by Willow Sears
I’m late backstage because I’ve been messing about taking pictures and then taken so long to get my costume on. I often dress for the occasion. In my head it’s because the parties often kick off immediately the show finishes, leaving no time then to change. Sure, there is no prerequisite for wearing rubber catsuits at these parties but as well as making you look good they are also difficult to get into and thus hard for stray drunken groping hands to breach. That’s the reasoning I often use anyway. However, I think a part of me just feels like the fifth member of the band and wants to join them in getting into the show-time spirit.
I am wearing an absolute cracker tonight; one of my best creations. It is in very tight latex, a kind of creamy-pinky-white shade. I spent ages trying to find the closest match to pale skin tones, so that at first glance one might think the wearer was nude. There are built-in black circles with hanging tassels like saucy pasties to cover the nipples, which is clever enough, but the real genius is in the skirt. At the waist is a sewn-in pleated flap going all the way around and coloured in plaid, like a schoolgirl’s skirt. However, not even today’s girls wear them this short. It is barely longer than my outstretched span, which means it looks like a portion of bare behind is constantly poking out from beneath.
The zip runs up the back and is concealed. Attached to it is a long thin strip of shiny red leather which helps in the fastening and doubles as a school tie, to be worn loosely. All in all, I’m sure the outfit could prove deadly to those with an unsteady heart, or the hormonally imbalanced. We make quite a pair, Sindee and I, dressed like this. She has brought out the big guns to impress a new audience. She is out there, looking hot in her devil penis-tail costume. There is always an extra edge to her performance when she has this on. She is so much in her element when performing. It can’t be taught. The act can be tuned and refined but the nature to do it must be there at birth. It is a gift which provokes in me both jealousy and relief that I do not possess it.
Three songs in and the crowd are nicely warmed. Although we are always ostensibly ‘borrowing’ the fans from our better-known headline acts, the gig we were part of last night, along with weeks of favourable reviews and pictures, have gained us some interest in our own right, particularly amongst adolescent males. Many have shown up tonight, coming early to gain positions at the front, to get close to this new heroine of heavy metal. This is a smaller venue so they are separated from the stage and her only by a flimsy barrier. Sindee knows exactly how to get their blood boiling. She looks particularly irresistible tonight, with her heavy make-up and the red knee-boots to match her costume, which she has unzipped halfway down her front to reveal a nice huddle of her enhanced bosom.
She stands with arms by her sides, teeth barred, thrusting in time to the beat as if trying to fuck the thin air at her front. Doubtless some of those young guys in the audience will be having shameful dreams tonight of being on hands and knees before her. She struts the stage looking two feet taller than she really is, all eyes on her even though bassist Vinny is strutting around like a jerk. She catches my eye and smiles before leaning back to belt out the last note of the song. The crowd that aren’t specifically here to watch us are cheering too. It is a good night. You can just feel it, everywhere. It feeds us all, seeps into every cell present and drives the excitement.
She gives her thanks and says something I can’t really hear, something about her costume. The crowd probably understand even less, but still they cheer and whistle everything she says. Then I realise she is pointing at me hidden here in the wings, coming towards me, saying my name, asking the crowd to give it up for me, the designer of her devil suit. I’m shaking my head to show my massive reluctance and she has to physically drag me out, but as soon as I am on stage the cheers and whistles rise and the thrill of it is immediate. I might have dug my heels in more if not for the glass or two of lovely bubbly already in my system, but now the rush from being cheered is intoxicating in its own right and goes straight to my head.
I am right at the front of the stage. I can see their faces, see the wildness in the eyes, the devotion. They are calling out to me, holding out their hands pleading for me to reach across the gap between stage and safety barrier to touch them. I am being adored. I know I look every bit as good as Sindee. We are two hot foxes and the crowd love us. Sindee has her arm around my shoulder and is telling the crowd I am her girlfriend. Naughty Sindee! Any hints towards same-sex cravings from our scrumptious singer will inevitably drive these desperate, juiced-up fans crazy, and she knows it.
