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The moonlight shone lazily over the bed, covering two figures that laid there with a silver-blue aura. One of them was a tanned skin man, his long, black, curly hair falling over his shoulders and all over his face. His characteristic looks revealed his identity: anybody would know, just by looking at the scene, it was Guns n’ Roses star guitarist, Slash. Yet, it was funny to look at him this way: a mess of flying locks and moving fingers onstage, and now he was just so quiet, sunken into a deep sleep.

A little more mysterious was the identity of the strawberry blonde lying face down next to him. Maybe it was another of Slash’s groupies, the insomniac, beautiful figure next to him, who shifted a little, trying to remove the guitarist’s calloused hand from the place it was, the back.

But was it a she?

The figure moved the hand away and turned around towards both Slash and the moon. The light shone all over his face, for it was a man. And it was not just any man, but Axl Rose. The prettiest rock star, magazines had said. The band’s frontman, Slash’s bandmate, lying next to him in bed.

Axl sat down on the covers and looked at his own body by moonlight. He had won weight over the years since he became famous, but still had an enviable figure. He smiled at it, as if happy with his own beauty, and then ran a finger over his chest, letting it rest over what looked like dark marks over his skin. Those were love-bites. Slash, in the midst of his passion, would bite him, making him scream. He didn’t mind. He loved the feeling of the teeth against his skin, sinking deeply, yet lovingly. In fact, that kind of animal sensuality was what Axl loved about his guitarist. Most people didn’t find him attractive, not to say good looking, but he had this feral quality that made him a superb lover.

Or maybe it was the fact that, after only a year of dating, Slash knew the singer’s body as well as he knew his favorite Gibson guitar. He knew Axl’s hidden weaknesses: who would have thought the frontman, a running devil when he was singing, and the incarnation of the title “Appetite for Destruction”, was tender when it came to bedroom matters?

But he was. And Slash knew it. He would run his hands through the splendorous long hair strands and caress the singer’s pretty face. He would kiss his pale chest, lingering over Axl’s pierced nipple, his favorite; he would tease it by licking it, biting it, or he would play with the ring around it. Yet, Slash loved when he would finally get a chance to be inside Axl. He would penetrate the singer softly, covering him in kisses, feeling his lover’s erection brush against his stomach. That would drive him crazy, and there would come the bites. And Axl’s deep baritone voice would scream out too, sometimes reaching tones as high as the ones in their songs. Heaven. There could be nothing better than that. And they would fall down after they both released, happy, satisfied, in love with each other, yet tired and ready to sleep.

That had happened that night. After the show, the whole band had gone out for drinks. It was a tactic Axl and Slash had developed to avoid the other members of the band finding out about their relationship. They would all go out to a bar, and drink; however, they let Duff McKagan, Gilby Clarke, Dizzy Reed and Matt Sorum drink till they were totally wasted; then, they would (frankly speaking) give them away to the first horny girls they saw. And the guys had never said no. So, after the whole of the band was away, the guitarist and the singer were free to do whatever they pleased. But, just in case, they had plan B. The media knew Axl Rose’s girlfriend, supermodel Stephanie Seymour. And Axl was always showing her off, even at videos. What was love, if that wasn’t?

Sweet Stephanie, Axl thought. Such a good friend. And what people don’t know, is that she’s also a good actress. I’m lucky Slash had that idea, to use her as a cover for us. I wouldn’t have thought about it. She going around, acting like she is Mrs. Rose, whilst I’m here in a hotel room, after jumping right into Slash’s arms, after having a night of wild passion. This should have left me tired. And yet I can’t sleep.

He felt Slash’s hand crawl up his skin again, as if trying to make sure his beloved man was still there. And Axl edged it away again. He wasn’t thinking about the guitarist.

Finally, after tossing and turning in the bed for a long while, the strawberry blonde decided what he needed was a cold shower. Not turning back to his lover, he got up and went to the bathroom and let the water fall down. Nervous. Yeah. That was what was going on. He was nervous about their performance at the MTV Awards next day. It had to be perfect. He was going to perform with one of his favorite artists ever, Elton John…

But he was going to perform too.

