I’
ve never been the girl who is into musicians. Part of it is just laziness. I’d rather scoop up low-hanging fruits than wear myself out jumping for the really juicy stuff at the top. And I just plain can’t stand the sense of entitlement that guys develop when they’re used to getting a lot of sexual attention. I’m a chick. Getting laid is supposed to be easy.
Still, Aaron was in a band. The lead guitarist and I had met at a lame party where we’d poked fun at the other attendees all night. The next week he’d taken me to dinner and we’d had several hours of sex in which we both had several orgasms.
Sense of humor, free dinner, and he got me off? This guy was a triple threat. So I agreed when he invited me to his band’s show, even though there is no worse date than going to see a guy’s band play. Actually, I hate attending concerts alone in general; normally I can make friends anywhere but it’s hard to meet people who are there to see a band, and if the music is moving I get sort of weepy. Last time I went to a concert alone a group of guys started referring to me as “melons,” filling me with the familiar sense of anger pricked with an embarrassing sense of being flattered by the degrading come-on.
But I couldn’t find a suitable girlfriend (cute but not cuter than me) to accompany me and bringing a guy friend seemed fraught with innuendo, so I threw on a black sweater dress and patent red Mary Janes and his the venue alone in hopes that the sex would be worth it.
Walking into the venue, I saw him immediately. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, and he ran backstage while I settled in at the bar with a Gray Goose and tonic. A few moments later, however, I noticed that he had re-emerged and was talking with a group of friends (his band?). Two feet away from me. I stood awkwardly, pretending not to notice that I didn’t warrant an invitation into the group.
The night continued in this vein. In the brief moments he came out from backstage, he would minister to me briefly, then to his friends without ever introducing us. First I was hurt, then I was embarrassed, then I got pissed. Dressed to the nines and teetering on my high heels, leaning against the bar with no one to talk to, I did what any sexually confident young woman would do – I got super drunk. And as I got super drunk, I started flirting with other guys. A lot of other guys.
First there was orange pants guy. I think I made fun of his orange pants. He bought me a shot. Next, a polo-shirted fellow leaned in during my date’s set and shouted “This is the worst band ever!” Something about him I liked, so we spent a few minutes flirting before I returned to bar for a cocktail I didn’t need. From there it was hard to even tell which one of the blurry figures onstage was my date. I bought shots for the roadies.
I then introduced myself to the guitarist for the opening band. “Do you guys have an album out?” I asked him, and he gave me a free CD I didn’t care about or want. Then he invited me backstage. From the sound booth we watched my date’s band play a second set to a now-scanty audience. He put his arms around me from behind and I felt his erection press into my ass. I wondered if my inattentive date could see me grinding against the guitarist or if the lights were too bright.
Heading back to the green room, we were joined by the opening bassist, and I took sips from his Sapporo as I took turns making out with both guys. Bandmates wandered in and out and I made halfhearted attempts to pull my dress down and push my boobs back from where they were spilling out of my dress. They were probably used to witnessing dirty groupie shit anyway, and that was half the appeal.
It was the same spirit of rock and roll filth that led me to accept when one of the guys mentioned the backstage shower. Jamming the broken door shut with a chair, we stripped our clothes off as the water got warm. There was no soap, so we just kind of splashed around for a few minutes and rubbed up against one another before some poor person who needed to use the bathroom started banging on the door. I shudder to think what kind of fungus I may have picked up from a shower in a backstage bathroom, but at the time the story seemed good enough to override health concerns.
Trashed and soaking wet at 2 am on a school night, I decided I’d better head home. I had what I thought would be an awkward run-in with Aaron as I headed outside to get a cab, but overall he seemed more amused than angry that I had spent the evening “getting to know the other band” as he put it.
Maybe he was worth another chance after all.
I’ve never been the girl who is into musicians. Part of it is just laziness. I’d rather scoop up low-hanging fruits than wear myself out jumping for the really juicy stuff at the top. And I just plain can’t stand the sense of entitlement that guys develop when they’re used to getting a lot of sexual attention. I’m a chick. Getting laid is supposed to be easy. 