Grasping the devil’s penis-tail at her groin, she lewdly strokes it up and down, her hips thrust out towards them. Then she has me do it, taking my hand and placing it there, moving me back and forth along its length until I’m doing it for myself. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t normally show off this way to a handful of strangers but give me a whole baying roomful of them and suddenly it seems just like the best thing to do. I even snake out my tongue all rock and roll style for my new admirers as I do my saucy stuff and they show their delight, upping the volume as they press forward. Imagine if they chose to break the security and get to us.
My brief stage career seems set to finish as quickly as it started and I’m all ready to fulfil that maxim of leaving the crowd wanting more but then Russell LeMuscle behind me is playing tss-tss-tss-tss on his high-hat, cuing in the next song, and Ben then hits the first power chord and follows it up with a fast riff. Bass and drums join in and suddenly we are off. The sound goes right through me, almost forcing me to my knees. I know it’s loud but never like this, the speakers flanking us either side to the rear. I can practically feel the strings and drum-skins vibrate. With the whoosh of music comes an internal stampede of excitement.
Sindee still has me at the front, her arm around my shoulders, but now she places one booted foot up on the monitor and jigs us up and down in time to the beat as she yells her demand for the crowd to make some noise. The lights change and bathe us in different colours, going with the rhythm. I’m stood still but it’s like I’m speeding at a thousand miles an hour – that’s the rush I have inside me. Sindee steps back and away from me and stands head-banging, her legs spread wide and bent at the knees, bracing herself to the floor, the mic stand held across her body as if it could be played like a guitar.
Wow, can she head-bang. Her mass of hair is silver-blonde with pink streaks, whipping all around her. Goddess, I’m thinking. She always looks so damn impressive doing this that one drunken time I had her teach me too, so I could stay at her side on party dance floors without looking like a lemon. I never thought I’d do it in anger but the music is blasting past and the adrenaline is spurting through me. The power rush just takes me over and here I am, legs wide, head-banging away opposite her as if I’ve done it all my life.
The crowd flash in and out of visibility due to the lighting. Often I can see nothing at all, but I can still feel them. The energy is constant, bubbling, surging. They are like a black ocean, rolling and swelling to my front, gathering a force that might suddenly break and smother us at any moment. It is nerve-shredding and awesomely exhilarating all at once. I can only briefly sustain my head-banging so kudos to those rock heroes who maintain it for a whole show. I’m thinking it might be time to bow out, what with Sindee going back to her boot- on-monitor stance ready for Verse One, but I cannot make myself leave. There is nothing else for it but to slink about and dance some more.
I’m writhing around like a stripper and I have a huge grin on my face. I know it’s inexplicable for me but this is actually happening. I’m not shy of my curves but I never have the urge to let strangers see me in the flesh. I like the power of being provocative but I don’t want to have to surrender to nudity to maintain it. I cannot see what thrill Sindee got from porn. Sure, she looked sexy doing sexy things and yes, it must be good to know so many were left bent double with desire for you afterwards. But your secret has already been revealed. You have given it away. For me, I feel sexy wearing tight clothes and li
ke the attention they bring, but I don’t have an urge to give the admirers more. Or that is what I thought up until now. At this precise moment I’m glad my costume makes me look like I’m near naked. The more the cheers come my way and the more I can sense the rise of excitement the more I’m wishing I could actually be naked. If it wasn’t for the protracted, very ungainly and unsexy exit from such an outfit, I almost feel it could happen.
Sindee is soon back at my side, singing at me, slinking her hips in my direction. I feel the same reckless abandon that drinking three times what I’ve actually imbibed this night can give. Her hands are on me and I want it. I don’t care how much like an exotic dancer I’m acting in front of this load of wank-happy teenagers, as long as it makes them love me more. I want to demonstrate ever greater prowess at it. Acting like an exhibitionist slut is suddenly fabulous. I know all the songs so I know when to thrust or wiggle in all the right places. I want to leap around to swirl my nipple tassels and flash them what is seemingly naked beneath my tiny skirt. If you had ever asked me if I’d fancied being a stripper for a living then I would have either laughed in your face or kicked you in it, but at this moment, it simply seems like the most stimulating trade imaginable.
