Sitting at the bar, letting the ambiance of the venue fill me, I met him. He was charming, to say the least, and he took an interest in me. His eyes watched me and took me in, letting his fantasies run amuck, I imagine, and he sat ever so close to me. The feedback from the opening band startled me awake, and I noticed his hand on my thigh.
"Opening bands usually suck," he said.
"I know," I retorted, "but I gotta get my money's worth."
I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He let go of my thigh and left me at the bar. He walked to the floor, where his friends were standing, saving his spot I suppose. I gulped my rum and coke, smushed my cigarette, and went down to the floor. The lead guitarist played a few riffs for sound check and I lost interest in the band. He played a couple of riffs to a few songs already in rotation in our local radio station, so I immediately knew they were a cover band. Man, they suck. I hate cover bands as much as I hate commercial radio.
I stood behind him and he looked back, winked, and looked forward. He spoke ever so softly. The sound check was hell for me because the band was so uncoordinated, but somehow I just stood there, waiting for the band to hurry up and start their gig. Drummer up next: thump thump thump. The sound of the crash cymbal jarred me awake and he was right beside me, running his hand up and down my ass quickly.
"I wish you would follow me," he pointed behind the stage, "no one ever goes to these bathrooms."
"Erm," I flustered, "Gee, thanks, but umm--" and to my relief the band started. Needless to say that they were a cover band and they sucked so much eggs that two thirds of the audience went back to the bar. The lead singer's vocals were a mix of grunge and screamo. Guy couldn't hold down together one note before switching to his guttural chanting. It made me sick just listening to him.
"I know you want to," he whispered into my ear between songs, "I can tell you are hard underneath your clothes, hard and willing."