Not even the cold water could fight against Axl’s urges. His hand went down and between his thighs, resting against his growing shaft. Good lord, he was jealous.

He could imagine it so clearly. The beautiful, skinny body, half hidden, half revealing its charms tangled in the covers of the bed. The half-length blond hair resting on a pillow, shading the closed, unbelievably beautiful blue eyes. Everything so wonderful, so perfect…

Axl was on the brink of slipping inside the shower and hitting himself hard on the head. God! Not even in his fantasies could the singer get rid of… her! That cow of his wife! That hideous, ever-present harpy!

The rocker tried to drive the images away from his brain, but it was impossible. There she was, the blond woman, smeared all over with makeup, kissing the thin lips he had wanted so much. Staring into those pale blue eyes that smiled back at her. Caresses, long, loving kisses, and then the slut would go down on him, a slut after all, and start sucking on…

He struggled to change the image. Now it was him, Axl, the one sucking on the length. God. He would for that man. If that man asked him to get down on all fours and humiliate himself before him, he would! Indeed!

He went out of the shower. Something stronger than cold water had halted his fantasy. Courtney Love, the grunge bitch on all fours, giving her man the blowjob of his life. And Kurt, the dazzling, enchanting Kurt, receiving pleasure. From her.

Axl let himself fall on the bed again. What could he do about it? The woman was Kurt’s wife, after all. She could do with her man anything she sexually pleased. The rocker cuddled close to Slash, feeling the cheap whisky scent the guitarist seemed to have tattooed on his tanned skin.

He loved Slash. He really did. But Kurt… he was something else. An impossible dream.

“Oh! Oh yeah! Oh, Kurt!!! More, more!!!”

Fuck. That woman did scream, thought Krist Novoselic, Nirvana’s bassist. He and Dave Grohl, the drummer, could hear her across the wall that separated their bedroom from the Cobains’ room. All of a sudden, even though it had been a painful episode for the couple, he felt glad their weeks-old-daughter, Frances, had been taken away from them. Especially from her mother. The woman was crazy. Growing up with her would cause the baby nothing but traumas.

“I guess somebody should shut the whore up,” he heard Dave say.

Krist smirked. “Whore? You were the one that dated her on the first place.”

“And she just accepted to date me because she wanted Kurt. That’s why I KNOW she’s a whore,” Dave answered.

As if replying to him, louder moans were heard from the other room.

“Shit, is that her twentieth orgasm or something?” Krist remarked.

And, on the bed, pinned down by Courtney’s body, her husband Kurt was thinking that same thing too. He knew his wife was a sex machine, yeah. And he knew she loved having sex with him. Yet… he felt she sometimes overreacted. Like right now. Thrusting erratically over his shaft, screaming like some pornstar… Damn! And she bit me! Right next to my ear! I’m gonna have to cover it with my hair for today’s awards, so that those stupid reporters don’t start asking stupid questions about whatever…

And Courtney kept on screaming. God. He loved her, that was true, but… sometimes Kurt just got tired of all that “temperamental” thing and of his wife’s sex games, that included several positions (“Courtney, is Kamasutra a good book?”), fetishes (“Ok, Courtney, I know you won’t use my guitar… but you still wanna use yours!”) and role playing (“Courtney, these leather pants make me feel as if I played on Guns’ shit-n’-Roses!”).

All that Kurt asked for was a peaceful night of lovemaking. He was getting tired of all these fantasies. He sometimes wished Courtney just wouldn’t act like she always did. He wanted her to come over to him, sweet and tender, and to let him take the lead, as in dancing. And he would make her feel so right. He would kiss her and caress her and give her wonderful pleasure. By loving her, Kurt would make her forget everything the tabloids said about her; the biting way they called her a junkie. He would show her pure, true love: once he had declared he was blindly in love with his wife, that he would give up the band if they weren’t under a contract just to enjoy being in love with Courtney. But, most of all, he asked from heaven that she, after having let herself go into his arms, would look at him with eyes watery with passion; eyes that would show she loved him as much as he loved her. God. That would drive him crazier than the cracking of any whip.