Ben is launching into his guitar solo and Sindee is turning me to face her, smiling broadly as she slinks down upon her haunches, the two of us side-on to the audience. She looks up into my eyes and lets her tongue come slowly out to sit flat to my thigh before lasciviously running it upwards and inwards, her hands creeping around to hold my behind, the flap of my skirt lifting with her head to leave her lewdly lapping at my apparently naked crotch. The rubber of my costume allows only the sensation of slight pressure there but my puss feels electrified. I grip her hair and writhe against her face.
She sings the last chorus still on her haunches, still leering up and tonguing at me between lines as I theatrically grind into her face. I feel fucking sexy, fucking dirty. I feel free and brilliant. The music rises and I don’t want it to stop but it is going to anyway, heading toward its big finish with her lapping upwards over my body, slowly up my belly and between my breasts, up my neck and chin, timing it expertly so that as the last note is struck she is kissing me with open-mouthed passion.
The speakers screech and reverb and the cheers rise to herald the song’s end, hissing in my dulled eardrums. Sindee has pulled away from me, not staying longer than the performance demands. I want her back, even in front of these people. I want more of everything. She is shouting my name into her mic, grinning widely, pointing towards me. I am grinning too, the smile plastered all over my face and the current still raging inside. A sweaty, smelly, testosterone-addled bunch that I wouldn’t normally give a shit about impressing is shouting for me and I don’t think I will ever feel such a buzz in my life.
Fortunately, unlike drunken antics, in this case I know when it is best to stop. I’m away, relieved that I managed to pull off this cameo but already wanting more. I kiss my hands and raise them to wave the audience goodbye, as any departing superstar would do. Back in the wings I’m embracing all and sundry: roadies and technical guys that I have barely seen before, along with a couple of the main band there for a sneak peek.
“You rock, baby!” one exclaims in heavily accented English. Yep, I reckon I do!
I chug a glass of champagne. A hearty drink seems the obvious thing since the adrenaline won’t stop. I realise in that instance that performance is addictive. The high is too much to ignore. I watch the last couple of songs play out and I’m jumping around in the wings, almost hoping for Sindee to pull me back on stage, slightly put out that she doesn’t get me back on at the end to take a final bow. She yells her goodbyes and makes her exit, her face breaking into another smile as she sees me there. She grabs me and we are both teetering at silly speed on our high heels backstage. She too wants alcohol. She will presently be wanting cocaine also, just as soon as she senses the natural high of the gig beginning to wane. She is already jabbering as if she has had a snort. She is gripping my arm, all wide-eyed.
“You should let me fuck you on stage,” she says and I think she actually means it. “Or let me lick you for real. If you had a zip down there I could undo it and get to you. Can you imagine? The crowd would fucking love it!”
She is already gulping down more champagne. When she gets turned on like this she is almost rabid.
“I think tonight was a one-off,” I say, already thinking I’m stupid to say it.
“Bullshit – you have to do it again. You are way too good to stay hidden in the wings. That’s like hanging the Mona Lisa in the staff canteen at the Louvre. You heard them out there. If you could sing or play a bit imagine what a team we’d make. I’d love to put my fingers inside you while we kissed – the crowd wouldn’t be able to see it but they would know. Fucking hell, they would go bananas!”
“Yeah, maybe we should just stick to the kiss without the fingers or the bananas,” I say. So she does. She just leans into me and kisses me – all soft, warm, open-mouthed passion so that I know instantly that I’m not going to be able to resist her regardless of my reservations. At least I don’t kiss her back too avidly. At least I can tell myself I didn’t cave in that quick. She slides off me and we are forehead to forehead and she is giggling.
“Christ, I need to pee,” she says, and is giggling and just leaving me there all breathless, heading out the dressing room door. “If I don’t hurry up it’s going to be wet catsuits all round!”
