“Come on, let’s dance. Finally.”
“Oh stop it,” Ally said with a wave. “I’ve been dancing all night.”
We squeezed in through the uninhibited bodies dancing wildly to a Prodigy song, Smack My Bitch Up.After that strong drink, I went out there and finally shook my booty the way I’d been itching to do all night. But thoughts of that singer invaded my mind. I caught myself looking for him several times, to no avail.
“Who are you looking for?” Ally asked, letting me know how conspicuous my peeking really was.
“Oh nobody. Just checking out the goods.”
She glanced around. “Plenty of good things to see tonight.”
She was right. Forget that guy. He’s the singer of a punk rock band. Probably being entertained backstage by a trio of women in revealing outfits at that very moment. I diverted my attention to some of the other guys in the club. Plenty of eye candy on the dance floor and they moved their bodies well, which meant they might be skillful with their bodies in other ways. It had been too long since I had a lover and my kind had a higher sex drive than most humans. Unbearably high at times. What I needed now was a lover to help me cope. Not a boyfriend, not any sort of relationship other than one to fulfill our sexual desires.
Win-win for everyone.
*
“Love your dress,” I heard a male voice say while I was out on the dance floor. A voice I recognized as the one who commanded the crowd earlier, who congratulated me earlier, who bought us champagne earlier and who now sent a quiver between my thighs as I heard him speak again.
I turned and said, “Thanks.” This tight little black-and-red plaid number was one of my favorites, but I didn’t dare wear it often. Then, at a loss for words, I commanded myself, Speak, speak. “I see you’re a fan of plaid yourself.” I nodded at his hat. “I found this dress in a vintage store in Harvard Square.”
I said speak, not babble. Why would a guy care where you bought a dress?
I realized I’d stopped dancing once he arrived, but with him now swaying in front of me, I felt like an idiot. Something about him was so disarming that I couldn’t just size him up, put him into a neat little category into my brain. I joined him and resumed dancing, forcing myself to breathe properly and move naturally. Whatever song was playing was slow enough and not as loud as the other ones so we could hear each other.
“Yes, you can still get some excellent finds there even though a lot of rubbish chain stores have moved in.”
Huh?
“I love the bookstores there too,” he continued. “You can find some rare out-of-print books.” I raised my eyebrows to indicate my surprise at a rock singer perusing bookstores, but he didn’t notice. “There aren’t as many places to shop as there once were. The CD shops are all but gone now. But this baby is a classic.” He motioned to indicate my dress. Then he looked me up and down. If I didn’t know he was checking out my dress, I might have had a few words for the unabashed eye-fuck. “Schoolgirl chick meets rock ‘n’ roll. Nice yet naughty all at once.”
Surprised he’d be that interested in my outfit, I teased, “You’re really into women’s dresses.”
He laughed. “I’m going to bow out on replying I’d like to be in your dress right now,although you clearly set yourself up for that one.”
My mouth dropped open in an indignant protest, but he continued. “Not women’s dresses per se, but I need to keep my eyes open for eye-catching outfits to wear onstage.”
“You’re the singer, right?” What a dumb question. One I already knew the answer to. And one he probably thought was stupid, as I clearly should have noticed the singer of the band playing in the club that night.
He didn’t call me out on it, luckily, but answered. “I am. Leggy Bones. My stage name. Don’t worry, my parents didn’t hate me that much to name me Leggy.”
“Do I dare ask your real name?”
“I’ll only tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“Somehow I have the feeling you’ve used this line on women before.”
“Not a bad way to introduce one’s self, don’t you think? It’s better than the I’m so-and-so. Nice to meet you bull.”
I shrugged. “It gets to the point quickly though, doesn’t it? And who has time to waste these days?”
“I suppose.”
“I didn’t get a chance to thank you for the champagne. That was very sweet of you. Thank you.” I put my hand on his shoulder to show my appreciation, but my gesture backfired as jolts of excitement ricocheted back to me, throwing me off.