Kurt was so absorbed in his thoughts that it looked as if he had forgotten sex meant he should ejaculate as well. Of course, Courtney just kept on, moaning and screaming, and Kurt saw his shaft going in and out of his wife. And he still wasn’t cumming.

Tired of all this action, Kurt decided to do hug Courtney. He had tried to do it before, and it all had ended with the blonde woman pushing him back to the bed. But he was willing to give it another try, so he sat up and took his wife in his arms, pressing his head against the not so big, yet soft breasts and resting his hands against her back. Fortunately, Courtney was so focused in her own pleasure that she didn’t try anything this time, so Kurt buried his head on her breasts, kissing, sucking and licking them, softly and tenderly, imagining his wife, yeah, but turned into a sweet, even innocent lady, giving herself up to him. And he came.

Kurt let himself fall down on the bed. Courtney collapsed at his side. They both stayed silent a while, breathing heavily, staring into each other’s eyes…

“You were fantastic,” the woman said finally, and, with a soft pat on her husband’s head, Courtney quickly got up and into the bathroom, in order to take a shower for the awards ceremony.

You were fantastic, Kurt thought, looking up at the ceiling. Any man would have loved a compliment like that. However, an “I love you” would have made him so much happier.

Axl was in his room, wearing only his underwear, busy choosing the clothes he was going to wear for the evening. He had to look striking. He was placing his bets on this night.

The singer had just decided he was not going to appear onstage only in underwear when Slash appeared in the doorframe, wearing nothing but a towel round his waist.

“Hey, angel,” the guitarist said.

“Morning, baby,” came the reply.

Slash walked over to his man and kissed his cheek. “Last night I didn’t feel you by my side.”

“I was fuckin’ hot,” Axl said with a half-smile. “Had to go take a quick shower to feel a little better.”

The guitarist kissed his cheek again. “I know you’re fucking hot. Yet, if you felt hot, you should have come over to me, and maybe you could have shared your heat with me.” Laughing at his joke, he then announced: “The rest of the band is already at the buffet. They’re attacking the hot rolls, so I guess that instead of a hangover they have the fuckin’ munchies today. Better check if they’re smoking funny plants.” He laughed again. “Think we should join them?”

That was an advantage of the way the guys drank. They would wake up late, with severe hangovers, and go directly to breakfast, in order to eat something or to bribe the waitresses to give them alcohol immediately so they could take the hair of the dog that bit them. That gave Axl and Slash more time together. Then they would join the band at the breakfast table, and Axl would begin yelling at them, calling them irresponsible motherfuckers, you slept so late while Slash and I were rehearsing, so now you have to go to the arena (or wherever they were playing) and start with the soundcheck! And the rest of the boys, still holding their aching heads and in no mood to argue, would obey, sometimes muttering under their breath. Duff would involuntarily help: being a founding member of the band, he was used to Axl’s perfectionism. So, he would drive the others away, saying: “That’s the way he is… I think he has ADD”. Yeah, good drunk Duff, so drunk he forgot what he wanted to say was OCD.

So, Slash and Axl would have even more time together. However, so the band wouldn’t suspect, sometimes Axl would join the guys at the soundcheck (“You don’t do anything right if I’m not around”) or he would dismiss Slash with them.

And today, it seemed like a good day to dismiss Slash.

“Baby,” the strawberry blonde said, facing his lover, “I think you should join the boys at the soundcheck today.”

“Why is that?” the guitarist asked. He had turned his butt towards Axl and was slipping into the tight leather pants he had chosen for the evening.

“I just think you should. I don’t want them to suspect.”

Slash walked back to Axl and tried to kiss him on the lips. However, the singer’s lips felt cold, and he didn’t kiss back. Slash backed away a little. Yet, he smiled.