I should say so. That last bit is echoing down the corridor back towards me, with her already gone from my sight. I am shaking, physically quaking in my boots, my belly all clenched. That shave was close, agonisingly so, but not quite close enough. I was there for the taking that time. It was not down to my resistance but her self-restraint. Only she pulled me from the fire. It is such untypical behaviour of hers. I know she likes me, more than a lot. Usually what she wants she ensnares and then takes, but not in my case. She knows she cannot be exclusive. She is a heartbreaker, one that loves men way too much to commit to another girl. She knows I’m not built to fool around as she does. It must drive her mad that I’m such a screw-up but she never tries to take advantage of my weakness. Right now I don’t know whether I love her or hate her for this.
The main band bring the house down. Sindee is back by my side watching from the wings, her arm through mine although our close shave seems to have been forgotten. The excitement hasn’t abated, however. I’m sure if all the lights went off the two of us would be visible, glowing. I can feel that she needs to fuck. The guys on stage are all dark energy, the music too fast, too nasty for my taste but still thrilling; the vocals a deep, incomprehensible, satanic yell. They have a liking for sudden silent pauses mid-song, followed by a crashing rejoinder of instruments, complimented with a white flash to light the arena. It has the whole place jumping in unison.
I want to be out there. Everyone in here wants to be on that stage right now. Lucky Sindee gets a chance, seen in the wings by the singer and called out to help duet on a thrashed-up version of a Thunderhed number, especially for all those guys who saw us at the bigger venue the night before. Her part is unrehearsed but she seems to have an instinct for how to do it right and the crowd love both it and her. I am buzzing, reliving that unique rush albeit vicariously. It makes you want to do something. It is like your body needs an even greater crescendo, somewhere for all this adrenaline to pour. However, short of a full-on battle, I’m not sure what this thing might be.
When the band come off the energy runs with them: a five-man walking dynamo on full charge. I get hugged by a massive, bare-chested, sweaty drummer covered in black Chinese dragon tattoos and I don’t even mind. We are carried on the wave back to a cramped dressing room. Who knows where our bandmates and our hideously-shirted manager are at this stage – probably sat in the back of the Shitmobile drumming their fingers, waiting impatiently for us. The dragon-tatted drummer sinks a whole beer in one and then crushes the can against the side of his
head. How very old-skool! The singer – a massive guy with a head shaved so close it’s like he’s had his scalp shaded with pencil – swigs four big gulps from a vodka bottle and then sinks a can of Red Bull. I’m not sure that’s how you’re meant to do it but who’s going to argue?
All the band members are huge, half-naked and glowing under their sheen of sweat. All of them want to fuck us, that is suddenly clear. The language barrier cannot stop that from coming through. They are feeling at their most macho. They are posturing; clenching fists and tensing muscles in their triumph. Whoops come and alcohol is sunk but it won’t be nearly enough. Smiles are wide but these guys have their gander up and the devil in them. When Sindee starts to flirt more obviously they are drawn in to loom over her, jostling for their chance. Maybe they know about her porn days. Maybe they have heard via the rock world jungle drums that this girl has a liking for sucking off two men at a time.
I have never feared for her until now. We seem to be suddenly way out of our depth and she has nothing like my self-defence weaponry. What stops these five giants and their equally macho hangers-on from fucking us, here in this land so far from home? How many kicks and punches do I get in before my arms are held from behind? I could almost hate her unquenchable instinct to flirt and lure. I thought the arrival of Cas in our midst had heralded a change in her but he is miles from here, out of sight and out of mind, unlikely to ever hear the gory details of what happened here. She cannot stop herself. The urge is too innate.
I think to make an effort to drag her clear, aware that it might only accelerate their grasping attentions, but then she herself steps through them to stand at my side. She has a saucy grin across her face. I don’t know what she has been saying to them but they stand back, as if awaiting her next move. She is lightly biting upon one forefinger, weighing something up.