by Gwen Masters
(10/12/05)

He is coming down the hallway, cigarette hanging precariously from the corner of full lips, eyes hidden by sunglasses, feet tapping out a rhythm of purpose as he struts through the thin panels of light that throw themselves on the marble before him. He is dressed in black and he is wearing that suit and those sunglasses, and My God in Heaven there is that smirk, that one that sends me tumbling over an abyss of darkness, the sweet kind of darkness that whispers There are secrets down in this cave, oh yes, would you like to share?

My acquiescence is present in the slightest ways of a woman's body, the very things I am proud of even as they do me in. The blush high on the cheeks, the fever that takes residence in the eyes, turning them as glossy as the lips below, parted lips that heave with the breath that has just sped up to keep pace with the now-racing heart.

"Damnation!" a male voice murmurs, perhaps jealous at the gaggle of women who notice only the man with the smirk, or perhaps noting in the man what he lacks in himself, a confidence borne of years of this, the kind of arrogance arrowed into a man's psyche by women at his beck and call not because he becks and calls them, but because they just are and he just is. Call it crazy-cool, call it rock-star-sexy, call it anything but what it really is, which is a stud on the prowl and more than a few bitches in heat.

Bitch in heat. I said that, yes I did, and I won't deny that I am.

I want to be that sharp cut of sunlight on dark marble, that lucky prism of colorless air that throws myself toward him and in front of him and on him. I want to be the hardness that comes up to meet the heels of the shoes that make that sound, the sound of a man's heel coming down hard and almost bitter, a clipped voice of satisfaction at the end of every stride. I want to be the sunglasses that grace his face, the mirrors he must look through to see anything else.

He brushes his lapel with calloused fingers, tough and unyielding, the hands of a man who is just as comfortable with a guitar in those hands as he is with a woman's body writhing underneath them. Blue smoke trails after him, puffs of nothingness, veils of mystery surrounding him as he takes another long drag. He turns smoking into a fine art. One flick of the wrist and there goes the ash, falling gently as he pulls the filter from those full lips and the corners arch up into a smile, the kind of smile that makes knees go weak.

His voice is gravel wrapped in silk. He approaches us and before he opens his mouth I can hear the low hum, the seductive snicker, the voice that has launched a dozen Number One hits. The women fluff their hair and straighten their skirts and maybe hike them up a bit, showing more thigh than was originally intended, pouting lips with their raspberry gloss, standing straight to throw their breasts into sharp relief, a line of panting beauties who are praying a bit of his rock-star shine will glitter down over their lives.

Hello, he says, and the sound pulls through us all like a string connected right between the thighs, and we all gasp a bit and become wet, if we were not already. We are a collective sigh.

He takes his time, walking nonchalantly through those lined up for him, grasping pens and signing autographs and bending down to whisper in costumed ears, all the while gauging the reactions, wondering who will be discreet and more importantly, who won't be. It is a reputation he must uphold, the sexy rock star who isn't too far out of reach but just far enough to be an enigma, a one-night stand that fades into the lore of Sweet Connies and tell-all tales behind blushing and coy anonymity.

He stands before me. He blows a small puff of smoke into my face. The blue veil surrounds us and I breathe deep, filling my lungs with what was just in his, closing my eyes for a moment and knowing that his eyes are flickering down, that he is seeing the hardness of my nipples behind the barely-there fabric of my shirt, that he is watching me take in as much of him as I can. When he chuckles in that certain way that a man does when he knows what he wants, I know I won't be going home when the show is over.

The other women look at me with snide eyes. They want what I am going to get, a bit of that rock star shine, a notch on his bedpost or, lacking that, a memory of that long sleek tour bus that sits idling outside. That's where he takes me in the end, where the burly security guard leads me with an air of boredom, where I wait for him while looking at the impossibly small space and mirrors and pictures of him with others who are as elusive as he is, twinkling stars that break up a vast sky of normalcy.

In his narrow bed he is slow and kind, a surprise after watching him rock hard on a stage for hours, shaping sounds from his guitar while throwing every ounce of energy onto the stage and trying to reach the hearts and libidos of everyone out there, especially the nosebleeds. His sexiness emanates from the chords and notes and even from the way he laughs into the microphone, the deep and rumbling sound that announces his pleasure, the sound that makes thousands of women swoon.

I have expectations. I expect vigor. I expect practiced eagerness. I expect something masculine and confident, a swagger of sexual delight. Instead he is slow and careful and when I come it isn't once, but over and over and over, and I think that the stories about his sexual prowess aren't even close to accurate. He's better.

He wants me on top of him. He lies under me, an active participant, kissing nipples and playing with hair and guiding hips and biting lips. His eyes are dark as ever and he looks even better out of the suit than he looked in it. He tastes like cigarette smoke and cologne and icy cold water. He has a scar on his chest, a small thing that cannot be seen, only felt. I want to ask him where it came from but I don't, because it makes him vulnerable and that isn't what rock stars are.

I make him come twice. Once he floods my mouth and he groans when he does it, and damned if I don't come right along with him, the first time I have ever come like that, without a single touch. He tastes bitter and I think it must be from the smokes and the liquor and maybe even the lifestyle, the unnaturalness of being awake during the nights and asleep during the days. The second time he comes it is deep inside me, while he whispers that he loves to come inside a woman, he loves to feel his own cream around his cock, it's what he jacks off to on the nights when he doesn't find a woman suitable for doing this with, and despite all that implies, I feel special even after the bus is gone, leaving me in a haze of exhaust and memory.

Years later I will see him again. He will look at me with a glimmer of recognition and when he hears my voice amazingly he will remember, he will smile at me and hold me closer when he hugs me. He will say he is glad I have an all-access pass, and all-access has a different kind of meaning when it comes from his lips. He will be onstage with his guitar, ten years gone between that night and this one, and he will still hold the crowd in the palm of his hand. I will look at him through different eyes even though my heart still goes wild, my body still turns to cream and my lips still part on imaginary kisses.

When he takes me back to his bus this night I will remember why I came back again. I will remember what he was like. I will remember why I never told anyone about the night I had with him, and why I will never tell anything more than this, nothing more about the weeks and months and eventually the years I spend on that bus, nothing more than the reasons I fell in lust with the rock star and in love with the man.

He laughs when he comes, and he never forgot my name.

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