“Don’t tell me you’re damn nervous, angel.”

“Well…” Axl shivered a little, “what if I am?”

Slash laughed.

“C’mon. I know Elton John is one of your idols, but you have already played with him. At the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, remember? You should have been nervous there. After all, you were with all those rock legends! Fuckin’ Roger Daltrey, Robert Plant! Now those are guys to respect.” Slash put his hand on Axl’s shoulder. “And yet you looked so much more in control.”

Axl bit his lip. It looked like Slash was getting dangerously close to finding out about his little secret. He had to make a fast move.

“Well… Slash…” the singer began. He would have to let out one of his fears in order to cover his true intentions. “It’s just that… there at Freddie’s concert… well, we were all friends, you know? We were all Queen fans, and rockers, looking forward to share some good songs… but… here, it’s different.” He sighed. “There’s, you know, all this… fucking grunge crowd, and, well… they’re not exactly friends of mine.”

Slash messed up his curls. Well, Axl was definitely right. He knew that maybe the biggest regret in his lover’s life was having released that song, “One in a Million”, with the words “faggots” and “niggaz”. Criticism just didn’t wait. Axl was labeled as homophobic and racist, and Slash knew that the Nirvana guy, Kurt Cobain, had agreed with those who had said so. But they were just stupid. Axl being homophobic and racist… with a boyfriend, who was half black! The press knew Slash was half black, so sometimes he felt those accusations were exaggerations. Axl had apologized again and again, saying he had meant to create a character in the song, but things just didn’t get any better, so Axl had to accept he had had bad experiences with gay people and explained that he didn’t mean to use the word “nigga” in a racist way, but just to insult anybody, regardless of their race. And still the press wouldn’t listen. Of course. The last thing the singer wanted to do was to face his critics. That was the reason why…

“Ok,” Slash finally replied. “I get you. I’ll go ahead with the guys. Oh, and I’ll call Stephanie so she can arrive with you. Gotta give the mags pictures of your chick, you know.”

Axl kissed Slash. His thankful kiss felt warm against the guitarist’s full lips.

“With that kiss, you make me feel like staying,” Slash smiled.

“Thanks babe,” was all that Axl said. “Really, thank you”.

Courtney Love and Nirvana had finally arrived to the Pauley Pavilion, walked through the red carpet, and reached backstage. They had to make sure everything was ready for their performance before taking their seats.

“Hey,” Krist elbowed Kurt. “Know who’s playing here as well?”

“Guns n’ Fuckers,” Kurt answered with a sarcastic smile.

Courtney frowned. “Do you think that jerk is going to ask you to open his gigs—again?”

“I hope he has understood what no means.”

Suddenly, Courtney grinned broadly. However, her smile had a tinge of malice.

“Well, well,” she half-sang, “if he has a question for you, I’ll have a question for him as well.”

Kurt eyed his wife. “What?”

She chuckled. “You’ll see…”

Axl sat on the limo next to Stephanie Seymour. He was getting more nervous by the second. He had to control himself, or he wouldn’t be able to answer the journalists when he got to the Pauley Pavilion. Yet, he was hoping they wouldn’t ask him nothing related to “One in a Million”. He would blow up at them if they dared to ask him.

“Honey, are you ok?” That was Stephanie, playing her part of the concerned girlfriend, fooling the limousine driver as well. Yet, her concern was real. After becoming the screen for Axl and Slash’s relationship, the supermodel had become a very close friend of the singer. And Axl really liked her too. The fact that he always had to be showing her around, here and there, and in his videos, ended up with him trusting Stephanie entirely. She became his confidante; perhaps the person who knew him the best, not counting Slash. She would sometimes invite Axl over to her house, where he would play with her son, Dylan, and later tell her stories about his life. Or he would talk with her about his relationship with Slash. If something went wrong, Stephanie would usually give them advice and help the couple overcome the rough patches. Yeah, she knew him so much better. Axl was reminded of another friend of his, Blind Melon’s Shannon Hoon. Poor kid didn’t even know Axl was gay.

