Who Knew?

The first thing I heard was a loud popping sound. True, I had been in the army during an active campaign, so you'd think I'd recognise the sound for what it was, but I was playing a song in a crowded concert hall and the only thing that came to mind was, "who brings firecrackers to an indoor venue?"

Then something hit me in the shoulder so hard that I spun around careening into the drum riser behind me, knocking over the bass drum and a cymbal on my dizzying journey. I slid to a semi-sitting position, trying to get my bearings.

It was still so unreal that I took the time to unhook my guitar strap and examine the guitar for damage before it even occurred to me to look down at the front of my shirt, it was changing rapidly from the normal white to a crimson red.

I guess I was in shock because even then it didn't seem to connect that it was my blood. My shoulder felt like it was on fire, and I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to stand up but was having trouble with balance and so I abandoned that idea.

The whole world seemed to be really bright, loud and totally still. I looked out at the audience, I could only see the few first rows but almost everyone had looks of horror frozen on their faces, and screams were coming from somewhere but no one seemed to be moving.

My drummer, Paul, came out from behind the wreckage of his equipment tearing off his tshirt as he ran towards me in slow motion.

At the same time a figure came from somewhere off stage and strode toward me with great purpose, holding a gun aimed at my head. It was then that I finally caught on that I had been shot.

Paul had his back to the gun holder and didn't see the approach as he bent over me pressing his shirt into my shoulder, when I saw the gun raise to Paul's head I kicked Paul square in the shins knocking him out of the way.

As he toppled over the gun holder knelt in front of me, putting the gun to my head. I felt the cold metal against my temple and all will left me. I didn't try to push it away; I just closed my eyes waiting for it, I knew I was in no position to fight and so I accepted the inevitable. I was sort of disappointed that my whole life didn't flash before my eyes as I waited for that last click.

I heard a jarring clang right in my ear and opened my eyes to see Paul standing over a prone figure holding a cymbal like a Frisbee. Just then security finally made a move and rushed the stage. Some veered off towards me, and other swarmed the person who had fired the shot.

Paul sat down next to me again pressing his shirt hard against my shoulder, and said something. His voice sounded like the adults on the Peanuts TV specials; I had to really concentrate to try to understand what he was saying. He repeated it and I wasn't able to get a word of it, it struck me as really funny and I started to laugh.

I was now surrounded by my band and security; they formed a tight ring around me. That too struck me as hilarious as they all had distorted fun house mirror faces.

By the time the paramedics arrived I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. I was lifted up, strapped onto a gurney and loaded into the ambulance before I finally lost consciousness.

But let me rewind a bit.

It had been a pretty incredible year, I had recorded and released my first album and beyond my wildest expectations it shot to the top of the charts. The minute it did, I hit the road touring to support it.

I was totally unprepared for the trappings that come with sudden fame. My every move was recorded in the tabloids; unflattering pictures, rumours and scandal seemed to be the rule of the day. My girlfriend of two years had bought into the shit they wrote about me and left me over yet another story of my supposed flings with this or that starlet.

Another side of fame that I hadn't ever really considered was the stalker. I had at least one that I was aware of. It started out pretty mildly. Love letters, flowers sent to me care of that night's concert venue, the promise to see every show on the tour. Then the gifts became more lavish, the letters more desperate, a bit more intimate and then vaguely threatening.

Still, it didn't really alarm me. I would shrug it off as an overly active imagination on this person's part and didn't give it a lot of thought. My tour manager, Robert, tried to warn me that this person was most likely unhinged, and as I found out later, sometimes he would intercept the letters or gifts, not passing them on to me at all.

That fact would become very important.

The day I got shot started out pretty much the same as most days on this tour. I made the rounds of radio stations doing promo work, and all that stuff that my manager loves to schedule me to do.

It was unusual to have most of the afternoon to myself. I had lunch with Paul, in the restaurant at that night's hotel. He and I had just become lovers, but he knew I was still very much into women. For some reason our intimate meal was not going as I had hoped.

