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Brooke’s favorite band is in town — will she get to meet them?

(Author’s notes: This is a work of fiction. In this fantasy, nobody is worried about STDs. In real life, all non-monogamous sex should be practiced using accepted safe-sex precautions.

All persons involved in sexual activity are 18 years of age or older.

Special thanks to LunaRosa for her perceptive, insightful editing. This is a better story because of her.

Note to readers: if you prefer your stories to be non-stop action, this may not be the story for you — it is slow to become very Literotic. But if you like the characters and stay with it, I think you’ll find it worth the effort.)

: : : : :

Thursday night, getting late.

I was waiting at the stage door for a possible appearance by members of the hottest rock band in the country. It was me and about twenty other girls, about half of them with their boyfriends. I have to say, it was really funny watching the body language: the girls all looked excited, waiting for the band to appear, while the guys looked terminally bored, each one counting off the minutes until he could talk his lady into giving up and leaving.

Big Bang — some people think it’s a silly name, but I think it’s better than what most bands call themselves these days. Regardless, they’re a great band.

I’ve liked them since their earliest days. When I was in college, they were just a local band, playing all the bars. Even then they were really good, especially when they covered songs off the radio; however, their original tunes were, to be kind, awkward.

A year after I graduated, and moved to the big city to climb the corporate ladder, I was browsing on iTunes, and noticed a new CD by a group with the same name. The cover art included a photo of the band, but online it was so small it was hard to tell if it was the same guys. The group I used to go see was a quartet, though, and this group was a five piece, so it was probably a completely different band with the same name.

The more I looked at the photo, though, the more four of them looked familiar. So, what the hell, I bought it. Worst that could happen was I’d hate it, and be out $9.

I loved it. It was the same guys. I found their web site, and saw that they had added a lead singer — great voice, incredible looking, and he seemed to have a flair for songwriting as well. The songs were great — I recognized the bones of most of them from the old days, except the new guy must have re-written the vocal parts, because everything that used to be cringe-inducing sounded great now.

That was three years ago. Since then, they’ve put out two more CDs, both really good — their songwriting keeps improving. They produced some really cool videos for several of the best songs, but I guess the videos weren’t creative enough to go viral, so the CDs ended up not selling much.

Then, last fall, they went on a national tour, opening for a major act. The major act’s audiences loved them, and that got them signed to the major act’s major label, and for their new CD they used the major act’s producer. With a more radio-friendly sound, and the promotional budget of the larger record company, they hit it big: their new CD entered the charts at Number Five, and has been Number One since then – eleven weeks. It’s been certified Gold, and is well on its way to Platinum. Now Big Bang is a major act.

I saw on their website that they would be playing here, and went online to get tickets. They were playing two shows, Thursday and Friday night. Obviously I’d rather go on Friday and not have to worry about work the next morning, but by choosing Thursday, I got good seats near the front, instead of nosebleed.

My boyfriend and I had been going through a rough spell, bumping into incompatibility after incompatibility. The only redeeming thing was, the post-fight sex was always incredible. When I told him I’d gotten tickets to Big Bang, he coldly told me I should get one of my friends to go with me, he had no interest.

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“Nope, NOT kidding,” he smugly replied.

“All of those stupid bands you like that I’ve gone to see,” I hissed at him, “without complaining, by the way. You know that I’ve liked Big Bang since college, before they ever recorded. Are you really that self-centered, you refuse to go with me?”

“You got it,” he said, as he slammed the door to my apartment.

Normally what would happen was, within an hour, one of us would find the other one, we’d fall into bed, rip each other’s clothes off, and fuck each other’s brains out. I’m talking wild, out of control, animal sex — he called it “lizard-brain fucking,” whatever that means. Then the rutting would be followed by softer, more tender, more human love making, still with monumental orgasms for both of us.

This time, no one came back. No make-up fuck. It was over.

Good riddance. A friend from work was glad to use my other ticket.

A few days before the show, my college roommate tuzla escort emailed me, saying she had just seen them, and, in her typical understated way, it would be “worthwhile” to spend some time at the stage door afterward, because the band was hanging out after a lot of their shows.

My work friend loved the show, but wasn’t interested in the afterwards, so she left. I understood — we DID have work the next day.

So, there I was, standing there at the stage door, a little off to the side from the main cluster of other girls. I became aware of a guy standing beside me. I didn’t want to be rude, but, bottom line, I was not there to hook up. I optimistically hoped he was just there as a fan, also.

“You think they’ll show?” he said.

“I hear that they have in some of the other cities,” I answered, without really looking at him, trying to send a signal of “not interested,” without being rude.

“Who’s your favorite?”

“I like all the original four. I don’t really know much about the singer — I used to see them all the time when I was in college, before he joined.”

“I bet he’s the reason most of these girls are here. You’re from College Park?”

