You can't find yourself these days. Everything rushes at you faster than the speed of light. Fame, fortune, family, friends, sex..him. He's faster than the others even though his visits are infrequent. The dent his landing leaves is always far greater than your ability to repair. He's an icon, a household name, your secret lover.

When he comes, it's like the air around you is gone. You're desperate and floating around in space with the need for contact as high as it can possibly be. He gives you that contact. It can come in many forms. Some days you take it willingly and allow your clothes to rip as he tears buttons off designer shirts. You've come to understand that only men can possess such savagery and not be sorry about it when it's all said and done. Other days you stand against the cool wall and wonder why you let him do it. The hot wet suction around your cock should be reason enough.. only it isn't. He goes down on you often and he does it well. Sometimes you think he lets your come drip down his chin on purpose, just to weaken your resolve.

You know he isn't a bad guy. Quite the contrary, he's the poster child for what good is. At least to the world. With you, things can change radically. The purity ring he wears on his finger is a mere facade. The original he's given to you and you wear it around your neck without a fuss. He says he likes it. He says it's a reminder of what he's given up. For you. All for you. He says.

You have your own decent amount of fame. The Asians treat you like royalty but you'd rather they didn't. You enjoy the simple things in life and could do without people treating you like you've fallen from heaven and could fly back at any given time.

On what you would call good days, he treats you like fragile porcelain. You lie there for hours, biting your lip till it bleeds to conceal any sounds that can betray you. He's tasting you. Feasting on your body...and you're liking it. Then there come the not so good days where he's frantic and hungry, nearly possessed. He slams into you with brute force and you find yourself unable to believe that it's really him. The guy who legions of little girls and their parents look up to and admire. The nice boy.

His fame baffles you but you pay no mind to it because really, you couldn't be any happier for him. He deserves it. He works hard and it certainly pays off. Months go by and you haven't heard from him. The media says it all. You read about who he's dating and where he's going. He's constantly under the limelight and despite all this, you can't help but pity him.

You're young but you have it in you to lead a band and reach platinum in album sales. They say your voice is a beautifully unique listening experience and you don't take such compliments lightly. Sometimes, music is the world to you and sometimes you just want out. Your touring is usually enjoyable. Sold out shows across Europe and Asia where girls scream themselves hoarse and toss undergarments at you become a routine. You find it all to be a most fascinating circus of sorts. But you're a part of it and on stage, you feel at home.

Then you go back to your hotel room and suck his cock till you can't feel your lips anymore. He always finds you and his cock is always waiting. You make love and it's deliciously languid. The rhythm of your rocking hips is perfectly symmetrical to his and then comes that moment where you see stars and call out his name repeatedly in a chant. Almost...a prayer.

You collapse against him and he holds you and you're once again reminded of why you put up with all this. Of why you put up with him. It's simple. He's Joe Jones and you love him.

He says he loves you too and you fall asleep in his arms, a place you silently consider a sanctuary. Then you dream and it's a good dream, up until you wake up and the cycle begins all over again.