I caught him staring at me a few times, and wanted to think he was gazing at me with love, or even lust, but I could tell he had something on his mind. Finally my capacity for denial had been reached, "OK spill it. You've been very quiet all day, is there something you want to talk about?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering where you see this all going, boss?" he said, taking a pause to drink some water, "I mean we have only one more show, tonight, then we're not going to see each other until you start recording again."

My mind was whirling, what I wanted to say I couldn't really find the words for. I respected him as a musician, enjoyed him as a friend, and as a lover, but this was my first same-sex relationship. Did I love Paul? I didn't honestly have an answer to that.

He waited for me to say something, anything. After a few minutes he leaned in very closely, and in an almost whisper said, "If this is it, just tell me. I won't pretend I will not be hurt, but if you don't want to be my lover anymore, say so. Don't keep me hanging here."

"I really care for you...." I started to say, but he put his hand on my mouth stopping me.

"But you're not in love with me." He finished, and then he sighed sitting back against the booth.

"I wish I could tell you otherwise, I truly do."

"After today, will I still be in your band?" Paul asked.

"If you want to be."

"I do, but before we go back to being 'just friends' can I make love to you one last time?" he pleaded.

When we got to his room there was a strange urgent feel to the way he pushed me onto the bed the minute the door was locked, his kisses were more aggressive than they even had been, he hardly left me time to breathe.

He showed me no mercy, biting me and scratching my skin before I was even undressed; once I was he took no time for foreplay. Next thing I knew I was on my knees in front of him gritting my teeth from his unlubed cock tearing its way into me. He was driving himself into me like he was trying to knock the wind out of me or maybe knock sense into me, either way it was less like being made love to and more like being assaulted.

After a few minutes he slowed down his attack, and pulled me on my side while still moving in me. His thrusts became slower and he reached around and took my cock in his hand. He shifted himself a bit until he found my prostate and hit it with each thrust home. It seemed like it went on for hours, but then he picked up the pace and we climaxed together.

This time there was no being held afterwards. He immediately got off the bed once he withdrew and went into the bathroom, shutting the door. I realised after a while that he was not going to come out until after I left, I gathered my clothes, dressed feeling somewhat like a cheap whore.

I didn't see Paul again until it was time for sound check. I got out of the taxi to some gathered fans. I signed a few autographs, posed for a few pictures and was handed a package by one of the women, I tucked it under my arm and went into the venue. Once inside I set the package down on the table in the dressing room and forgot about it.

I joined the band on the stage, noting that Paul didn't look at me once. I knew that he was still upset so I didn't say anything.

Once the sound check was over I went back to the dressing room. I think by then the package was gone. Robert came in and said that there were a few people from the local press that wanted to do an interview, so I put on my best performing monkey act and did that.

Afterwards I went out for a smoke, I was near the back exit on the fire escape. I could see some fans hanging around the door, but they couldn't see me. I saw one of them look into a rubbish bin and take something out but I didn't see what she removed. She glanced at the door and then walked off with great purpose. I finished my cigarette and went back in.

Because this was the last show of this tour most of us had invited friends and family to it. My parents made the trip from England, as did a few close friends. We had a bit of a party before the show and had a massive one planned for afterwards. Robert had reserved the bar down the street for just that and everyone was looking forward to it.

There was also a current of bittersweet for me. I had spent almost an entire year with these guys, and added to that was the ending of my relationship with Paul. I knew in my heart that back in the real world I was not ready to give up women.

The show had a really intense energy that night. Everyone in the band was doing their best, trying to impress their friends and family. I'm sure it was in the back of their minds, as it was mine that it was realistically going to be at least another year before we went back on the road.

We had started the third song when I was shot. The timing was interesting as it was a song I had written about taking opportunities when they came up, and not letting them pass you by. So the shooter had extra encouragement, I guess.

