We scramble about in a panic, taking 10 second showers and throwing on clothes (me: pale blue satin. he: the tightest pair of brown leather trousers in existence, which I recently bought him as a gift (though it's really a gift for me).

Somehow we make it to the limo with moments to spare. On the way, after ordering the driver to get us there in time or it will be his job, I crouch in Curt's lap and apply the charcoal-black khol eyeliner I've become so fond of, as it looks so bloody fetching on him.

"It's faggy," he shrugs. "But I like it, " he admits.

"It's fucking hot, is what it is," I say, leaning back and eying him up and down. "But then isn't everything on you?"

Because of the insane traffic caused by the gig, and due only to my driver laying on his horn, blowing every red light and stop sign, and flooring it down back alleys and residential side streets, do we manage to arrive in time, if just under a minute until Curt and his band are due to take the stage. I am substantially more freaked about this than Curt, who assures me that his band pretty much wings it each night, anyway.

"You don't rehearse?"I ask, astonished. "No setlist?"

"Nah," he says calmly, shrugging, "we just play what we feel."

We screech to a halt outside the back of the venue, after passing endless, blocks-long lineups of fans, only to meet … a giant pileup of fans. With the escalation of fame, there is now always the more hardcore crowd who somehow manage to figure out which of the many rear doors to these massive structures is the one I will use.

And the snooping paparazzi, of course, are on the scent, so that in addition to those taken on stage at every gig, and the innumerable photos shoots and magazine spreads, there are now shots every day of me climbing out of limos, pushing away autograph seekers, and rushing inside … which maybe sounds glamorous, but is routinely unflattering in that I am always looking haggard and stressed, and worst of all, sans makeup.

In more recent weeks, what the press has started seeing through their lens is, as Curt put it, their very wet dream, and what I'm sure they secretly peg as part of the on ongoing Jerry-mandated publicity stunt – Curt and I arriving together.

He, meanwhile finds it all to be an absolute hoot, as he is positively tickled to be in any newspaper at all.

"Aside from the police log. Or the obituaries."

What is preoccupying me at the current moment, however, is what the press is about to witness. Something new, which will definitely make their flashbulbs burst.

My first instinct is to drop his, however Curt likes this hand holding business so much, that he has decided not to let go of mine as we exit the limo.

Yes. I have happily played along with the 'are they or aren't they' pretend bi/glam coupledom thing, as it was all part of the business, the decadent, sexual outlaw image I've crafted, and yes, lived to a degree. And after all, we do make a smashing pair to liven up the dreary music press … however as we make this small public gesture for the very first time – whether or not the press knows it's real – something strange dawns on me.

Strange for me, anyway.

That, considering today's monumental mutual declarations, suddenly, it now feels like … how does one put it?

Like … this isn't for show. This thing we're doing. It's real. It's private.

It's for us.

Not for public consumption.

It's too late though, of course - the flashbulbs are indeed popping to a blinding degree, and I'm not about to add to what will already be a firestorm of coverage by dropping his hand.

"Maxwell Demon in Gay Public Spat!"

"Slade and Wild – Lover's Row? See inside for pics!"

And the like.

Security holds back the crowd as we bound up the stairs two at at time, bolt through the door, and sprint breathless up two more flights into the back stage area.

"Curt, what the FUCK," his bandmate and best friend Jim says in a highly displeased tone. "We got like thirty seconds!"

"Sorry, man," Curt deadpans, hurriedly strapping on a guitar, "we were ..." He looks from Jim, to me, "... y'know ..." and back again ... "fucking."

For a moment, there's dead air as the two stare at each other ... before bursting out laughing.

"Asshole," Jim mutters, slapping Curt upside the head as they walk through the curtain, joining the others on stage.

I'm due in makeup, but can't resist hanging back, and peaking at them from side stage.

Curt huddles briefly with Jim and his two other bandmates, before breaking away, and with a single stamp of his feet, launches into the opening chords of TV Eye.

The guitar intro, already longer than what one usually finds in a rock song, is extended while Curt bounces and lunges and spins, before finally grabbing the mic and whaling out the opening note in a howling, throat murdering scream.

I laugh. It's his favorite of their songs to perform, and this extended, more raucous than normal beginning speaks to his being in an exceptionally good mood, which I will attribute not only to his boyish, lifelong love of playing rock and roll with his mates, but also, of course, to the events of the afternoon.