“No problem. Hope you and your friend enjoyed it.”
“We did.”
“So what is it then?”
“What’s what?”
“Your name.”
“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “You know what? I could probably make up any name right now that I wanted. It’s not as if it matters, right?”
“Are you always this obstinate?” he asked.
I scrunched up my face a little. “I would say no. But my family often calls me stubborn or pigheaded. I like obstinate better.”
“Don’t make that face. You look too cute like that. You’re distracting me from the question.”
“Question? What question?” I tilted my head and smiled up at him.
“You’re being coy.”
“Why don’t we say it’s Cara?”
“We can say Cara, but we both know that’s not your name. However, if you want to play that way, nice to meet you, Cara. I’m Leggy.”
We stared at each other for several long moments, our eyes searching each other’s as we sized the other up. Finally I said, “I don’t understand why you really want to know. You’ll forget it five minutes after I tell you. I mean, you’re a singer of a rock band. But I’m not a groupie. So if you’re looking to pick someone up for the night, you’re better off looking elsewhere.”
I was on the hunt for a longer-term sex partner, not a one-night stand.
He laughed, throwing his head back. “A groupie? Come on now.”
“I’m serious. I’m not going to go home with you no matter how generous you were with the champagne gesture.”
“Settle down, tiger. I’m not hitting on you. I’m just a computer geek who mustered up the nerve to talk to a pretty lady.”
“Ha ha. Funny.” I looked at his outfit, which clearly screamed bad rock ’n‘ roller, a far cry from someone calling himself a computer geek. “Okay, Mr. IT, I’m sure I’m completely wrong. And you have a bunch of computers and servers backstage rather than a bunch of groupies.”
He took a deep inhale and exhaled slowly before responding. “Just because I’m a singer of a rock band doesn’t mean I have a gaggle of groupies backstage.”
Gaggle of groupies? I raised my eyebrows again to indicate my skepticism. This time he caught it.
“Listen, I’m not some rock ’n‘ roll cliché.” The half-smile that had been on his face until now disappeared into a grim line. “I am a real person, not a caricature of one. Perhaps I overheard a couple of beautiful women at the bar celebrating what sounded to be a momentous moment. I was feeling pretty good after a great set and wanted to do something nice for someone else.”
A part of me felt like shit as he did seem sincere. But another part of me was wary. That could be his well-rehearsed excuse, just part of his shtick to seduce unsuspecting women.
“Well, if that’s true. I thank you once again. Like I said, it was sweet.”
He took that half-bow once again. “Good night, Cara. It was nice not quite meeting the real you.”
“Good night, Leggy. It was also nice not quite meeting the real you.”
He looked at me for another moment and then left.
I wanted to stomp my own foot with my stupid weapon-like heels.
Damn, I’m such a cynical bitch.
Leggy
God, that woman was smoking hot!
Yet so cold and dismissive. Which made her all the more intriguing.
; I shook my head as I walked away. Why am I always chasing the ones who are clearly not interested?
“Leggy, great show tonight. You were awesome!” An attractive blonde in a tight black dress walked alongside me.
“Cara” was right; I bet I could ask this woman to come home with me tonight and she wouldn’t even think twice about it.
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate you coming out to see us.”
“Can we have a drink?” she asked. Her eyes were filled with expectation.
The battle that raged inside me every time I was approached by a pretty woman started up anew.
She’s hot. You should go for it. It’s not as if you’ve never done it before.
Yeah, but that got old pretty quickly. What’s the point of sleeping with someone who is only into you because you’re in a band? Most guys would be all over that. They loved having a girl or two in every city. Juggling women was a pastime. All that drama sounded exhausting. The awkward moments post-sex always made me cringe.
Perhaps I’m not most guys. Perhaps I’ve had enough meaningless encounters. It’s time for something more in a woman.
“Another time perhaps. I’m going to head backstage to cool down after that set.”
“I could come with you. Keep you company?”
