And then, there he was.
My Hot Guitarist.
Up on stage, he looked different, but also somehow the same. His hair hung down over his face. A weathered guitar was suspended in front of him by a custom strap.
I knew on sight it was a guitar he loved. Probably the first one he ever had. It was what he knew and what he liked, the prospect of a new instrument likely never occurring to him.
The band began their set, and I moved and swayed to the hard rhythms, feeling it go straight to my core. I was wet and hot, and my eyes were half-closed in syncopated dancing, my hips thrusting and bouncing all around.
Sometime during the show, the guy who had held the door for us, who I thought of as Mr. Gentleman, had made his way next to Jake. They gripped at each other like clawing bears. I was wondering if either of them was going to be brave enough to start a kiss.
What I really wanted was to have Hot Guitarist’s face in mine, our mouths crushing the breath out of each other.
Jake and his new friend drifted away from my notice, as I intently focused on my prey, my fantasy. My Fate.
His fingers moved along the frets, knowing every inch of the neck. I hid in the crowd, trying to stay out of sight. I didn’t want to distract him, as if somehow seeing me would have the same effect on him as seeing him had on me.
I knew it was a stupid thought, but I couldn’t help but wish it was true.
Plus, hiding left me alone with my thoughts. In my mind, a whole world happened that no one could see.
I imagined I was his instrument, his fingers playing me, forcing me to sing notes of passion in a tenor and pitch far beyond normal hearing, my moans in his ears, his brutal speed edging me ever higher to a complete conclusion.
The sound washed over me like nothing before.
I knew I needed more.
My funds short, but my needs high, I hit the cash vendor during the intermission. I spent money I didn’t really have on a CD and tour shirt.
I hung around the backstage area, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Jake came out of the men’s room, a huge grin on his face.
“What have you been up to?” I teased.
He giggled, drunk on love.
“Let’s go!” he said, gleefully.
I glanced around one final time, feeling a pang of separation from someone I didn’t even knew existed a few short hours earlier.
We walked out to the parking lot and got into Jake’s car.
Then, we drove away, my heart pounding with need.
My ears ringing and my heart full, I sat in the back of Jake’s car as he drove back to campus.
A subsidized dorm was the only way I could afford a place anywhere near work. Otherwise, I would be back in my parent’s basement like a sad cliché. I loved them but wanted to make a go of it on my own.
Returned to my tiny sanctuary, I got out of my show clothes, particularly the jacket. Then I took a slow shower.
To say I enjoyed myself a bit is an understatement. The feel of the water against my skin, the emotion of the sound from the concert, the passions I could feel in my body pulled together and made me love it.
I used the shower head, and my fingers, to think about what I wished Hot Guitarist would do to me. I bet he could bend me over and fuck me like there was no tomorrow. I wished he would push his fingers into my pussy and stretch me open wide enough for his undoubtedly huge cock to enter.
He’d go easy at first, then thrust harder, making me call his name over and over and sing out his band’s hits as he made me cum.
In real life, I came hard, wishing it could be for him.
Then I stepped out, spent.
I slipped the shirt I had purchased over my head. The soft cotton lightly rubbed my skin. I made a mental note of its quality. Then I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. The results were both surprising and delightful.
I was caught in a purgatory that even Dante hadn’t devised.
I growled at my curves in the mirror, which made my petite frame look super plus sized. Never mind that it was the body I was born with and the only one that I had. Frowning, I reminded myself that to deny it was akin to denying my family, even my dad, who only stood at five-eight.
Small but feisty— it was what we did; who we were.
As a teen, I just wasn’t sure my body would get me many dates, which is a major priority at that tender age. Not that it helped much. The longer I went on still owning my cherry, the clearer it became to me that there was something wrong.