Worn out—that’s the impression Leo Morato always gave people who chanced to see him onstage, breathing and rasping into the mic as if the music was sucking all the strength his body possessed. To some people, he’s almost inseparable from the music—it was as if the furious and at times lamenting rhythms had already enslaved him that they found it hard to imagine him without his band, enveloping him in a wall of haunting riffs and bestial drum fills. The Leo without the band—that’s what the women who had watched him wanted to explore, to unmask.
His body is his instrument, as his adoring fans would say. He let the rhythms flow through his body, let them jerk his arms and sway his head each time he roars into the mic, and before long he would have worked up the crowd of spectators who were lucky enough to witness him. His shirtless antics on the stage have turned him into a symbol—a symbol that women rallied around, and the band’s music was pushed to the backstage, as Leo would say. All that the fans kept seeing was Leo brushing off his hair to reveal his striking features, sweat trickling down the contours of his body, the stage lights making every drop shimmer with his every move. The music entered their ears, but nothing else registered other than the lead vocalist thrashing around onstage, a specimen of beauty that made them grow moist with longing. No one paid much attention to Leo’s lyrics filled with anguish from the past, a past that changed his being altogether.
Someone slithered next to Leo in a bar once, an attractive young lady aiming to slither into bed with him. He was timid all throughout their conversation, answering in lines as if he were just reciting fragments from his songs, which bored her after a while and just invited him to come to her place. He refused. Not knowing what else to do, he left the place without another word, leaving his bandmates wondering what the hell was up with him.
He did take someone home with him one other night, though. She sneaked in with the other groupies backstage, and his eyes found her among the throng of young women who had gathered with the hope of beguiling the rock star with their flirtatious glances. He singled her out, ignoring everyone else. It was her bangs that did it, and it was his bandmates’ questioning glances ever since the bar incident that forced him to take her.
They drove to his condo along Recto. There had been no small talk, no foreplay. He just gripped the steering wheel with a determination to look straight ahead, as if he was driving through a derelict part of the countryside in the lateness of the hour. On the other hand, she couldn’t say a thing for the whole trip—she knew the man onstage, not the man who had chosen her and was now driving her to his place.
At his condo, Leo didn’t know what to do with her, so he told her to strip in front of him.
He took a chair and sat in the middle of the room, tense as a kitten, his knees shaking slightly. His shirt lay at the foot of his chair, but he didn’t dare remove his jeans. She did as he asked—she took her clothes off one by one with theatrical grace, her movements singing in tune with the steady hum of the aircon. She used her body well, Leo noted—all her curves moved gracefully as she crawled over to where he sat, tried to unzip his jeans. He slapped her hand away, but she smiled and moved her head to his neck, letting her lips brush against the skin gleaming with sweat.
Leo waited for the feeling to come, but it never came. She was already draped over him like a blanket, groping, smothering him with kisses, but he didn’t feel anything. Instead, images flashed across his head—the man from downstairs, the calloused hands, a ring on one of the fingers, the pleas for help that never came. Those hands were groping, as much as her hands were already slithering down to his flaccid organ while she kissed him furiously. He pushed her away, and she dropped to the floor with a thud.
“You should go now,” he said, which was almost a murmur. His voice was shaking.
He watched her dress, the surprised look still etched on her face, and led her out the door. Through the window, he saw her cross the street and disappear through the night. He wondered if she would tell people about what just happened—I should have taken her number, he thought bitterly.
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