“You’re a beautiful girl and probably every other guy here would love that. But I’m kind of beat and need to be alone for a little while.”
She didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. Then she put on a brave smile and walked away.
I watched her walk away—tall, lean body in that tight dress.
What’s wrong with me? I must be turning into a big old fogy in my thirties.
My thoughts diverted to the curvy brunette. Then to my hands running over the curves underneath that dress.
A woman who shot you down earlier. A woman who is clearly not impressed that you’re the singer of a rock band. A woman who wouldn’t even tell you her real name.
I visualized bending her over my lap and giving her a good spanking.
Ha, as if that would ever happen! She is clearly not interested in you. Yet you’re still thinking about her? What a sucker for punishment you are.
Lily
When I caught myself thinking about my conversation with Leggy at work that week, I tried not to cringe and quickly forced myself to think of something else. Luckily work was good for distraction from daily life. There was always email to answer, documents to write up and new software to learn.
After work, however, it was a different story. I’d log in my usual hour at the gym, shower and come home for dinner. Many nights I picked up something at the healthy fast food café next to the gym, but sometimes I became adventurous and tried to experiment with whatever vegetables I picked up from the farmers’ market, convincing myself I could actually cook. Some of these experiments worked out well and others—well, I ended up picking up something at the café after all. Since it was January in New England, the farmers’ markets were long over so my kitchen went into hibernation.
Once I was back home in my apartment, I thought about him. What’s he like? What’s his life like? What’s he doing now? Is he with some girl who had fallen all over him the night before? I mean, it wouldn’t be hard—look at me thinking about him and I wasn’t even a fan of the band.
Before I could stop myself, I was checking their website. Surely this wouldn’t be considered cyberstalking, right? I mean, it is a public website out there for the world to visit.
When I saw Leggy on the homepage, I stared for who knows how long. The other band members were pictured there as well, but my eyes were fixated on Leggy in a pair of torn-up gray camouflage cargo shorts, red suspenders dangling down over them, a black tank top and black combat boots. I scanned the contours of his face, etching them into memory. And his eyes. The mischievous look that I remembered from that night at Vamps was hinted at in his eyes as he stared right back at me.
My eyes scanned down his body. The lean muscles in his tattooed arms. The tank top was tight enough to reveal he didn’t carry an ounce of fat on him. I pictured what his abs must look like underneath. With the definition elsewhere, I’d bet money he had a six-pack that begged to be explored by my fingers.
And his shorts. I caught myself staring at the bulge between his legs and blushed even though nobody was there to know.
Quickly I looked to the navigation links and clicked on the bio page. It didn’t contain any personal info about individual members, but gave a brief history of the band.
Velvet Cocks formed five years ago as a dare between a bunch of computer geeks. Some guys at a software company north of Boston were looking for a way to unwind after staring at a computer screen all day. Three of them—two software engineers and an IT tech—decided to form a rock band. Everything about them was tongue-in-cheek at first—who could come up with a raunchy band name, clever stage name, wildest outfit—as a sort of slam and homage to the rock and punk bands they grew up listening to. The dare turned into something bigger as they realized they actually played pretty well. Nobody was more surprised about this than they were. In addition to playing their own twists on classic songs, they started writing original songs, especially in reference to the computer world they worked in and the books they read. Soon they began touring underground clubs in New England at any place that would book them. To their shock, regulars started coming to see them. After a few years, they were signed to record their first album. They recently released their second album, which they are promoting with shows in New England, New York, and DC. Still geeks at heart, they all kept their day jobs working on computer technology.
Shit, he was telling the truth about being a computer geek. Interesting. I leaned back and ran my index finger over my lower lip. I never would have guessed any of that about them. They looked and sounded like a rock band, not a bunch of nerds who picked up instruments and lucked out with a rising band.
Maybe I was wrong to peg him as a groupie magnet and all. Maybe I should not have made some sweeping generalizations based on someone’s appearance. Maybe I was a cynical shit too quick to rush to judgment. Especially when it came to guys.
