I'm not his nanny, for fuck's sake. But I do it anyway: pick up after him, keep him out of trouble. He has good days and bad. Today was bad. I had to grab the steering wheel three times while he was distracted talking on his car phone - who let him have a car phone, anyway? When we got out of the car we had to walk two blocks, two measly blocks, and he almost got himself killed six times. Strolling out into traffic because walk-signals don't apply to him, bumping into thuggish natives while gawking at the window displays of local shops.

And look what he'd done now. Left the door of his suite wide open with the key hanging in the lock. No one's that absent minded. This was a joke. I was going to walk in to return his key to him and he was going to jump out of the darkness and scare the hell out of me. Well, I was ready for him. I grabbed the key and shut the door behind me. The front room was dark, but the bedroom door was open and the light was on. I put a hand in front of me. There was the couch. With one hand on the back of the couch I moved around it to approach the bedroom, and the angle of my view inside crept along with me. I saw the corner of the bed, then a bare leg. And I heard a noise, one that made me blush.

I only saw one of his legs, at first, because they were spread across the bed. He was completely naked and splayed unashamedly, and the dim lamp illuminated his body, not leaving much for me to wonder about. He was playing with himself and making little preliminary sounds. Probably he'd only just started.

This was none of my business. I was about to leave without disturbing him - really, I was. But just as I was turning around, he suddenly had something in his hand. It was long and black, shaped like a penis. I couldn't help it; I had to find out what he was going to do with it. Just a minute more, I thought, and then I'll leave.

He sat up, pressed his toy against the underside of his penis, and twisted the base of the thing. It came on. Jesus, it vibrated! His eyes rolled and he fell back onto the bed, groaning and moving the thing up and down, around his erection. With slow thrusts of his hips, he began to move rhythmically, but then paused. The buzzing noise stopped. He lifted his balls and pressed the head of the vibrator just underneath them, against his perineum, then turned it on again. He held it with one hand and stroked himself with the other. This time he held his rhythm for longer; it looked like he was going to stop for a moment, but there was just the tiniest hitch in his pace, as though he decided he needed just a little more.

At this point I knew I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. So I sat on the couch and hunkered down, peering over the back and concealing as much of myself as possible. There was one squeaky spring in the couch cushion, and my heart just about burst open in my ribcage when I heard it whinge, but he didn't seem to hear it. Understandably, he was a little preoccupied at the moment.

His writhing was odd. It was not the simple bend of the knee and thrust of the pelvis, as one is wont to repeat methodically when one is engaged in the carnal act. The unusual nature of his self-pleasuring made his thrashing erratic and experimental. He couldn't seem to figure out how to move his body to get more gratification out of what he was doing. Although to be fair, pleasure was something he seemed to already have a surplus of. His noised were high and feminine - little "ooo"s and whimpers rather than grunts and growls - but their delicacy was made more sleazy by the tell-tale accompanying buzz of the vibrator. When he turned it off again, he was still as he could manage; only his chest heaved with arousal and his erection twitched as he lay with his arms at his sides, clutching his toy in one hand. Surely that couldn't be it? I watched, and stopped breathing.

He reached blindly behind him for the bottle of baby oil that I hadn't even seen there. He turned the vibrator over under the stream of oil that squirted out; I think more got on him than on it. After setting the bottle aside he rubbed the stray oil over his belly, thighs, and chest, taking particular care to massage it into his dark, erect nipples. He tugged at them a little bit before taking his toy in both hands and putting it between his legs. Although I didn't have the clearest view, it wasn't difficult to figure out what he was doing.

All the other stuff I could understand, but why would he want to do that? It must be painful. But he seemed to be enjoying it, despite having a bit of a struggle putting it all the way in. Or perhaps because of that. He wiggled his hips, closing his eyes to concentrate, then groaned, like he'd found a good spot. He turned the base of the toy and it started to vibrate again.

His reaction was instantaneous. He dug his heels into the mattress and pushed his pelvis high in the air. He was jerking off at a frantic pace, using his other hand to work the vibrator in and out. His little girly noises turned violent and deep. When he reached his peak, he froze with his rump in mid-air, only his hands moving, a blur of flesh finishing him off. I pitied any other hotel guests who'd ever had to hear him from next door when he did this; they must die of jealousy when his screams of ecstasy come through the wall.

