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Flash Fiction Friday: An Obscenely Pointless Story About Courtney Love

by: Bob Durant

Courtney Love tried to suck me off once. No joke. Five years ago, backstage at a Matchbox 20 concert, behind the speaker cases behind the sound booth. She dropped to her knees right there, started grabbing for my fun zone. She was sober, and it was weird.

I know she was sober because I’ve been around way too many junkies and coke heads and speed freaks and ketamine cats to know what it’s like to be around people who do things only because of their addictions. Courtney wasn’t whacked out of her mind, and she certainly wasn’t doing it for money; she had enough of that for a couple lifetimes. She was in it to win it. Nothing but the lust and love and thrill. That’s it.

I didn’t want her to do it, because: Courtney Love. If you ever thought she looked horrible when she was strung out and interrupting Kurt Loder on live TV, you haven’t seen her on her knees clutching an AA token in one hand and trying to unzip your pants with the other. And all that plastic surgery, the makeup, everything. This was Frances Bean’s mother, for fucks sake.

It was so hard, and I don’t mean me. I mean the thought of getting aroused by some wannabe punk rock Mary Magdalene was everything less than enticing. So instead of thinking of baseball to make me last longer, I focused on anything that would make me finish as quick as I could.

Scarlett Johansson. Christina Hendricks. Blake Lively. Scarlett Johansson and Christina Hendricks making out and double penetrating Blake Lively with strapons while my 9th grade history teacher watched and jerked off and slapped Blake across the face with a larger strapon. Sometimes you have to go full throttle in order to get the job done.

But it didn’t work – nothing would. Not even the steady, rhythmic motion of her mouth bobbing back and forth. I didn’t grunt, didn’t moan. Couldn’t, wouldn’t.

“I’m not giving up.” Courtney said during a momentary pause. I protested, tried to push her away, but two Samoan bodyguards prevented me from touching her. Daddy always told me, “Son, whatever you do in life, don’t ever piss of a Samoan. A Samoan is what happens when God duct tapes three regular sized men together and makes each of ’em meaner than a hornet’s nest sprinkled with PCP.” Despite his casual racism, my father’s advice was usually sound.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. No sense in hiding my irritation. If she hadn’t figured out by now I wasn’t interested, then nothing I was going to say or do would make a difference. I was limper than a Chinese noodle; that should have made it clear enough.

“Because,” she said, wiping her lips thoughtfully. “Because not everything needs to make sense. Sometimes things happen for no reason, no purpose. There is a profound beauty in chaos, randomness. We dress our lives up with distractions to hide from the pointlessness of existence. I have money, I have fame. What else is there to strive for? Sucking you off is my distraction. You understand?”

I said I didn’t and asked her point blank to stop, but she went right back to work with her mouth and hands. It was no use. I had to endure.

The concert ended, but she continued. Rob Thomas and special guest star Carlos Santana walked by and chuckled at me. Courtney fondled the sack. The road crew broke down the stage. I looked to all of them for help, but each one avoided eye contact. Courtney worked the shaft. I remained soft. I begged her to stop. She refused. I cried.

That was five years ago. We’re still here, backstage. I’ve seen Matchbox 20 five times since then, and it took me until the third to remember that I never cared for them in the first place. Many other concerts have come and gone in that time: Huey Lewis and the News, The Johnny Winter’s Band, Avril Lavigne. Several tributes to bands that you wouldn’t think were popular enough to warrant a tribute, but hey, here we are. More Laser Zeppelin Shows than is probably necessary. A local Boy Scout Jamboree. None of them acknowledged us.

Courtney is still on her knees, sucking at the licorice whip remnants of what was once my manhood. She had to have knee replacement surgery three years ago, but they did that here, behind the speaker cases that are behind the sound booth. I’m strapped upright to a board after my legs broke and spine nearly compacted from standing so long. Both of us have colostomy bags and are fed intravenously. Consciousness comes and goes. And yet she continues to try. God bless her for that. God bless her.

Please send help.

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Bob Durant is a bizarro, weird, and horror writer who lives in beautiful and overpriced Portland, OR. This is his first ever publication. Please follow him on Twitter, as he has no friends.

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