Yet, in spite of Stephanie being so wonderful, Axl just couldn’t tell her about Kurt. He was sure that would mean trouble.

The model ran her hands through Axl’s hair, trying to relax him. She hoped he wouldn’t hit a journalist or shit like that. Though, if he did, she would understand. She knew him, what did the press know?

Axl’s sad story, growing up in Lafayette, Indiana. Real name, William. Son of a teenage mother, abused and abandoned by his father (the one with the “Rose” surname) while still a baby. His stepfather had been a very religious man, and had sent Axl to help at church, along with his half-sisters. And church, instead of redemption, had brought all of them bad memories. The little girls were molested, Axl was beaten, and the new dad, though religious, thought domestic violence was the way to educate everybody around home.

So Axl, who loved music more than anything in the world and sang in the church’s choir, had run away from home. To the very city where they now were. L.A. There he had reencountered a friend from Lafayette, Jeffrey Isbell, later known as Izzy Stradlin, Guns n’ Roses first rhythm guitar, and they had worked hard to hit it big time with a band. Of course, things hadn’t been easy for them. Some jobs had occasionally given them money, but sometimes it just hadn’t been enough, so both Izzy and Axl had had to work as man-whores, seducing middle-aged women; and when the lady had chosen either the beautiful strawberry blonde or the sexy brunette, the other would empty her purse. That helped them survive. Yet, what Izzy ignored and Stephanie and Slash knew was that, sometimes, for extra money, Axl had accepted proposals from men behind Izzy’s back. And still, Axl would never tell them what had happened in those encounters. Surely those perverts must have asked terrible things from the beauty they had there. It was with this kind of faggots that the singer had had bad experiences. And yet the press would call him “homophobic”! So, whenever Izzy had asked him where he had got that money, Axl would say that he was learning how to pickpocket.

Then had come a chance with a band, and Slash. The rich English kid, son of a former Bowie groupie and an artist, who had moved to L.A. when he was eleven, had learned to play guitar, and eventually had got in a band called Black Sheep. This band had opened for the only Christian hair-metal act around, Stryper. A band named Hollywood Rose had been in the lineup also. When the concert had ended, a friend had introduced Slash to the strawberry blonde in Hollywood Rose.

In spite of the somewhat tragic memories, Stephanie couldn’t help smiling. She had a vision of a drunken Slash telling his story to her (was she a very good listener or what?) and saying, in a very corny (and very whiskey) way: “I think it was my destiny to meet Axl… or it was a miracle those fucking glittery Jesus freaks of Stryper granted me…”

Oh, yes indeed. Slash fell in love with Axl the first minute he saw him. When the friend had introduced them, Slash had to work hard in order to keep himself from drooling in front of the gorgeous kid. He was perfect. In fact, if they hadn’t become friends, Slash may have been heartbroken forever, so hard he had fallen. But he was really happy when they got along, and happier when they formed a single band, mixing members from the other bands.

However, when fame and fortune came, Axl met Erin Everly, the daughter of one of the legendary Everly Brothers. And he fell for her. Fell for her so hard that, in spite of his dark past, the rocker decided to give himself a chance to really love a woman. He wrote “Sweet Child O’ Mine” for her. Slash hated the song. Yet, when Axl would ask him why he hated it, the guitarist would only say that he hated the riff, that he felt the song was overrated. Axl wouldn’t ask more: they had a Number One hit, maybe Slash was some music snob. He just didn’t suspect Slash hated the song out of mere jealousy; he didn’t suspect that those times when Slash had started drinking heavily matched his crazy marriage proposal to Erin: Axl had threatened to kill himself if she didn’t marry him. So she did. Yet, the marriage wasn’t very good. Everything fell apart when Erin miscarried. Axl, who had always wanted to have children, was heartbroken. Things were never the same, and the marriage was annulled in January, 1991.