The subsequent silence was so palpable, I was sure I would be caught at any second, once he heard to blood pounding in my veins. I had one leg curled under me, which was very cramped, but I didn't dare shift, not an inch, for fear I'd trigger the squeaky spring again. He lay there a long time before he began to writhe and roll about, just a bit, whimpering, as though he still had some orgasm left in him that he needed to get out. Then he got up and, as if he'd only just been reading the newspaper or watching television, strolled casually into the adjoining bathroom, where he was out of my sight. I heard water running, then, a few minutes later, singing. He was singing in the shower. The man just had an orgasm that probably registered on UCLA's Richter scale, and now he had it in mind to croon the Leonard Cohen songbook.

It didn't even occur to me, until the water shut off, that I had a perfect opportunity to make myself scarce. But by then it was too late. I only had a chance to get my now-bloodless leg out from under me before he re-emerged, still damp, with a towel around his neck. He picked up his toy and took it back in the bathroom, where I heard water running again, this time from the sink. When he came back, he had the towel in his hands and was drying the thing off before he put it away. He had a square-ish, anonymous zippered leather case for it and for the bottle of oil. He put them back with deliberate care and reclined on the bed for a moment, then shut off the light.

Which did not improve my situation. Now I was immobile and in the dark. I hadn't counted on this; now I would have to worry about bumping into something on the way out. But by the time I devised a plan, my vision had adjusted to the darkness and he was already snoring softly, so I just got up and found my way out, leaving his key on the end table.

Thankfully, it was quite late and there was no one in the corridor to see my conspicuous erection. I'd barely noticed it myself, I was so shocked, until I reached into my pocket for my key. Like a bad bruise, it only began to ache when I actually saw it was there. I dropped my key twice before successfully opening the door. Once inside, I had no idea what to do. Well, I mean I had an idea of what to do, no doubt, but never was the decision of whether to masturbate more difficult to make than that night. Not because of any arousal issues, but because...Well, how do you top that? How do you lie in bed and jerk off like a normal human being after watching that kind of unearthly exhibit of solitary pleasure? That wasn't masturbation. That was performance art. And besides, after all that build-up, I was sort of afraid to do anything at all. I've always had this anxiety: when something builds up like that, I fear the resolution. My life's work - the records and the gigs - has always been about starting at the peak and getting it out of the way, and so when things go the right way round, I'm paralyzed by a lack of understanding. Needless to say, sex has always been a big mystery for me.

****

I did everything I could to put it out of my mind. I tried thinking unsexy thoughts, but they couldn't compete with my recent memories. I tried turning on the television, but the first thing I saw was one of our videos; a bad omen. I considered taking a cold shower, but when I went into the bathroom and put my hand on the faucet all I could think of was his post-orgasm shower, the warm water running over his body, washing away the oil and sweat and come. Him, standing with the spray hitting his chest, tilting his head back and opening his mouth, just a little, to breathe in the steam. Him, soaping his belly, his hand working its way down, handling himself gently, sore and overstimulated, groaning but smiling to himself knowing the reason why.

These were the thoughts that came to mind just touching the faucet handle. If it had been suggestively shaped I probably would have passed out.

I went down to the hotel bar in the hopes that getting completely wasted would temporarily impair my sex drive. But the place was empty. I wanted to take a cab to the nearest pub, but I had no money on me. So I just took a walk. It was a nice night. Cold. Perhaps that might dampen my libidinous urges, I thought, rather optimistically. It only made me think of the warmth of his room, of his own stifling sexual heat. I wanted to cry.

****

Adam took one look at me the following morning and said, "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well, I feel like shit."

"Are you ill?"

"No, I just haven't slept is all."

"You don't ever sleep anyway, do you? I mean, don't you recharge by plugging into a wall outlet, or with batteries, or something?"

"That is not funny right now."

All day I had to conceal an intermittent erection. Things hadn't been this bad since I was sixteen. I hardly said two words during our radio interview, for fear I'd somehow reveal my whereabouts last night. Bono was oblivious, just as loquacious and messianic as ever. It drove me crazy. How could he just sit there and charm the pretty intern and discuss the underlying theme of the new album after what he'd been doing last night? Unbelievable.

It was a few days later, in a city halfway across the world, when I got an idea. Part of me was disgusted with myself for even having the idea, much less carrying it out, but part of me also wondered why I hadn't thought of it sooner.

We were all in the hotel bar with our drinks. I had only a few simple lines to recite, but I'd been practicing them all day. At an unreasonable hour (eleven, which was unreasonably early), I stood up and announced to Bono, "I think I'm gonna crash."

"Okay. Later," he said, not taking his eyes off the supermodel across the table.

"Do you, em...think you're gonna be a while longer?"

