monkey business

🤘🐵🙈🙉🙊

whenever i tell myself "just do a quick flavor text thing" i always end up getting carried away haha. i dont think they're necessarily always "canon" for the picture they accompany, either; sometimes the picture's just the jumping off point and the writing is just me goofin around and having fun 😎

  anyway, hope you guys enjoy!!

🤘🐵🙈🙉🙊

"travis? wait, the travis?? that big sleazoid guy who books all the local bar shows?? you hang out with that guy?? Ew!! what do you see in him??"

"Oh man," Travis said as another music video played on shuffle. "Ossuary. I remember playin with these dudes in Hamburg--this was right after our song got picked for Guitar God 4. 5 million views on youtube. Big numbers for 2012. The scene was just different back then, bro." He takes one last long drag from his cigarillo and pushed it into the overflowing ashtray. He exhales the smoke out of his nostrils, billowing over you where you're faceplanted into his pit, and starts to tell the story about the time he had to sit next to the bassist from Ossuary and what a cocksucker he was to the nice Australian couple seated in front of them both. He'd told the Ossuary plane story to you maybe half a dozen times at this point--the enormous chimpanzee might have burned out one too many brain cells over the years of rocking and rolling--or maybe he just didn't care if you'd heard it already. That second option always gave you a queasy thrill; treating you like some groupie, or even lowlier, a fan. 

You're a confident, smart, fun person, with carefully considered opinions and thoughts on things. You didn't even like metal music that much (although it has grown on you over the months, as Trav gave you his hand-me-down band merch to wear, and smell, and huff guiltily while you jack off on your lunch break at work, something you didnt even intend to do until you did it) until you met him. You'd never felt like someone's lackey before; you found yourself bringing over beers (your treat!) without him even having to ask--without him even having to say thank you, as if this was just the way things worked for him. The dynamic gave you a rush; you had played basketball in high school, and you were pretty nasty at it, too, to tell the truth, so there was a perverse, unfamiliar rush in this big ape treating you like this. Telling you stories about how he got pussy in a men's room in Iceland once, kissing-and-telling, like you were some nerd, some -dork- who couldnt get any of your own--and finding yourself in full lackey-mode, listening intently, watching the big monkey's dick shift and jump in his silky shorts, turned on at his own re-telling, his own war stories. You'd hear yourself breathing heavy, worked up, horny and weirdly jealous, but of who? Of the big ape, immense and lecherous, a horny yeti pulling his shirt off in the handicapped stall? Of that lucky waiter in Reykjavik? Of the guy in the next stall over? With your face buried in the jungle of the chimp's pelt, you realize it was probably option number 2.

 as soon as one of those immense, shaggy arms came to rest over your shoulders, you felt effortlessly big-timed, locked into a dynamic where he was the worldly raconteur (pizza boxes and empty cans of IPAs stacked in piles behind the couch) and you were some fan, eager to listen, catching yourself crotch-watching at the bulge in his thin basketball shorts while he told you another you-had-to-be-there tour story. no matter how often you reminded yourself that he was a washed-up bozo who booked open mics and bringer shows at whatever dive bar would have him, his sleazy confidence always won you over. He also smelled so fucking good you could hardly think in words. One big chimpanzee hand, his literal monkey's paw, patted gently at the top of your head. "Thanks for comin' over, buddy. You're a great little listener." 

Even deep in the dense shag of his armpit, having huffed him for so long you probably shouldn't operate any heavy machinery, his praise releases butterflies in your stomach. You make a noise that's muffled by the ape's underarm and he feels rather than sees you take a long, luxurious lick up into his pit, like an ice cream cone. You are lost to the world, taking slow, deep breaths in and out, like someone in an iron lung. "Ohhh, mannn...." the big ape chuckles, attaboying your head with his big mitt again, pushing you in deeper. "Keep doin' that and i'll have you pull my And-1's down with your teeth, hehe. Look at how hard you got me! Oh, that reminds me--I was on tour with Shoggoth in Bristol, in the UK--you ever been to the UK?--and the dude doing merch for us told me to meet him in the bathroom, right? It was... maybe 2010, 2011? Whenever that fuckin' Gotye song came out..." 

Before he continues retelling you the story of that time he met the guy from Gotye, he gently yanks you out of his right pit and delivers your drooling face right into the hot darkness of his left one. Your happy groan is muffled as his sasquatch-sized arm, so long and strong he could grab you from the next room over, folds over your head and shoulders. You almost bust right then.

Man, you think, the big tank of a chimp's pheromones hitting your frazzled brain like a hit of amyl. 

Travis is so cool. 

<3