Backstage, after the application of various foundations, powders, rouge, mascara and sparkly glitter spray to my hair and face, I'm outfitted in one of my more ridiculous getups, which is saying a lot. It's the deep V-neck number with the jagged rainbow lightning strike, enormous puffed out shoulder pads, and long droopy wizard sleeves. Not to mention matching 6 inch platform boots which I almost literally need a stepladder to get in to.

Lately the outfits, the hair and makeup … it's all begun to feel so … yesterday. Like 'me' a year ago when I was still on the beginnings of the ascent, ready and eager to do the right drugs, kiss the right ass, fuck absolutely everyone and everything I needed to … and then some. I happily, willingly threw myself at every crazy gamble and scheme if I thought that fame lay on the other side, aided and egged on every step of the way, of course, by Jerry.

But in truth, I hardly needed the push.

And now, of course – it's rather a cliché, isn't it? - the star I've created, the monster and his ridiculous outfits, has begun to feel like a trap. Like a pose that no longer fits. Like something I'm desperate to wriggle out from under.

Not that Jerry will hear of it.

"Are you insane?! You fans demand Maxwell Demon, Brian! You are him, to them! They see him in the fan magazines. They rip out the pages and paste them to their walls. You can't bloody show up in jeans and trainers."

I'm standing with my arms straight out to my sides as my two dresser girls button and zip and straighten and fit.

"Please. I'm hardly proposing jeans and trainers."

I hang onto the two women, step up into the sequined boots, and observe myself in the mirror.

I sigh.

"I look like a fucking circus performer."

"What makes you think you aren't?" Jerry snorts.

"Fuck off."

"Brian, I frankly don't understand you. You're in the quite extraordinary position of having created a chart bustingly successful character, a persona who has taken off to a degree that any artist on this planet would kill for. You'll go into the pop music and fashion history books. You own the bloody world."

It's funny that as Jerry blathers on about history and artists and the world, all I can see in his eyes are bloody dollar signs.

"... Your fans," he continues, "demand the dazzling, otherworldly creature. They are in love with him. They're obsessed. You can't disappoint them."

"And still expect to take their money."

"Correct," he says quickly.

I keep my mouth still as the special thick, dark purple lipstick is carefully applied, then curl it into a pout as I glance down at myself.

"Well all I know is, this is getting fucking old."

We exit the dressing room and stand stage-side ... and it's as if I've stumbled upon another planet, one made up of fresh air, freedom, spontaneity and abandon. There are Curt and his mates stomping about in all their sloppy, sweaty glory, laughing, pogo-jumping, falling down on their arses and missing notes and ending songs on the wrong beat … and it's glorious. They're clearly having the time of their lives on this tour, and, as usual, have long since brought the crowd along with them via Curt's ever manic, brilliant, completely fearless, and by now shirtless performance. (Having earlier flung himself headlong into the assemblage only to return without it.)

As Jerry bitches and moans ad nauseum, I feel my face flush with jealousy.

By god, look at them! Their sense of joy! Of abandon and play! And by christ, look at that Curt Wild! The sexual energy truly pours off him in waves – not unhelped – phew!- by how he looks in leather ...

As the final tune winds down Jerry groans in exasperation.

"Well that was a bloody fucking mess," he spits.

"Oh, will you fuck off," I snap, turning to look at him. "I would kill for – I wish I had half his-"

I spy something out of the corner of my eye. I look. It's Curt, head turned sharply to the side looking directly at me from the mic, with an enormous, full faced grin – apparently he hadn't known I was here, watching, as I'm normally caught up in the choreography of bloody outfit changes and such right up til the last moment.

He turns his head and speaks into the mic.

"Hey, ya know what I think is fucking stupid?" He asks the crowd, who roar as crowds do over anything said from a stage. "Trying to fucking outlaw queers."

Jerry about falls over. "Is he mad?!"

I admit, it is a bit shocking. Curt isn't normally given to political, or really any pronouncements, generally, and here he has zeroed in on what is not exactly an uncontroversial topic, in a country where being 'queer' is, indeed, illegal.

Such a statement will make the papers and may get us into trouble … but Curt, as is his wont, doesn't care.

"It's like," he continues, "trying to outlaw fucking."