When I woke up after the shooting, I was encased in bandages from my neck to my waist reminding me of something from a Mummy movie. My mother was sitting in the chair next to the bed, dozed off.

There's nothing like a brush with death to make you really want a cigarette. I could tell I had been given some sort of painkiller but still sitting up hurt like hell. I was not that out of it to realise that lighting up in the room would be a bad idea, I got to my feet and started removing things that were not inserted into me and that set off an alarm.

My mother jumped out of her chair and a gaggle of nurses came running into the room pushing a cart. When I removed the heart monitor lead I think they thought I had gone into arrest as one of the nurses had those shocker paddles at the ready. I was just as surprised to see them, as they were to see me standing up. One of the nurses took my arm and ordered me to get back into bed. I complied as quickly as I could keeping an eye on the one with the paddles just in case she decided to administer them out of principal.

Robert visited me later that day; he told me the woman who shot me was the same who had been sending me those letters and gifts. He was very contrite as I found out he had thrown away the package she had handed me and others before it, which is what set her off.

A week later I was released from the hospital and flew home to England. My mother had not gotten over the fear that I was in danger and nothing would do but I had to stay with her and my dad while I recuperated. It felt really odd to be sleeping in my childhood room after being on the road for a year playing rock star, plus I hadn't lived at home since I was in my late teens, but the quiet was what I needed to regroup.

I could tell I was feeling better when my thoughts turned to sex. I had gone about a month without contact outside my immediate family and a few close friends. I was getting restless and very horny.

The town I grew up in was far from being an exciting mecca for nightlife. The local pub was more given to darts than dancing. I announced at breakfast one morning that I was going to go into London and spend the weekend clubbing. My dad said nothing but I could tell by the grim look he shot my mother that he didn't approve, but he also seemed to understand that I wasn't a child and that he had no real say in the matter.

As I packed up an overnight case my mom came into my room. She sat on the edge of the window box and reached over to adjust the sling on my arm. "Do you really think this is a good idea?" she ventured.

I gave her as many rational reasons as I could think of, skirting the whole being horny as hell issue of course, which seemed to mollify her a bit. She made me promise to call her when I arrived, and offered to drive me to the train station.

When I got to London I rang up some old friends and they arranged to meet me at a club that evening. I checked into a hotel and stretched out for a nap so I would be in good form later on.

You know how when you haven't had any alcohol in a while your tolerance is lower? I had spotted some paparazzi earlier and made a mental note to behave myself with them around. But by about my fifth drink at the club I was well and truly drunk off my ass, and had forgotten they were there. I mostly behaved but I still managed to make the next day's tabloids, looking less than wonderful attempting to dance holding a drink in my good hand.

By Saturday evening I didn't care if I was photographed nude with a live skunk on my head I was determined to have a good time. My friends were a bit concerned by my swimming in a liquid medium from the time I got up and the time I passed out but they kept by my side.

After accepting offers from various quarters I found that I didn't want just sex after all, I wanted to be with someone who loved me. Especially when my friends would leave to go home to their wives, or girlfriends and there I was sleeping alone.

Sunday morning I woke up to the worst hang over I had ever had. Even my eyelashes hurt. I felt debauched, and lonely, I just wanted to go back to my parents and hide in the solitude of the country for a few days.

Coming out of the hotel, I had someone shove a copy of my CD into my hands and ask for an autograph, by pure reflex I accepted the pen and asked the name of the person. "Make it out to Paul" he said.

I started to write on the CD, and then it hit me that the voice was awfully familiar. I looked up and he smiled at me. I handed the CD back to him and I smiled so widely I thought my face would crack. "How did you find me?" I asked.

He held up one of the tabloids and pointed to an article about me, "You look pretty rough in the picture there, boss."

"I feel pretty rough. Thank you for coming for me."

He hailed a taxi, "I haven't come yet, but I will." He patted me on the ass as I climbed into the back with him.

Maybe this is what love really is, I thought as I put my head on his shoulder and felt him encircle me in his arms.

Who knew?