I flirt shamelessly with you. Not with words and giggles but with touches and looks. Nothing overt, just a knee brushing another knee under the table or my bare arm whispering across yours as I reach across the table. It feels like magnets where there is a moment of hesitation before the two magnets collide and are locked together.
Each touch could be accidental. Every signal could be misinterpreted as merely friendly or unintentional. But there is nothing unintentional in your eyes. Even in the dimly lit bar, your eyes send sparks that travel like white heat from my throat to my core.
I squirm and cross my legs again, feeling my ankle brush up against your pant leg. You give me one last look, your eyes bright with possibilities and hunger, before you head up to the stage with your guitar.
You play every song to me, ignoring the rest of the crowd. In between songs, you caress your guitar's neck unconsciously. I stare at your fingers, mesmerized. I imagine your fingers on my neck instead, lightly stroking, testing, teasing. You pick up the pace on your guitar, the amps pushed to their limit as the music screams out over the crowd.
As the music becomes more frenzied, I become more lost. I look up to see you staring at me again, willing my eyes to meet yours. I resist the urge to spread my legs, to hook my ankles around the two chairs next to me, resting my feet on them. To lift my skirt and show you what you've done to me. Show you the wet stain on my panties where I couldn't control my excitement. To watch your reaction from the stage, where you're helpless to do anything.
I want to see if you can keep up your assault on your guitar while I assault your eyes. I want to slip a finger inside of myself while you watch. I want to see if your cock grows in your pants, if your fingers slide off the fret board. I want to feel your frustration pound out through your music while you watch me pull aside my panties to show you my cunt and then show you my fingers slipping into it. I want to pull my dripping fingers out and slide them into my mouth, sucking my own juices off hungrily, showing you what hungry looks like.
Instead, I shift in my seat and sigh. I run my fingers up and down my own arm, feeling the small hairs on it rise up, imagining it is your fingers.
Your set is over. You're drenched in sweat. Your energy is no longer frantic and restless, but driven and confident. You pass by my table and without stopping tilt your head towards the back, motioning for me to follow. The Green Room is not green at all, but a morose gray. The walls are covered with graffiti touting the bands that have played there. The couch has seen better days, it's cushions ripped and stained. The room smells vaguely of cigarettes and stale beer.