Cool, he at least knew a little about these guys, so maybe he wasn’t only there to bother us girls… “I went to school there, but it’s not where I grew up.”

“So, you don’t have a favorite?”

For some reason, I was thinking of Dan, the bass player. “I dunno… back in the day, I thought Dan was cute.”

“I wonder if he’ll show, tonight…”

I nodded.

“Do you think you’d know him, if you saw him?”

What an odd question…

I turned and really looked at the guy for the first time. He looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was actually quite nice looking: very short brown hair, friendly, open face, trim bod, sparkling blue eyes. He had an amused look on his face, like he was enjoying a joke that I hadn’t gotten yet.

I continued looking at him, and if anything, his smile increased a bit. Then he unconsciously brushed his cheek with the back of his hand, and that gave it away — I remember Dan doing that very gesture back in college days, and he had done it throughout the concert tonight.

But Dan had a shock of shoulder-length, thick, curly, honey blond hair, quite different from this guy’s buzz-cut. Other than that, this guy was a dead ringer for him.

My face must have registered a change as I recognized him, because his grin widened.

“Dan?” I asked, slightly disoriented.

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “And you are?”

“Oh, right, um, I’m Brooke, but everyone calls me B.”

“Pleased to meet you, B.”

“So, what’s with the hair?”

“Well, long hair is a hassle, especially when it’s as thick as mine. So a few months ago, I was thinking it’s time for a change, and I cut it off. When our manager saw it, he completely flipped out — he just went on and on, saying over and over that the tour was ruined, that our looks were every bit as important as our sound, and I had wrecked everything. So, even though I think he’s underestimating our audience, I got a Dan wig.”

“It fooled me.”

“It should, it cost enough. So now I’ve got the best of both — I have ‘the look’ for on-stage, and the rest of the time, this (he gestured at his short cut) is much easier to maintain, and, as you now know, I can blend into a crowd and not get hassled by fans.”

“Yet here you are, with the fans.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Fans are great, we owe everything to our fans. For the most part, I love our fans. There’s a downside, though — being ‘recognizable’ 24/7 is exhausting. It’s a luxury to be able to be anonymous – have some privacy, go out in public, eat a meal, see a movie, walk around the park, without being interrupted.”

I left him a little gap to continue, but he was through.

“You guys sounded great tonight.”

“Thanks. Hey, you wanna come backstage?”


I followed him back into the arena, through a different door than where the crowd was waiting. He regaled me with small talk on how the tour was going, while we walked down a concrete and cinder block corridor, curving around as it hugged the perimeter of the arena. We emerged from the tunnel into a large open area, very utilitarian bare concrete, a backstage area not only for concerts, but also the basketball and hockey games the arena was built for.

Out in the middle, there was a square cubicle, about 15 feet or so per side, defined by some metal poles and tall, thick black drape. Dan said, “Let me just duck in here, I’ll you a backstage pass, so you’ll be legit.” Right then, a frantic-looking guy in a band t-shirt, I guess a roadie of some sort, came running up, spewing some techno-babble at Dan, insisting that he had to come RIGHT NOW.

Dan apologized, saying, “This shouldn’t take long. Do you mind waiting in line a minute to get your pass?”

I didn’t mind.

“My atalar escort dressing room is just a little further down the hall, that way, it has my name on it. The door is open, meet you there?”

I nodded.

Several girls were waiting in a line at the cubicle, where a rather rough looking guy, very bored, sat in a chair.

As I got in line to wait my turn, a quick flash of light spilled from inside the draped area, a girl giggled, and a voice within said, “Next!” The bored guy pulled back a panel of the drape, and the girl in front of the line disappeared inside. After a couple of minutes, the pattern repeated: flash of light, “next,” and another girl was admitted.

The girl now in front was a slender blonde, who would have been quite attractive, except her arms and neck were covered in coarse tats, and up close her complexion was a pasty shade of grey, about the texture of cold oatmeal. While we all awaited our turn, she gestured at the bored guy’s band t-shirt, and said, “nice shirt.”

Without looking up, he said, “Thanks.”

“Can I have one?”

“Sure, what size?”


The bored guy disappeared for a few seconds, and then was back with a shirt. He gestured at her top, “You have to give me that one first.”

It took her a moment to respond. “What?”

“Your shirt. I’ll give it back, but you have to hand it to me — THEN I give you this one.”

It was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She froze, and he turned, as if to return the band shirt to its box.

“Wait,” she said.

He turned back, she took a deep breath, and in one motion, pulled her top over her head. She stood there, holding her shirt out at him, while he just blatantly stared at her tits. She sort of shook her shirt at him, as if to say, “Hurry up!”

He took her top, and shook his shoulders at her. She didn’t respond, so he shook his shoulders at her again. Now she got it — she shimmied her shoulders, causing her breasts to jiggle. At that, he handed her the band shirt. When she had pulled it on, he returned her shirt.

