Milo Aukerman smut story; 2

Milo fucks!!!!

(Let me preface this and say I did not proofread like 70% of this. So if u read this and find a spelling mistake. Or two. My sincerest apologies)

'You were good out there.' I say, eyes locked on to him. He looks right back at me, with tired eyes. He's glistening with sweat, hair slick against his forehead and his cupids bow shiny. I can smell him from where I'm standing, too.

'Thanks.' He replies back simply, but with a gravelly tone. Milo, I believe the bassist had called him, at some point as they were performing. He was alright looking. Short brown hair, obviously growing out from a buzz cut and he had been too lazy to touch it up, blue eyes framed by thick black prescriptions. Relatively pale skin that made the redness on his cheeks all the more obvious. He'd clearly had quite the workout, pacing the stage and screaming his head off for the past half an hour.

I'd paid six dollars to come see the band he played in, 'the Descendents,' at this bar close by to where I lived. A tiny venue, this place was. Cramped and dimly lit by only hanging jar lights and one above the bar counter, but perfect for not-so-popular bands to choose to play their little shows at. I'd never heard of them in my life, and as far as I can tell they're local, but yeah, they were a decent act. Not sure of the idea behind misspelling 'descendants,' but oh well. Creativity goes a long way. Sometimes. Maybe I could ask him the big idea behind it.

'First time playing here?' I inquire. I watch as he gently traces the thumbs from his rough hands against the cup he's holding, the wetness of it forming small circles. He appears to be in a whole other world.

'Uh huh,' he responds nonchalantly, and after some time. 'I think so.'

'What, you don't know where you are?' I say, snickering a bit. I have to raise my voice to talk to him over the crowd in the bar. I keep my laughing at a normal volume, though. I don't want him to hear that. I figure punk guys like this want to be taken very seriously, and wouldn't be happy if they heard me giggling at them.

'Never.' He says. That same deadpan tone in his voice. Distant. He really means it, then. His pupils are huge, which is interesting, seeing he's clearly not the drinking type. I stare at him, deep in thought, myself.

I think he's a cute guy. I mean, he has the most stereotypical nerd image I've ever seen, and it's almost laughable. I'm thinking to myself, he must be doing it on purpose. I mean, you play in a band with a group of more hardened looking curly haired boys, scream about hating your parents (at least, I'm pretty sure that was what one of the songs they played entailed) and you look like a cartoon character? It's gotta be on purpose, right? A bit for the band? I push a finger gently against my lips. If he can read my mind, he's doing a good job not acting pissed. God. I'm so mean. But, yeah. Otherwise, he's a looker. He's pretty tall, too, which is always a plus in a guy. Dunno why, but that's the way it is. Maybe the hormones make me think that way. I take my gaze off of his face, and back to his hands. The cup is basically see through now, he's been rubbing against it so long. I sigh. Here goes nothing.

'Can I get you a drink, Milo?' I ask him, putting emphasis on his name out and dragging it out as I say it, like I'm under the impression that it's a fake name or something. He slowly turns his head toward me, and chews at his lip. He's eyeing me up and down.

'No, thank you. I don't drink.' He mumbles, and I almost don't hear him. He's got a very low voice, presumably from the strain he's putting on it from his singing style, so his inside voice is particularly hard to hear over such loud chatter and the clinking of glass. Also, I guess I was right when I'd assumed he didn't like alcohol. Most people don't go straight for a glass of water after a night out, let alone performing at a bar. Though, it probably should be the first choice. A beer can only make the cotton mouth you'd be experiencing after screaming for as long as he was all the more stronger. The gossip of the crowd is still making it hard for me to focus on anything. I wonder if his band mates are amongst them, doing better than he is with a different girl. I shrug.