The teen rocker, a solo act today, fills his room with the raw, pulsating rhythm of his guitar. His fingers, calloused from years of playing, dance along the fretboard, coaxing out sultry notes that echo his inner turmoil. His body moves with the music, his bare chest heaving with each breath. A solo performance, he thinks, as he puts the guitar down, unbuckling his jeans. His hand reaches into his boxers, wrapping around his hardening cock. He strokes slowly, eyes closed, imagining the crowd cheering, their eyes on him, only on him. The room fills with the sound of his solo, his breathing syncing with the rhythm, his body tensing as he reaches his crescendo.