I burst out laughing. There is a mixed response from the audience, who don't seem to know how to react.

"But it's stupider even than that," he continues, "I mean ..."

"He means?!" Jerry snaps, turning quickly to one of our sound engineers, Simon, and makes a slicing motion across his neck: "Cut his mic!"

"NO!" I bellow, looking at Simon. "Don't you dare! Understand me?! Or it will be your bloody JOB!"

On stage, as his bandmates look at each other quizzically, Curt continuous, oblivious. "Try zeroing in on a tiny subset of people and telling them they can't eat, or breathe." He looks over at me, and back. "Or fall in love, I mean … good luck with that shit."

The crowd roars, but there is a definite mixture of response: cheers, boos and catcalls - the tension in the air is distinctly palpable, and uncomfortable.

It's exciting, and scary, what he's doing. Not at all the type of excitement my shows tend to generate. The greatest 'risks' taken from my stage amount to those of the fashion variety.

Meanwhile, there are increasing boos and catcalls.

"I will ring his fucking neck!" Jerry meanwhile snaps.

"Not before I take an axe to yours!" I snap back.

"Hey!" Curt says suddenly, shouting into the mic. "You guys ready to see Brian Slade?"

This causes an instant turnaround in the crowd's mood, the place positively exploding in screams and cheers.

"What is he doing, announcing you!" Jerry says angrily. "We've never-"

"-Huh?" Curt continues, turning his head and holding his hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you! I SAID, are you guys READY for some MAXWELL FUCKIN' DEMON!?" he adds, taunting and whipping them into a deafening, venue shaking roar.

In the next split second, before I realize it, he's flown to my side and is pulling me out onto the stage by hand.

Oh, no. This is definitely not standard protocol, and Jerry – and my crew - will not be pleased. My entrances are very tightly controlled, expensively choreographed and timed, with lighting, coloured smoke, and innumerable props.

"Curt, wait," I protest "you can't," … but it's too late. In an instant, we are standing together at the mic, under the glare of the spotlight.

I look. That gorgeous, sweaty, wide open face is beaming like the sun.

The world, and everyone else in it, fall away.

I'm buzzing. How could I not be? Nervous, excruciatingly self conscious, the voice in the back of my head yelling how much I'm going to pay for this, but at the moment ... not caring.

He, this man I love desperately, has only gone and rescued me, for fuck's sake, from the very thing I've been stewing and stressing about for weeks – the bloody routine, the stultifying script, how boring and tired it has all become.

Which of course is all why management hadn't wanted him on the tour in the first place, why the insurance costs doubled, etc.

And why is that, exactly?

Because Curt Wild is alive. He personified excitement, beauty, talent, rebellion and danger. The polar opposite of stability and predictability; of deadly, stinking boredom.

Is there any wonder I was smitten from the first?

The crowd, the flashbulbs are meanwhile going absolutely bonkers at the sight of the two of us standing here, I then realize ... fully holding hands.

Before Curt backs away, jokingly bowing to me as he does, and despite his intense dislike for the sort of thick, pasty stage lipsticks I wear, without warning he suddenly kisses me firm on the mouth, instantly quadrupling both the earsplitting volume and the bursting flash bulb count.

When he pulls off, I'm in triple shock; the good, tingly kind, and high as the bloody freaking moon.

Just before he steps away for good, he touches my shoulder, brings his lips to my ear to whisper, or rather, due to the deafening, stomping roar, to yell:

"Sorry. I know I fucked your thing. Couldn't help it."

"It's okay," I shout back.

He grins at me. His eyes spark.

"I love you."

Jesus christ, it's still so bloody shocking to hear. I go to respond, my mouth starts to open, but gets stuck there.

He laughs. He leans into my ear again.

"Have a good show."

I nod.

"And just so you know, immediately afterwards," he continues, "I'm gonna fuck the living shit out of you."

… And with that ... instantly, he's gone ... and my band has replaced his, and I'm standing here in a daze, everyone expecting me to carry on like normal, like I didn't just hear what I did, like I don't want right this instant and with every fiber of my being to turn and chase after him and make him make good on his promise ...

I shakily grasp the mic in one hand. When I see the photos of myself in the next day's papers – the ones taken at this particular moment – I laugh. Because. I look pale and shell shocked, and, at least to my eyes, so glaringly, screamingly, obviously like a creature both desperately in love, and painfully in lust.

