drive.” You can easily find it.

Farley looked at the two lines as if it were a magic formula that turned lead into gold.

“I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“Just back off and leave me alone.” I'm tired.

Farley, backing away, fell out of the dressing room, except perhaps without bowing. He pushed through the guards and the crowd of fans, crossed the hall where the cleaners collected garbage in large plastic bags, climbed the stairs to the accounting department.

Valerie Mons glanced at him briefly, then immediately returned to the numbers on the computer display. Honey-colored hair with soft waves framed her face-heart.

Farley swallowed noisily.

- Hi, Valerie.

Her mumbled could have been a welcome greeting.

“Finish soon?”

- Not.

- Listen, I'm not in a hurry either. Maybe we’ll go somewhere, drink coca and all that?

- Not.

“So I'll give you a ride home.”

- They'll give me a lift.

- Maybe tomorrow...

Valerie looked up again. The eyebrows met over the sky-blue eyes. Full cherry sponges pouted. So much so that Farley's heart went up.