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Big In Japan

Big In Japan

A rock duo get slightly side tracked...
We encore with the new single, 'Lush' and three thousand Japanese voices join me on the chorus as Fromme strikes a guitar hero pose at center stage.

"You know I love so much, (Lush, Lush, Lush, Lush,)

"I know you love it when I push, (Lush, Lush, Lush, Lush,)

"Yeah baby girl I need your touch, (Lush, Lush, Lush, Lush,)

"'Cos lovin' you is simply lush, (Lush, Lush, Lush, Lush...)"

Fromme looks over at me and winks as his hands fly over the fret board of his telecaster. He's the best player I've ever seen. Problem is, he knows it. I pirouette as the music fills the auditorium, my hair and scarves flying as I dance in the smoke and the lights, the screaming of the crowd like a drug as I feel the adrenaline energy coursing through my body.

"We've been The Candyshop, you've been fucking amazing, Goodnight Budokan!!!!" I yell as Fromme extends his final solo and the crowd go apeshit. I grin at Ross on bass and Scott on the drums as I run offstage, leaving them to bring it home. Tony The Tour Manager hands me an ice cold beer and a towel as I turn and watch the boys from side-stage. They fucking rock.

Tony beams at me and punches my back, making me choke on the beer, "Can you SMELL that?" he screams. "That's the smell of three thousand damp Japanese pussies, Man!"

And he's almost right. Though I'm sure there were some guys in too.

Backstage, we press hands with some record company people and flirt with some star-struck fans who have been allowed to come back by the roadies. Jesus, Japanese girls are ridiculously pretty. "I ruve you, Derry Kerry," says one little cutie who appears to have stepped straight from the pages of a Hentai comic.

"It's Danny Kelly, actually," I tell her.

"I row," she says.

There's an after-show party at a plush nightclub in central Tokyo but as we grab a couple of girls each and head for the limos Tony The Tour Manager collars me and Fromme. "Guys, I need you both back at the hotel for a half-hour, we've got a couple of phone interviews set up..."

Fuck. So Ross, Scott and eight of the most beautiful women I've ever seen pile into the first limo as Fromme, Tony and I get in the second car. "Thanks guys," says Tony, "I'll have you at the club in an hour, hour and a half tops."

We drink champagne in the car and chat about the show.

"You fucked up the lyrics on 'Juicy Fruit," says Fromme.

"Well, Squeaky, your fucking acoustic was out of tune on 'Beachcombing' so fucking eat me," I retort. Maturely.

(Here's the thing about being in a band, it's like being fucking married. Which I'm not, anymore. I mean, I love the guys, but they're total cunts and I know they feel the same about me. We were best friends once but I'll give you a tip. If you ever form a band, do it with people you already don't like. It saves time.)

Two hours later me and Julius, having finished the phoners, enter the bar of the Tokyo Hilton. (I should explain, Fromme's christian name is Caesar, of course, but it pisses him off if I never call him that... So I call him Squeaky, or Julius, or Here To Eternity... It amuses me.)

Tony's gone to organize the car so we've time for a quick drink. We order beers and tequila shots and we ask the bartender to leave the bottle. Just as I think we're the only people in the bar, this American guy comes up and taps Fromme on the shoulder. I can tell he's American because he's overweight and he's dressed like a professional golfer. And he's drunk.

"You're the band guys, right?" he slurs. "Jim Cialis, Lubbock, Texas. I'm in textiles..."

"Caesar Fromme, Birmingham, I'm in a band," deadpans Fromme. (He IS a funny motherfucker.)

"Birmingham, Alabama?" asks the Yank.

"No, the real Birmingham," explains Fromme in his Brummie accent..

I stifle a grin and introduce myself. "Danny Kelly, Dublin, Ireland," I offer... "I'm a singer."

"And a wanker," adds Fromme, helpfully.

"You guys wanna join my partner and the little ladies for a drink?" asks the Yank. "My wife has your record..." (He pronounces it 'rekkid'.) "Candyshack, right?"

"You know, we're just waiting on our car so..." but as I'm speaking I notice he's gesturing toward a booth at the end of the room. And as well as another fat gentleman, the booth contains two rather pretty all-American housewives who are animatedly waving in our direction. I raise an eyebrow at Fromme, who grabs his beer, five shot glasses and the tequila bottle and ambles over to join them. I follow. Jim The Fat Yank orders another round and brings up the rear.

Now, I gotta tell you that life on the road can be pretty weird but the situation we're now in is truly bizzare. See, me and Fromme, (basically nice people, though I'd never say that to his face) have been in a fucking rock band for 25 years. We've done some stuff. To be sat in a booth in the bar of the Tokyo Hilton with Mr. and Mrs. America squared is unusual. Particularly since Jo and Patty, (the Mrs. Americas) appear to know who we are, while Jim and Clifford, (I'm not making this up) haven't a clue.

Fromme pours shots for the table as the conversation flows. It seems that Jim and Clifford were football players in high school and dated and eventually married cheerleaders Jo and Patty. (I can believe the girls were once cheerleaders; Jo is blonde, pretty and curvy while Patty is dark, skinny and faintly Italian looking or maybe Jewish. Or Latino. And cute. Their fat fuck husbands look like they now couldn't manage a brisk walk.