I clicked on the link for their music page and clicked Play to start a playlist of some of their songs. As I tidied up my apartment, Leggy’s voice either screamed out lyrics in hard, fast songs or crooned softly through the slower ones. Hearing the song in my apartment rather than a loud club, I could make out more of the lyrics. I chuckled at a modern-day banter between Holmes and Watson.
The song Never Trust a Woman with an Asp was a punk rock homage to the tragic love between Antony and Cleopatra. There was a witty exchange between Anne Rice’s brooding vampire Louis and the rock ’n‘ roll Lestat in Vampire Bromance. Then there was that crowd pleaser Let’s Fuck All Over Paris—the one song I recognized from seeing them play live. Listening to the lyrics now, I started to figure out the references. The vagabonds and prostitutes. The joy of having nothing and the bleak despair of being alone. Tropic of Cancer. Duh, now I got it. It was an ode to Henry Miller’s sexual romps in France.
Ally was right; they were a bunch of cheeky bastards.
Other songs included short punk rants against downsizing, outsourcing, and merging corporations. Even though I thought the lyrics were rather clever, most of all I was taken by his voice. Damn, his voice was sexy. Whether he was waxing poetic to literary masterpieces or criticizing corporate greed, his voice oozed a sensuality that crept right under my skin.
I was tempted to Google Leggy himself to find more about him, but then I admonished myself to stop cyberstalking and slammed my laptop shut.
Stop acting like a teenage girl with a crush on some rock star. You’re a professional. You’re not sixteen. You have a career. Maybe it’s been too long since you’ve had a lover. Maybe you need to get online at one of those dating sites. It’s better than meeting some guy in some club, especially some unattainable rock star.
I’d met Ally at the gym. She taugh
t yoga and Pilates classes there and I went to her classes a couple of times a week. We’d become pals one night after class when we both stopped by the juice bar. Even though we were polar opposites personality-wise, appearance-wise and just about any way you could think of, we hit it off and quickly became friends. She was a thin, strawberry-blonde, tattooed, outgoing animal lover. Everything about me was darker, from looks to personality. I was far more introverted and private, not close to many people besides my mom and she lived in New Hampshire. With my secret, I thought the more distance I kept between people, the better.
Unlike Ally, I did not have any pets. Who would take care of it when I had to leave town? That was my practical excuse. The real reason was that animals sensed I was different. Dogs often barked like mad when I walked by them in the park and their owners would apologize, being perplexed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She rarely barks.”
And cats. They wouldn’t come near me. Odd…
After work, I went to the gym to hit one of Ally’s classes. She texted me earlier while I was at work and asked if I wanted to go out for a walk after class. We often went out for a walk or a drink after class. Sometimes we’d offset the calories we’d burned off in class with whatever junk food Ally wanted to consume, or feed my addiction to cookies. With her ridiculous metabolism, Ally ate whatever she wanted, which was usually something picked up at Dunkin’ Donuts. She was the kind of woman that most women wanted to hate because of that fact. However, with her bubbly and outgoing personality it was impossible to do so. She had good genes. I, on the other hand, had to stick to the healthy food or else I’d blow up to a pear shape overnight. My weakness was cookies though and I was not going to cut my craving for cookies no matter what the consequence. I’d cut out all the other good fatty foods; let me have my one indulgence.
Oreos, chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, Fig Newtons… I could go on. My favorite time of year was Christmas and not for all the gift-giving; it was the cookie swaps.
Tonight Ally and I headed down to walk on the trails at the nearby lake. She was dressed in yoga pants and a fitted pink tank top with a matching pink workout jacket, which accentuated her slim figure. Her hair was piled up on the top of her head into a messy bun and held by a clip. If I tried to pin my hair up that way, it would look like something you might find after the apocalypse. She probably did it without even looking in the mirror and of course it looked casual yet chic on her.
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