Page 138 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

They don’t need the fantasy or the show.

He ain’t stupid. All they want is to walk out sayin’ they had his mouth.

So he gives it to ‘em.

Tile sticks under his sneakers as he drops onto the toilet lid, spreadin’ his knees wide. He turns ‘em both, makin’ ‘em face the other way. He don’t waste time and tests them both quick—sniff, look, taste.

In seconds, moans crash over each other, both of ‘em cryin’ into the piss-stink tile. He warned ’em—gotta be fast, gotta get back on stage. But he still gives ‘em filthy, slidin’ from one to the other, switchin’ between holes as if he can’t get enough. But he can’t taste nothin’. Everything moves without him—his mouth, his fingers, he ain’t even there. His body knows what to do.

Then the door opens, and they’re stumblin’ out with their legs still shakin’.

He’s up, chin soaked, knuckles wet, and he’s back at the sink scrubbin’ off and shovin’ paper towels in his mouth, draggin’ ‘em over his tongue. Then he twists the cap off the mouthwash from his pocket.

First swig he spits. Second he swallows.

By the time his sneakers hit the hallway, his body gives, reachin’ its limit—shoulder screamin’, eyes burnin’, knees weak.

Heart and head poundin’ like he’s about to collapse.

For one second, dizzy slams into him, that weakness warnin’ him. The next, he fears he’ll collapse.

The hours.

The hollow.

The hunger.

The hurting.

He hangs back and looks for somethin’ to hold him up or lean on.

But there’s nothin’.

All he’s got is himself.

So he breathes once.

Swallows it down twice.

Shakes it off three times and pretends he’s not dying inside.

When his Nikes hit the stage, the lights hit his eyes, his hand finds the strings. And he’s on again.

“Matt’s gone,” Jay says. “Wyatt’s out lookin’ for him.”

Andrew oughta be pissed Matt dipped, but he ain’t. He’s too fuckin’ tired, too drained, too busy worryin’ if Matt’s even breathin’ and didn’t OD somewhere. Out front, Miss Mini Skirt’s still at the front, same stare, like she ain’t blinked since he walked off.

He grips the mic and sings lead, his pitch dead-on, fingers tight on the frets. He could outplay half the city and not break a sweat. But this ain’t his dream. It’s Matt’s.

Tours, gigs, motel floors, livin’ on the road, chasin’ applause?

That ain’t freedom. It’s another shift—longer hours, higher stakes, bigger crowds screamin’ for his time and name, and a whole lot more people to please. The bigger the stage, the faker the smiles. And if he’s already losin’ himself in bathrooms and back rooms, no fuckin’ way he’s signin’ up for arenas.

Music was his once.

Still is in the dark, in the times he’s alone and nobody’s listenin’, when the lights go out, and he steals back a piece to remind himself he's still in the music somewhere. But now it’s another thing he gives away.

He never wanted the spotlight. But he never learned how to say no when somebody hands him the mic.