Stardom and Gomorrah
by Kate Hill

It's simple to keep time with human-skin drums. Other musicians have to practice hard, search for that synthetic beat, but I feel the rhythm of life from my drums.

My fists clench clean, dry bones, my eyes slip shut, I tap those gruesome sticks to the tightly-pulled skins and create a sound that makes groupies scream and writhe in a primitive dance inspired by horror and lust. My music lures them to that forbidden place which is the natural hunting ground for all animals.

The heartbeats of the crowd become a collective throb which mimics the tempo of my drums. I can't hear the screaming or the shriek of the lead guitar. The singer's evil rasp and the dull pulsing of the base are muted as I concentrate solely on my drums. From those skins I hear the whispered memories of blood pumping beneath warm flesh, of the vibrations of life.

My palms are slippery with sweat, making the drumsticks slide, speeding up the pounding. I know the drum is supposed to be a support for the voice and guitar, but this band builds their music around me because it's me the fans come to hear.

Two hours is over quickly. I've only begun to heat up and revel in the frenzy of the show. Still, I swagger to my dressing room, strip off my clothes, sprawl naked on the black leather couch, and stare at the doorway.

Someone will come soon. Usually it's a hot, young bimbo with masses of smooth, luscious skin. After a bottle of hard liquor and plenty of rough sex, she'll pass out on the plush burgundy carpet.

The thing about human-skin drums is the skins dry out, become useless, and must constantly be replaced. Lucky for me being a rock star has plenty of advantages. Groupies are slaves to me, and I'm a slave to my drums.

The End

© Kate Hill

May 1999 HofP