John stepped to the edge of the stage and arched his back, grasping the hard instrument between his legs with both hands.

His fingers raced up and down the strings, each note a lick of fire spreading across his body and out into the light-spattered ballroom. When he looked into the crowd, he saw ecstasy in their eyes, hunger in their open, screaming mouths.

He pulled harder, fists pumping the pearl-worked fretboard. His lungs heaved, gasping with each frenzied strum and chord. Sweat plastered his hair to his flushed cheeks. He closed his eyes and let his hands take over. They knew exactly what to do.

John bucked against the Les Paul, forcing wave after wave of shimmering distortion from its weave of wood and steel. The sound of it swelled him and strung a smile across his swollen lips. The drums drove faster, and faster still.

And then the music swallowed him and pressed him against the flesh of his guitar. He shuddered one last time, feedback spilling out across the sea of upturned faces.