After that, Axl fell into a terrible depression. He kept trying to contact Erin, in a desperate, crazy way. She wouldn’t see him. Axl’s grief was so great, that Slash, trying to comfort him, eventually gave up his secret. He told the singer he was in love with him. Axl’s loneliness had encouraged him to take a chance…

Stephanie sighed. Axl had laid his head on her shoulder, and seemed more relaxed. She had to admit to herself that, in spite of all the things this man next to her had gone through, she adored the love story she was helping to create. Boy meets boy, boy meets girl, boy is sad because of her, the other boy saves him. That dude, Shakespeare, could write something about these guys that would blow fuckin’ Romeo and Juliet out of the way. Stephanie giggled when she thought about Othello. After all, Slash was half-black! Axl, a hip-swaying, rock n’ roll Desdemona. Erin, she continued, the evil Yago. Fuckin’ hit. She sometimes wished both guys would come out, already, so they could enjoy their relationship in peace. If the band had problems with that, well… fuck them! Axl and Slash were the heart and soul of the band: they could go on! Maybe even the press would be pleased and argue no more: the racist homophobic with a half-black boyfriend…

“Pauley Pavilion,” the limo driver announced.

And Axl, from Desdemona to Don Juan, took Stephanie’s hand, and opening the limo door, announced: “Shall we, my lovely?”

I guess somebody in MTV wants the bomb to explode, thought Dave. Not only do they place Nirvana and Guns n’ Roses in the same place, but they try to impose a censorship on our music. “Blah blah blah, you can’t play ‘Rape Me’, but you must play ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’”. Kurt had disagreed with that, and they had finally settled on “Lithium”… still a little reluctantly. Dave thought the execs had a point forbidding something as explicit and crude as “Rape Me”, but they certainly couldn’t make them play something they didn’t want to. Kurt would show them. Oh, and here comes Axl. Somebody wants to see a fight getting started…

Yet, Axl ignored everybody and went straight to his band and to their instruments. Slash greeted him, and then said:

“Hey, have you checked out Chris Robinson’s pants?”

Another code. Whenever they were alone, Axl and Slash would check out guys, like any gay couple would do, and end up saying: “But he’s not as fucking hot as you!”. Yet, when the band was around, they would pretend to be checking out clothing or style or something.

Anyways, Axl looked at the Black Crowes’ lead singer. Slash was right: tight pants made the lanky singer’s ass look quite good. The strawberry blonde nodded at his guitarist: so Slash had permission to check out Chris for as long as he pleased. And Axl had, of course, total freedom to…

Well, well. For a guy who sang about angst, and having friends inside his head, Kurt didn’t look so lonely. In fact, Axl was starting to get desperate. He had hoped to talk to the pretty grunge singer when he was alone, and every time he turned around he caught Kurt with his band, or with Courtney, or… there’s the bassist, right? And they seemed to be having a hell of a time: in fact, Kurt was laughing out loud. He wondered why. His gaze shifted a little: some steps away, there was the drummer, looking at the laughing pair as if he, too, was wondering what was so funny, and, next to him, was the bitch, Mrs. Cobain, who looked as if she wasn’t having that much fun. She obviously felt angry at being ignored by her own husband.

Axl decided to distract himself a little while: he hung around with the band, checked the instruments Duff assured were all set. He even patted Slash, who smiled briefly, and who eventually headed over to Rich Robinson, Chris’s brother, in order to start some talking about guitars. Finally, Axl turned his head around to a table that was set with drinks.

And it happened. Kurt was alone. He had asked his band if they wanted something to drink, and the other guys had shaken their heads. So, he had gone over to take a drink.

Axl started out towards him, just to see Courtney Love, like a moth to a flame, run towards her husband, as if afraid the light would flicker out. The rocker sighed. He should have known. Surely the woman wasn’t thirsty, but she wouldn’t let her man alone so easily. There was no other way. If Axl wanted to talk to Kurt, it would have to be in front of someone else.

So, the Guns n’ Roses lead singer walked over to the table. Of course, this was immediately noticed by sharp-eyed Love, who elbowed her husband. Axl noticed this as well, but pretended he didn’t and poured himself a drink, standing next to Kurt.