Fromme and I are sat there in our gigging clothes, all leather jeans, big boots and Prada shirts and suit jackets, hair down and eyes made up, (Fromme has his fingernails painted black, for fuck sake) as the ex-footballers give us the inside track on the textile business in Lubbock. It's not as interesting as I'm making it sound.

The girls, meanwhile, well, Jo is pawing at Fromme's elegant, long fingered hands and talking about nail varnish while Patty is fingering my curly tresses and asking me what conditioner I use. (Cocoa butter, if you're interested...)

All the while, Fromme is topping up the shot glasses, at one point raising his arm above his head, though never taking his eyes off Jo. And here's a thing, the bartender arrives as if by magic summons with more beers and a fresh bottle of Mexico's Finest. (One of the many plusses of being almost famous....)

Clifford is the first to fade. He slumps back on the leather booth and begins to softly snore. Fromme pours yet another round of shots. Jim gamely attempts a toast, quaffs his drink in one and promptly collapses unconscious upon the table. (Me and Fromme aren't quite so affected, being high on adrenaline and... well, other things...) The girls, now quite glassy eyed, apologize for their husbands but it's quite clear they have no intention of leaving. Fromme pushes his sunglasses up his nose and shoots me a knowing look.

"HERE?" I mouth, but my guitarist just grins. (He hates when I say that, by the way.)

Fromme moves in the booth, attempting to sit on Jo's other side, but somehow she ends up sat in his lap. His hands move to cup her breasts and she closes her eyes as he touches her.

I reach my hand to Patty and she wiggles around her passed-out husband to move to sit next to me. I place a gentle hand on her shoulder and she catches my eye. And obediently kneels down.

I pull my shirt tails up to allow the little dark housewife to unzip and uncover me. I lift my bum as she slides my leather jeans down and clamps her lips over my cock. Moaning softly, she goes to work. As she takes me deeper into her mouth, I softly fondle her hair and lean down to talk to her.

"Hey, Patty Bad Girl," I whisper, "If you can, Baby, I need you to reach under that pretty dress, make those panties nice and wet for me, then, when they are, I need you to take them off and put them in my hand..."

The little darling does exactly that, one busy hand delving under her dress as she redoubles her efforts around my cock. As she pleasures herself for me, she 'mmmmphs' soft moans from her busy mouth. I feather my hands in her hair as she hungrily bobs.

Looking up, I see Fromme is also having fun. He's standing up now on the other side of the booth and has pulled down Jo's dress and bra. She has really great tits. He's pushed her forward and her hands are on the table. I watch as he hikes her dress up and pulls her panties to her knees. He winks at me as he positions himself behind the wanton blonde, grasping and kneading her nipples. As he draws back to prepare to have her, his bum brushes the unconscious form of her husband, still reclined against the booth. Withdrawing one hand from her tits, he gently pushes her husband over so that he falls behind his sleeping friend. And then he returns to the task in hand.

My eyes lock on his as he spits on his fingers, then moves his hand to his cock, nestled between the blonde's spread legs. Surely he's not going to....

But looking at Jo's face across the table I can see he has. Her wide eyes gaze deeply into mine as she bites her bottom lip. She whimpers in pleasure as my guitarist, (he HATES that) takes her firmly but gently in her ass.

I close my eyes to give the girl some privacy, and as I do, I feel a fumbling at my hand. My busy little blow job girl has pushed her soaked knickers into my hand. Perfect timing. I bring the little fragrant garment to my face and inhale her scent. And the scent of her crests me and I come as she mouths me, deep in her throat, rewarded by a shudder from her as she brings herself off with her fingers.

As I come, I hear a scream from Jo and a low moan from Fromme as he comes deep in the blonde's ass.

Rock 'n Roll, eh?

We're discovered.

"I've been looking for you bastards for ages," says Tony The Tour Manager. "The car's outside, we need to leave right..... Holy shit!"

"Tony, this is Jo, that is Patty," says Fromme, "Girls, meet Tony..." as he buttons himself up.

"If you're busy..." says a bemused Tony....

"No, we're away," says Fromme as he smacks the blonde girl's ass... "Thanks Jill," he mutters.

"JO!..." says the girl.

"That's what I meant," smiles Fromme."Two minutes, Tony love..."

Patty looks up at me, wiping a trace of milky fluid from her mouth. "Do you really have to go?" she asks beseechingly.

"DANNY!" shouts Fromme, now dressed and standing with Tony. "We need to go NOW!"

"I... I..." I attempt...

"Danny, there's JAPANESE girls," says Fromme.

"I'm sorry, I have to go, it's a work thing..." I apologize...

As I collect myself, I look down at a still kneeling Patty, and Jo still prostrate over the table, both shiny eyed and longing.

"DANNY! NOW!!!!" shouts Fromme.

And we head for the car.

"I really LIKED your album," I heard Patty cry as I left the bar.

"You're such a stupid cunt," Fromme says as we entered the limo.

"You're a stupid cunt," I respond.

"Oscar Fucking Wilde," smiles Fromme.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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