He gave me an odd look and shrugged. "Most likely. I'm not known for keeping early hours."

"Okay then. Well, em, good night."

I had it all planned out. I went round the corner so he couldn't see me and counted to one hundred. Well, pretty much. I was so nervous, I forgot which number comes after fifty-seven, and by the time I remembered, I figured it wouldn't be cheating if I just skipped to sixty-five. My heart raced. When I finished counting, I came back to his table and said, with all the casual resentfulness I could muster, "They put our suitcases in the wrong rooms again. Can I have your key so I can get mine?"

He handed me his key and I fled with it. I was on the Elevator of the Damned. It stopped on practically every floor and I swore there was a Psychic's Convention in town; the way the other passengers looked at me, or the way they didn't look at me, or the way they just stood there, I could tell that they knew what I was up to. I tried to look innocent, but Bono told me once that that was precisely my problem. I looked too innocent, that was what made me so suspect. But I bloody well wasn't going to stand there looking guilty. Not on purpose.

His suitcase was sitting in front of the bedroom door. I picket it up and carried it to the bed. It was a mess inside, of course, but I found the black leather case. How did Bono get through customs with this thing? I'd never have had the guts to carry one of those around, for fear that airport security would make me take it out and turn it on to prove it wasn't a bomb. But I suppose if Bono thought about consequences, life would be a lot less interesting for all of us, wouldn't it?

I wasn't worried that he would walk in. I had his key, and eventually he'd figure out that I was in here and have to knock. Things might get a little frantic at that point, but I'd have time to put things back to normal before letting him in, and anyway, I was planning on being done long before he finished flirting with that stick insect in Versace downstairs. I unzipped the leather case and removed its contents.

The oil was nothing special. I set it aside. The vibrator was not as thick as an average penis, but it was about as long. I squeezed it; it was made of some space-age foam-rubber material, with a rigid interior. The base was wider, presumably for safety purposes. I twisted it, and the thing started to vibrate. Startled, I turned it off, twisted the base the other way, and it came off. Two batteries fell out. For a moment I hoped Bono wouldn't notice that this set of batteries had run out faster than usual, but then I thought, This is a guy who doesn't realize when he's driving on the wrong side of the road. I got back up and took another look around the suite. Tonight should not be the night some for crazed fan to sneak into the hotel and hide in Bono's room. But the place was empty.

I took my clothes off and laid down on the bed. My whole body was buzzing with an adrenaline cocktail; the thrum of sexual anticipation, shaken, not stirred, with a fear of getting caught. The blood rushing through my veins was desperate for a destination, and when I took my cock in my hand it stiffened immediately. I picked up Bono's toy and held the tip against the base of my erection. On the count of three, I said, and OneTwoThree I turned it on.

I've always firmly believed that a machine cannot truly replace a human being, but I was now discovering that there are some things machines can do that a human touch could never imitate. The toy shuddered rhythmically, and so did I. With unnecessary care and precision I tested its sensory effectiveness up and down my cock and across my balls. It didn't really matter where I held it; I felt it all over my body. I turned it off reluctantly to pause for reflection. It was just so bizarre.

I lifted my balls and pressed the toy just behind them, like I'd seen Bono do, and turned it on. The searing jolt of pleasure shot from my balls to my stomach to my brain and back again. I had to turn it off; it was too much. This thing had some magical fucking powers. I wasn't sure if I was ready to put it inside me, but I did know that I couldn't stand to wait any longer.

The oil dripped all over the toy, but my hands were shaking so plenty of it got on me, too. I rubbed it into my skin, which made me even hotter. It was a surprise; I never really took the time to touch myself all over when I was alone, I just got down to business, relieving my immediate urge so I could move on to the next activity. Bono had the right idea: it was rewarding to linger. My skin felt so good, flushed and tingling.

I took the toy, just as well-oiled as I was, and spread my legs. I couldn't see what I was doing very well, so I just stared at the ceiling and felt things out. I found the opening and rubbed the tip of Bono's toy against it. It felt odd. Not good, not bad, just odd. It was unnatural. I pushed a little bit and felt the muscles clench reflexively, which was natural. This was going to take some time. I wasn't practiced at it like Bono was. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, nudging the opening with persistence. In time, my muscles relaxed and I could press the toy inside.

Really, it didn't feel right. It hurt, and no wonder: I knew I was going the wrong way down a one-way street. But I didn't stop, for some reason. And when the toy hit my prostate, I was glad I didn't.