I cling to the mic. I force myself to speak normally.

"And now," I say, pointing at Curt's departing form and then at the crowd, "you will all applaud the insanely hot and disgustingly talented MISTER CURT WILD and his amazing band, The Wild Rats!"

The place roars. I look back at my band momentarily, still flummoxed, still tingling. They stand there, blankly staring back, undoubtedly highly annoyed with me, but moreso with Curt, awaiting my signal for our return to the safe confines of the script.

I then spy him, side stage, facing me, watching, flanked by a clearly angry Jerry, who is gesturing and barking in his ear. Curt is trying to ignore him – he's waiting for me to start so Jerry will shut up. Knowing how short a fuse Curt has, I turn quickly back to the mic.

"Good evening, and thanks for coming." The place erupts. "Before we begin, though, um, I just wanna strongly second the thing that was said a minute ago into the mic about, um ..." I stop here, as it all feels quite frightening, suddenly, under the glare of the bright lights and 20,000 sets of eyes plus the press, to even hint at any sort of a political statement – certainly my fans don't expect it as I've never, ever done it.

It might not exactly be welcomed.

I glance nervously back at Curt and see that Jerry has indeed shut up and they are both now looking at me with curiosity.

I look back at the crowd.

"Um, as I was saying … I wanna second what was said about, um …" I take a breath, and spit it out. "Homosexuality being illegal. I think it's stupid, and ..."

The crowd cheers, but I know enough about stardom to know that it – their seemingly positive reaction - is meaningless. Pretty much anything said by the star they have paid to see will be applauded and cheered. I could tell them I intend to kill and eat each of their grandmothers, and it would get the same response. (Only a small part of this is, I believe, due to the language barrier, but mostly not, as English is spoken widely, all over Europe.)

I don't look, but am confident Jerry is going into conniptions, and so quickly turn back to my band, count off, and launch into our planned opening number, which he cannot be mad about because it's written right there on the setlist – I didn't just throw it in because of it's clearly homoerotic overtones - "Lady Stardust".

It's a song I wrote at some point a while back about a boy I imagined happening upon in a club: achingly beautiful, talented, charismatic, rebellious, and terribly misunderstood, whom I admire and want desperately to be like. Eerily prophetic, in that it foretold exactly what would happen to me with Curt, and yet was written years before I ever laid eyes on him.

Regardless, as far as I'm concerned, it is about him, and so now tonite for the first time I will alter some of the original lyrics. (Wonder if the press will pick up on that.)

People stared at the makeup on his face
Laughed at his long blonde hair, his animal grace

The boy in leather trousers
Jumped up on the stage
And lady stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and disgrace

And he was aaallllright, the band was altogether
Yes he was aaallllright (more than alright),

the song went on forever
And he was awful nice
Really quite out of sight

And he sang aaalllll night loooooong

Femme fatales emerged from shadows
To watch this creature fair
Boys stood upon their chairs
To make their point of view
I smiled sadly for a love I could not obey

Lady Stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and dismay

And he was alright, the band was altogether
Yes he was alright, the song went on forever
And he was awful nice (and beautiful, and gorgeous, and hot,)
Really quite paradise

And he sang aaallllll night loooooong

I glance sideways. He knows the story of the song, and he and I exchange huge, gushing grins.

Yes, anyone looking at us can see it.

Brian Slade and Curt Wild are in love.

The remainder of the show, as I point out to Jerry afterwards, follows the script in every way, including four torturous outfit changes, and is extremely well received by the crowd, who, to my deep frustration, demand not the usual two, but fucking three bloody encores.

I resist the urge to pull Curt out on stage for the last number, figuring we will have enough hell to pay as it is, and with the last note still reverberating through the speakers, dash off stage straight into his arms.

Back stage I stand on a small platform as my two dresser girls begin the slow, careful undoing of one of my more insane outfits, all whilst Jerry blathers on.

"And we sure as fuck won't be having any more ridiculous political statements. You, the very embodiment of hip 1970s and not the 60's! Political bollocks is not what your fans pay to see, for fuck's sake! So bloody tiresome and tedious! Obnoxious! Denouncing a country's law whilst being hosted by that country?!"

"Jerry, you are acting exactly like a man for whom tonite I didn't just make several thousand pounds."