He didn’t have to make the first move. Mrs. Cobain did it all for him.

“Hey, Mr. Guns n’ Roses,” she called out.

Axl gulped his drink down.

“The name’s Axl,” he answered quietly.

“Yeah, whatever,” Courtney spat. Then she continued. “I’m gonna be frank. Me and my husband…” she grabbed Kurt, who was busy finishing his drink and not so aware of what was going on, “wanted to ask you something very important.”

“I’m listening.” In spite of his answer, Axl was getting the feeling he was not going to like whatever they were going to ask him.

Courtney smiled, and, picking up a melodramatic tone and attitude, nearly yelled:

“Oh, please! Could you, please please, be the godfather to our daughter Frances Bean? Oh, could you be as kind as to grant us that grace, oh Mr. Rose?”

Kurt nearly choked on his drink while a giggle escaped his mouth. On the back, Krist and Dave, who were watching the whole scene, giggled too, though a little uneasily. They knew that meant trouble. And Courtney, standing in front of Axl, just couldn’t keep her acting and eventually cracked up.

Axl was left standing there, not knowing what to do. It was a stupid, even childish joke. They were just trying to upset him. And yet, even though Axl knew it was a joke, something about it made him see red. Maybe it was because he began considering the question in a sincere way. He thought that if Kurt had come over to him and had asked him that, he would have agreed. In fact, he would have been so honored to be the godfather of Kurt’s little girl! But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, there was this heartless parody, this terrible mockery. He felt like punching Courtney in the face, but he held back. He was furious by now, about to explode. The only thing he could say was the first thing that crossed his brain. He turned to Kurt, just to keep Courtney out of his sight.

“Shut your bitch up!” he ordered.

There it was. He had insulted Courtney; he had confessed what he thought about her before he even got a chance of talking to Kurt. But maybe the grunge singer would stand up for his woman. If he did, Axl would try to talk things out. Maybe that could lead to… something else. No, not sex. Axl had watched that possibility fade away with this little stunt. But maybe they could talk like friends. God, all he asked for was for some fucking understanding from that blonde asshole!

But he didn’t expect what came next.

Kurt turned towards his wife, half-smiling, and said: “Shut up, bitch.”

That was it. Axl felt hurt. The grunge star didn’t even turn to see him, but moved his glance as if the rocker had been invisible. And oh no, Kurt Cobain was NOT going to ignore Axl Rose. Not tonight. Even if it meant…

“What? What? Do you wanna fight, motherfucker? Is that what you want?”

By the time Axl realized he was hollering, like onstage, it was just too late. Everybody’s attention was caught in that instant. The rest of Nirvana, his band, MTV execs. As for the Cobains… well, Courtney had a tiny smile of satisfaction lingering on her mouth, and Kurt, though he looked as if ready to protect his wife, was finally looking at Axl… as if he had been some piece of gross junk. The rocker stared at his fist. It was trembling, as if longing for a fight.

And he may have used it. Even though he wanted to use it against that Love whore, in order to wipe the nauseous smile from her face, Axl knew his fist may have gone directly to the face of the man he desired so violently… if he hadn’t felt Slash’s tight grip on his shoulder.

“Axl…” he heard his lover whisper, “whatever the fuck you’re doing, stop it. Just go.”

He turned to face the guitarist, who looked serious, even under all his hair.

“Let it go, man.”

Slash turned away, and Axl followed him to where Guns n’ Roses were. Yet, he couldn’t help adding, unable to wipe Courtney’s face off his brain:

“But this is not over, motherfucker. Oh, no, not with me.”

Slash, who thought his man was addressing Kurt, begged him to stay fucking quiet. Courtney, meanwhile, was in the mood for more action and attention, but some MTV execs stopped her. The fistfight between Poison’s Bret Michaels and CC Deville, two years ago, was still fresh in their heads and they didn’t want anything like that to happen again.

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