It was a delightful feeling that started as a sharp point of intensity and dispersed through me, like food coloring in water. I immediately pushed and touched it again. So this is what the big deal was. I touched it again. Incredible.

I didn't actually intend to turn the vibrator on. It happened accidentally when I was pulling it out a little. The surprise doubled the force of my pleasure. I held the toy with one hand and stroked my cock with the other. Oh, the intensity of the sensation; I felt like I'd landed on a new planet, a rich undiscovered territory all my own.

But newly discovered territories never stay uninhabited for long. When I opened my eyes, Bono was standing at the foot of the bed.

There was not a single thing I could say that could possibly explain what I was doing, or make it less awkward. We stared at each other, our mouths hanging open, and then he spoke.

"The hall porter let me in," he said, as though he were the one who was obligated to make excuses. He didn't seem upset at all, although as he took off his jacket he said snidely, "You're very naughty, Edge. You shouldn't use people's things without permission." I tried to apologize but no sound came out. With humiliation greater than I'd ever felt in my life, I put Bono's toy down and curled up, trying to hide my naked body.

"I wish you'd told me," he said. Sitting casually on the bed, he reached over and put his hand on my knee. "I would like to have shared this with you."

My alarm made me forget to be mortified. "You would?"

"You don't have to stop," he said. "Can I watch you? I want to see you finish."

"I don't know if I can do it, if you're just sitting there watching."

"Ah, sure you can. What if I..." he scooted over next to me and put his arm around my shaking shoulders. "What if I was close to you, like this?" His body heat was suffocating. I was already sweating, but his breath in my ear was too much to take. My mouth was dry. I unfolded myself, staring at his boots because I couldn't look him in the eye, and said, "Take your clothes off. I don't want to be naked if you're not."

"You're pretty demanding for a guy who's just been caught using his mate's vibrator." My embarrassment flooded back and I cringed, but he'd started to unbutton his shirt, and when he was naked he curled up next to me again and I put a hand on him. He was so warm. I stroked his belly and chest, but he took my wrist. "No, no, this is about you. I get to watch you now." He guided my hand to his toy and I picked it up. He helped me oil it once more, but he wouldn't massage the spilled drops into my skin; he made me do it myself. I looked him in the eye for the first time when I did.

He did help me put it in again, though. He rested his head on my chest and we each held the toy with one hand. It was much easier this time, and I guided it right to my prostate. Bono got the hint from the noises I made and whispered, "Did you find your special spot? Isn't it great?" He pushed the toy a little farther in. "Where is it, here? Mmm...yes..."

Bono held the toy so I could concentrate on my aching erection. Everything seemed to be going perfectly, but having Bono right there was weirding me out. I sighed and stopped. "I can't do it," I said.

"What's the matter? You don't have anything to feel bad about. What you're doing isn't wrong. Unless it turns you on to think it's wrong. Does it?"

"I don't know."

"Well let's find out." He flicked his tongue over my nipple and whispered, "Oh, Reg, you're so bad..." He tuned the vibrator on again. "What are you doing? You're so bad."

Was it the words he spoke that turned me on, or just the way he said them? Or was it the insistent way he used the vibrator on me? Pleasure was pouring into my body at a rate faster than I could tolerate. I suddenly thought of something, an experiment I'd read about years ago, with rats. Scientists attached electrodes to the pleasure-centers of the rats' brains, and when a rat pushed a lever, it would get a gratifying little shock. Once the rats learned how to get the shock, the rate at which they pushed it increased exponentially. They neglected their food and water, just pushing the lever over and over, driving themselves mad with pleasure, until they were too exhausted to move to push it again. I got scared.

"Stop it," I said. But Bono wouldn't. He thrust the toy into me, over and over, pushing and pushing.

"Why would you want me to stop? Doesn't it feel good?"

"Take it out...I can't...oh...Bono, no! I can't handle it...stop..."

I don't remember actually screaming, but Bono assured me that I did. I don't remember much of anything about that orgasm, actually, but Bono told me he'd never seen such a raw display of sexual exhilaration. He was jerking me off, because I had stopped, and I yelped, "Don't touch it!" Everything was so sensitive. Everything ached. He gently pulled his toy out while I tried to figure out what was going on.

"Do you know where you are?" Bono said.

"No..."

"You're in my room. Shh....Do you remember me? Look at me. You were so good. How do you feel?" I didn't answer. "What are you thinking about?"

"Rats..."

He must have thought I was delirious. "What do you want to do now?"

"Lie here."

"Sounds good. Do you mind if I watch you?"

About this story (Contains spoilers)