Curt, hair awry, shirtless and still slightly damp, stands in the corner behind Jerry and my dressers, and chuckles.

Jerry turns and looks at him with murder in his eyes.

"This, of course, is your exceptionally bad influence."

Curt grins and shrugs, takes a puff on his cig, and wisely says nothing.

"Yes, it is his fault," I say. "Just a terrible influence, this bravery and integrity business."

"Call if what you want, Brian. Give it big, heroic sounding names. The bottom line is, it's bad for business."

I laugh.

"And that is all you care about, of course."

"Well you're awfully late to the cause business, I do believe, Brian, hmm? Next you'll be donating 100% of your proceeds to charity?"

I grin.

"Why, what a splendid idea! Holiday camp for young, aspiring ..." I look at Curt, who has sat himself down in a chair in the corner.

"Wannabe rock stars," he quips.

We both burst out laughing.

"Very funny," Jerry whines. "Hilarious. It's shocking to me, Brian, how little of this you seem to take seriously."

I sigh in overly bored fashion and grab my girls' shoulders to step out of the boots.

"Jerry, I'm standing here in a dress."

Curt chuckles.

"Yes, and that is the uniform of Maxwell Demon, the millionaire space creature who does not make tedious and tiresome political announcements."

"What is exceedingly tedious and tiresome," I say, "is this conversation. So let's call an end to it, shall we? Please leave."

"Absolutely," he responds. "As soon as you and Curt agree there are to be no more idiot, off the cuff political statements." He says, spitting out the last phrase it like it's the most revolting thing in the world.

"Oh, do fuck off," I snap. "Curt and I are grown men free to speak our minds. You aren't our mother."

Curt chuckles again.

"We are free," I continue, "to say what we want, when we want, without needing to run it by you beforehand, capiche?"

"And so we will sit back and watch your record sales plummet."

"Please," I say, as a button, stud and sequined sleeve weighing about five stone is carefully, painstakingly removed from my arm, "do get your frilly panties out of the twist they are in about this, won't you, Jerry?"

Curt, in the corner in a cloud of smoke, grins at me in that unbearably sexy manner, reminding me just how much he is turned on by my one-upping Jerry, and then does something that almost makes me fall down dead.

As I watch, he leans slightly back and slowly raises a foot up onto the edge of the adjacent folding chair, turning out his knee slightly to the side, allowing me a clear, unobstructed view of his … oh my, leather bound crotch.

"Ahhh," I say, staring, nearly drooling. "Leather is such a fine thing."

"Is it?" Jerry says dumbly. "I find it rather revisionist, myself."

"Um," I snap "can you explain to me why are you still in my dressing room, giving me your opinion about things? Make yourself scarce, please, won't you?"

"A good manager guides his acts and steers them away from stupid fucking mistakes."

"Who says you're a good manager?" I say flatly, as the girls remove the last of my other sleeve, while Curt grins and torments me by upping the ante: tucking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, gazing at me with those piercing, half lidded 'fuck me' eyes, lowering his hand ... and slowly brushing it along the zipper.

"Oh shit," I blurt, almost falling off the pedestal.

"What's wrong?" one of the girls stops and asks.

"Nothing. Nothing. Can you hurry up, please?"

As the last of the upper half of my outfit is peeled off me I am caused to cough suddenly, as the bastard does it again, not only "accidentally" caressing his crotch, but adjusting the growing lump therein with his palm, mid way through, all as those pale blue, lust clouded eyes roam my torso.

"Um," I say, looking quickly at my girls. "W-why don't you two call it a night? I'm sure I can get the rest."

They look at each other briefly, but remain in place, as this too, is Against The Rules.

"Brian," Jerry whines, "need I remind you, your outfits are painstakingly hand sewn from the highest quality imported materials. They costs several thousand each, which is why we hire and pay two dressers-"

Behind him Curt stands and takes a step toward me, then another, lips parted slightly, eyes boring into mine.

"-Um, you know what?" I blurt. "I-I don't care right now, frankly-"

"You don't ca-?!" Jerry snaps, but is interrupted by Curt, who steps between and in front of them all.

"He doesn't fucking care," he says pointedly, sidling up, placing a hand on each of my hips and slipping his thumbs down inside the waist band.

"But I promise to be gentle," he says, looking at them, "when I rip these off his body."