Her long tobacco-colored tresses clung to her back as she made her way through the dense and confused crowd toward the metal barrier that led to the backstage area. She forgot to grab the "pass" (really just a home-laminated square hung from a lanyard) from her husband before he went on stage, but she strode confidently to the gate anyway. The squatty, bald security guard, whose only credentials were a red t-shirt that had the word "Security" printed on the back; it might has well been scribbled in magic marker, was chatting up a chubby, piggish girl crammed into a tube top. She didn't even bother to break stride to explain. He paused his gripping banter just long enough to try to exert his bantam authority. "This area is restricted, Miss," he mustered with feigned license.
"Oh, I'm with the band," she drily replied.
"Uh, you are?" he trailed off as she breezed past.
She really hated saying that, it was ridiculously cliche, but casually delivering that line got her where she wanted. She laughed at how easy it was, how easy it was to take command of situations. An air of confidence and a disinterested manner was all it took. It was natural to feel superior, as she was 6'1 in bare feet. When you tower over the public, ideas like that get reinforced without much effort. She wandered around what was essentially a shipping bay to find the dressing room she and her husband lounged in before the show. A nondescript man exited the opposite dressing room and assessed her. She got the split-second feeling he was going to say something she didn't particularly want to hear.
"Aren't you a tall one, darling. You look good," he stated with a British accent, as if his gallant appraisal was actually worth a damn to her.
"Yeah. Thanks," she apathetically replied with a curt smile. She got comments like this all time, especially from short men, trying to manufacture some kind of masculinity to cover up their deep-seeded feelings of inadequacy. Analyzing the shit out of them was her only solace from their neurotic parade of remarks.
"Are you looking for someone?" he asked arrogantly.
Not you, pal, she thought. "Actually, I was looking for my husband. He's right in there." She motioned to the dressing room door.
"Lucky man," he muttered on his way toward the stage.
She turned toward the door, but she found herself hesitating as her hand grazed the cool, metallic knob. She didn't quite know why, but something made her breath catch in her throat before swinging open the door. She snapped out of it and pushed the weighty door open anyway. The room was icy compared to the blistering heat of the July sun and so many close-quartered bodies. She spotted the guitarist first, she couldn't recall his name; but she never could recall anyone's name. He was sitting at a generic looking, faux-woodgrained folding table, surrounded by a dozen or so mismatched chairs from the Nixon administration. He tilted his head back to swig from a beaded-up bottle of water. She exhaled. She pushed the door open further to reveal her husband sitting directly across from her in a vinyl-upholstered attempt at a wing-back chair.
What a glamorous life, she thought flippantly. Of course, he would choose that chair from among all the others, her mind continued. It's the most throne-like in the room. He did have a mock-regality about his demeanor. He looked so imposing on his makeshift throne in the corner, presiding over the room. She admittedly had a love/hate relationship with his egregious ego. It infuriated her to no end when he acted like a king, but it excited her so when he was her king. He looked up from his cellphone casually as she entered. Fuck he was addicted to that thing.
"Hey baby. How are you?" he asked, unfolding his 6'5 frame to greet her with a kiss. "Were you too hot out there?"
"No, I was fine. I guess. It was hot, but I kind of like the heat," she replied. She still felt strangely. Maybe it was the heat taking its toll.
"I could see your skin glistening from the stage. I like that dress on you; it kept distracting me while I was playing."
He was referring to the pure white halter dress finished with a blue and white striped bow. She called it her Marilyn dress because it bore a striking resemblance to one Marilyn Monroe wore in "The Seven Year Itch." The fabric flowed away just right under her breasts to show off her tall, lean body. She wore white espadrilles with ribbon lacing around her slender ankles tied with sweet, little bows on either side. She did feel very sexy in that dress. It was hard not to. It let her sexuality radiate from her.
"I didn't even know you could see me out there," she said honestly.
"Honey, you are kind of hard to miss." He flashed that million-dollar, boyish smile at her. "You're a tall, unique woman," something he often said to her.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," she said almost shyly.
He made his way back to his distinguished chair. A few more band members trickled in and made recapping small talk as they cooled down. She stood idly in the center of the fluorescently lit room with one hand coquettishly placed on her jutting right hip. Her body language would give her away if anyone paid the slightest attention. She is becoming increasingly pissed off at her husband's cocky manner. He's trying to act slick in front of his bandmates, like the big fucking man, trying to get her to gush over his compliments. But he's really just coming off like a bit of an asshole, so she immediately reverts to a standoffish, aloof disposition. Looking away from him to focus on the inane conversation taking place at the table; she throws out a few well-placed quips to further take command of the room. The laughs further her haughty behavior. Her husband picks up on the subtle shift and imperiously tries to regain control over his kingdom.
"Do you want to come sit on Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?" he delivers pompously, while patting his knee.
This simultaneously enrages her and excites her; part of her want to punch him across his self-important face and part of her wants to do exactly what he dictates. But pride and decorum win out and she flashes her middle finger and gives him a murderous look instead.
He either must have saw through her or simply didn't care because he asked again, undeterred, "Are you sure you don't want to sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?"
The cavalier tone of his deep, baritone voice sends a shiver down her spine which culminates somewhere in her increasingly moistening panties. No one else in the room seems to notice, or at least they politely pretend not to. This wasn't exactly backstage at the L.A.Forum after a Guns N' Roses concert. It was a thrown-together afterthought, at an adult contemporary blues festival, with the only amenities being a plastic tub with some scattered water and apple juice tossed in it and air conditioning.
She contemplated for a second on her next move. She could continue her feigned indifference or she could do what she vehemently desired deep inside, which was to stride over to him and curl up on her big man's lap. Her long, slender legs made the decision for her. She advanced to her husband's awaiting arms. She turned slightly to position herself on his right knee, facing outward, away from the group, with her crossed legs in between his. He wrapped his lanky arms around her waist as she settled into his lap and she felt that tingle course through her again. He kissed her sweetly on her pouty lips. She leaned in to rest her head on his broad shoulder. His shirt was drenched in sweat and sticking to him at every available point. His strong, masculine scent invaded her airspace. She breathed it in deeply; it drove her wild. She compulsively kissed his neck, then withdrew upon realization. He looked up at her with his oceanic eyes in both color and depth. She subconsciously began to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly as he proceeded to kiss her passionately and deeply this time. She was beginning to forget where she was; being fully enveloped in the moment. He alone had the power to do that to her. He didn't seem to mind the other guys in the room either, as his hands began to grip around her narrow waist tighter and tighter; almost to the point of pain. God, she was getting aroused.
The guitarist she first spotted, sensing some tension, makes an excuse to leave the room, and soon the others, thankfully follow suit and wander out. She found herself starting to grind against his rapidly lengthening bulge, more obviously now; their bodies moving in perfect dynamic rhythm. They begin to kiss more intensely now, with more abandon as the room has cleared out. His large hands make their way to her tits. He grabs one in each hand, squeezing them together, forcibly. His thumb and forefinger begin to find her hardening nipple on her left breast. He pinches it roughly through the cotton, the way he knows she likes. She is so hot at this public foreplay, but she knows it can only go so far. He's not really one for such voyeuristic or dangerous scenarios, like she can be. But she deeply appreciates the effort. She figures he will stop any moment, upon sobering up from the intoxication of love and the heat madness, but instead he slides his strong hand from her nipple, down her stomach to the hem of her dress. He slips his hand underneath the fabric onto her soaking wet, white cotton panties below.
