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It's about a million degrees in the merch tent and it’s swarming shoulder to shoulder with unwashed festival masses all in search of a little shade between sets. The bedazzled black bandanna Jensen has snugged around the bottom half of his face may help keep him from breathing in kicked up dirt but it doesn’t stop the rank stench of BO from invading his nostrils as he snakes through the crowd with Danni in tow. It’s practically suffocating.
As he gets closer to the sales counter the crowd gets even more tightly packed and with only twenty bucks in his pocket it barely seems worth the discomfort to peruse the overpriced stickers and t-shirts of bands he’s never even heard of. He's about to grab his bestie’s wrist, turn tail and retreat when the sleek shine of a shrink wrapped album cover catches his eye, urging him forward.
It’s the words and not the image that draw him in at first, stark red and white print in big, angry fonts against a grainy black and white background.
FUCKPIG. CUNTWRECKER.
He's drawn to the pile of big, glossy vinyl even though he doesn't have a turntable at home, slithering his way past the last few assholes in his path, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes wide. He shakes his head and blinks to make sure he’s seeing it right, tugging his bandana down and letting out an unintentional gasp as he picks up one of the records.
Punk fucking rock. Cuntwrecker is right.
The cover features the negative image of a massive erect cock that’s moments away from giving a tight, furry little butthole the honor of a proper wrecking. His eager teenage dick twitches hard in his too-tight cutoffs as he drinks in the sight.
While the band is probably just going for shock value an electric pulse of very real arousal zips up his spine. What he wouldn’t give to meet the owner of such an impressive tool. It’s equally exciting and bizarre seeing something so completely pornographic in broad daylight with a swarm of people milling around instead of alone in front of his laptop with his chafed little prick in his hand.
"Fifteen dollars," barks the skinhead bagging up the purchases of the dudebros standing next to Jensen. He licks his chapped lips and looks back down at the record, softly panting from the heat.
“Um, wow," Danni blurts as she slinks in next to Jensen at the counter, her eyes bulging. The studs on her denim vest dig into Jensen’s arm as she leans over to get a better look, her candy-red mouth slightly agape.
She’s seen worse. You don’t grow up next door to a shameless cockslut like Jensen Ackles without getting exposed to more than just a little bit of gay porn. All the same, she gasps and twists her neck to look away once he flips over the record.
"Fuck," Jensen heaves. The word feels as heavy as a dripping wet varsity football cock on his tongue as his fingers clench the edges of the album.
If the front cover’s the before picture, the back cover’s the after.
Two big, male hands are prying a sloppy wet boy cunt so wide Jensen can practically see what the kid had for lunch. He stifles a groan and shifts his weight on his cherry red docs as he finally makes himself scan the track list.
It reads more like his Pornhub search history than a list of song titles.
- KY. 2. Turnout. 3. Load It Up. 4. Let Me Hear You. 5. Breeders. 6. One Hand Man. 7. Gash. 8. Felcher. 9. Coke Dick. 10. Point of No Return.
His head’s spinning like he’s about to get a nose bleed.
“If your mom catches you with that she’s going to send you to conversion therapy for real this time, Jen,” Danni snarks, the truth in the words are as solid as concrete despite her flippant tone.
A tall thin dude with a blonde goatee in a faded, sleeveless Bikini Kill t-shirt and a studded backwards ball cap steps up behind the counter, looking between the two of them with a knowing smile.
"They're playing the main stage at five, if you’re interested," he says, leaning over and giving Jensen a wet-lipped grin. He winks at Danni as he slides a vinyl sticker across the back of the record and under Jensen's slender fingertips.
A garish cartoon pig in the same shade of baby pink as Jensen's chipped nail polish smiles up at him. It’s wearing a spiked collar and is ball-gagged with an apple. Its blindfold says FUCKPIG in the same angry red font as the album cover.
"You buyin’?" The guy asks, tipping his chin toward the album still clutched in Jensen's hands. "You can have the sticker either way.”
He fishes the crumpled twenty out of his pocket without a second thought, ignoring Danni's good-natured eye roll.
"Nice shirt," the guy says as he gives Jensen his change. “Didn’t think anyone your age had ever heard of ‘em.”
Jensen wasn’t quick enough when Danni picked him up pre-dawn for their drive to Austin and his mom caught him trying to leave the house in his skin tight F-A-G tee. He didn’t have time to do anything but snag the Mother Love Bone t-shirt he bought for $2.99 at a Goodwill in McKinney off the top of his laundry pile. Sure, he could have sold it for a hundred bucks on eBay but his grunge boy heart wouldn’t let him.
"Fuckpig does a great cover of 'Crown of Thorns,' believe it or not,” he continues. “They haven't played it much on the festival circuit but if you get to hear it, man, it’s a real treat. They start their own US tour next month in Dallas. You should try to make it out."
Jensen thanks the man as he tucks the record carefully into his messenger bag and shoves his thick stack of bracelets up his wrist to peek at his peeling Lisa Frank unicorn watch. It was just past 4pm, plenty of time to make it back across to the main stage so they can see what kind of band sells their records using gay porn.