From The First Verse - M. Robinson Page 0,1

stage.

Drunk.

High.

Fucked up as shit.

No one gave a damn ’cuz the simple truth was...

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, baby.

It wasn’t just a bumper sticker on the back of a 1966 Mustang Sally. It was a fuckin’ lifestyle.

A stigma.

A curse.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

The crowd hoot and hollered, consumed with the desire to hear me jam out on my electric guitar. We were the closing act every night for this weekend rock-and-roll festival.

Fuckin’ headliner.

Pulling out the pill bottle from the back of my jeans, I shook out a handful and swallowed them down with my bottle of whiskey.

Nothing started or ended without the legend, Cash Motherfuckin’ McGraw, lead front man of Life of Debauchery. It was everything I ever wanted. What had I sacrificed every aspect of my life for, if not for the love of music?

Making all my dreams come true.

I owed it to my fans who kept me alive when I was killing myself inside.

Jim handed me my guitar, as I reluctantly passed him my half empty bottle of whiskey.

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

Heart pounding.

Head spinning.

Eyes wide open.

I made my way on stage.

This was my favorite part. The beating of color right before the storm. The blinding lights didn’t take away the fact I knew all eyes were on me the instant I came into sight. Immediately hearing the audience lose their minds.

Cheering.

Chanting.

Applauding.

Crying and screaming out my name exactly like the fuckin’ groupie who came on my cock last night.

Life of Debauchery was larger than life.

Nothing.

No one.

Could. Touch. Us.

We were unstoppable.

“Cash! I want to have your triplets!”

“Cash, I love you!”

“Cash! Cash! Cash!”

I grinned, throwing the guitar strap over my shoulder while shooting my right hand up in the air. Symbolizin’ the universal sign for rock and roll with my fingers. Feeding off the energy the audience provided, which was always the best high in itself.

Bringing my fingers together, I gestured, “More,” in sign language. After all these years, I kept my promise to her. It was how I opened every performance, no matter where I was. My fans knew it was part of my trademark when they saw us in concert, often doing it themselves when they screamed out, “More!”

It was one of the questions the press always hounded me with. “Cash, at your shows, why do you gesture more in sign language?”

Repeatedly answering, “’Cuz I always leave ’em wantin’ more,” brushing off the subject.

Beck, our rhythm guitarist and secondary vocalist mocked, “Nice of you to join us, princess.”

“Eat shit,” I replied, laughing.

Beck and I were the closest in the band. He was mostly known for making a lot of bad decisions that often ended with our PR doing damage control. Jude, our bass guitarist, wasn’t far behind him, and Stixx, our drummer, well, he was a constant shit show everywhere we went. Together we summed up Life of Debauchery, living up to the name of our band was what we did best. We weren’t just a group, we were family. A family of fuckin’ trouble.

I didn’t look at the crowd.

I didn’t take anything in.

I was long past that.

Instead, I handed the arena the first taste of the power I held in my hands, all from the lick of my guitar. I controlled the rhythm, the pace, their pleasure.

They loved me for it.

Worshipped me.

Making them beg for more, and mercy was my specialty.

With my calloused finger on the G chord of my Fender Stratocaster guitar, I teased them with the slow progression of the rock tune I effortlessly strummed. The music came alive beneath my fingers, vibrating my core.

Stixx tapped his drumsticks to the same beat coursing through the air, while Beck and Jude followed my lead with the harmony I created.

The crowd went fuckin’ wild.

I had them eating outta the palm of my hand, riding the climax as hard as I could. Head swaying back and forth, foot tapping sharply beneath me, leaning forward and then backward as I finger fucked the chords like it was my favorite pussy.

Getting lost in the melody, it always provided me an escape from my reality. Music found me when no one else cared to look.

I closed my eyes and became one with my guitar. It was an extension of my body, the one thing I could rely on, my best friend, my self-expression, the shield I hid behind.

When words failed me, my Fender did all the talking.

Besides, the only words people wanted to hear outta my fuckin’ mouth were the lyrics of our songs. It was the only time what I said mattered.

You see, I