He glanced at the rest of us and said, “Anybody else?”

Three other girls spoke simultaneously, saying, “Nope, not a chance,” “No freaking way!” and, “Sure, medium.”

When he got back with the medium, she was already standing there in her bra, holding out her shirt to him. He shook his head “no,” pointed at her bra, and said, “That too.”

She hadn’t planned on that, so she froze for a moment. He turned as if to put it back, and she also said, “Wait.” He faced her, and blatantly stared at her tits as she reached behind and unhooked her bra, slipped it off her shoulders, and without waiting for him to ask, jiggled her tits at him. He took her shirt, handed her the band tee, and when she had put her bra and the t-shirt on, handed her shirt back.

He turned to me and said, “You?”

I had been debating myself on that very question. Con: I’m NOT that kind of girl. Pro: this shirt is better than the ones they sold at the concession stands, I’d love to have it. Con: I really don’t care to have my breasts ogled by any bored guys. Pro: it’s a pretty cool shirt. Con: I’m not wearing a bra either, the top I’m wearing has some support built into it, so I’ll end up wearing the t-shirt braless. Pro: it’ll impress Dan. Con: I don’t care what Dan thinks. Pro: yes, actually, I kind of do care.

Bored guy had reached the end of his attention span, so he turned to sit back down. “Medium,” I said. He stopped and stared at my chest, obviously a man of few words. By staring at my tits, he made it clear he wasn’t going to fetch the shirt until he’d seen the goods. Not believing what I was doing, I peeled off my top, shook my breasts for him, and stood there, on the backstage arena concrete floor, shirt off, tits out in the open. He went and got the shirt, I slipped it on, and reclaimed my top.

By now the “no freaking way” girl had reconsidered, and said “Medium.” He said, “Sorry, we’re out,” and sat back down.

She took off her top and bra anyway; her breasts were HUGE. She said, “Are you sure?” He nodded. She shook her tits, probably registering on the Richter scale somewhere nearby, and said, “Are you SURE you’re sure?”

He gestured at her lower body, and said, “Those too.”

She looked at him in disbelief, and he gestured at the draped cubicle and continued, “You’re gonna lose them in there anyway.” Looking rather deer-in-the-headlights, she stepped out of her skirt, and stood there in her panties. He just stared. She held out her top, bra, and her skirt, he took them, and just stared. She stared back, trying to figure out what else she had to do, then she finally got the message — “those,” he had said.

Looking a bit deer-in-the-headlights, she hooked her thumbs into the sides of her panties, and slid them down to the floor. She held them out to him, and had to wait, as he stared at her pussy, which seemed freshly waxed. She broke the spell it had on him by wiggling her hips cevizli escort in a quick mini-hula dance. He took her panties, and went and got another shirt, leaving her stark naked. When he got back, he didn’t even bother to say, “Oh look, we weren’t out after all, I found some more.”

She held out her hand at him, and he just stared, going back and forth between her breasts and pussy. Eventually he gave her the shirt. She asked for her bra, and he handed it to her, much more slowly than was necessary. He held onto the rest of her clothes until she had put the bra and t-shirt on. She actually looked more exposed with the shirt on, bottomless, in this rather industrial arena corridor, than she had fully naked. He gave everything back to her, and sat back down to watch as she put her skirt back on, then pulled her panties on under it — sort of a strip-tease in reverse.

By then, I was wondering what he had meant by, “You’re gonna lose them in there anyway.” I mean, I’m not a prude; actually I’ve got a bit of a wild side: I’ve played strip poker and both won and lost, I’ve gone topless at the beach, topless on the dorm roof practically every day for four years (the warm ones, anyway), bottomless on the dorm roof a bunch of times, and skinny dipping at the lake, as well as some apartment pools and a hotel hot tub or two. I’ve played truth or dare with some friends who have WICKED imaginations. All of those things in mixed company.

Then there was that Summer Solstice party where several of us chipped in and rented a Sybian. We placed it out in the middle of the back yard. If you wanted a ride, you just waited your turn and climbed on, but it was not for the inhibited — kind of like riding one of those mechanical bulls at a western-themed bar, with everybody standing around it watching, except with a vibrating six inch dildo up your snatch. Mmmmm, that was three of the most savage orgasms I’ve ever had, now that’s an amazing machine… Sex just dripped from the air. Ended up with around twenty of us in a daisy chain.

My point is, if someone gets an eyeful, or even a handful or a mouthful, of my naked body, I don’t automatically feel violated — I enjoy being naked, as long as it’s a natural part of the moment. However, if it’s anything more than just having my shirt off for a few seconds, it’s MY choice, and my rule is, it’s always in a classy setting. “Classy setting” means no rough-looking bored guys. I was thinking that the thing to do was take the t-shirt and leave, cut my losses, and keep the souvenir. Just then the light flashed inside the cubicle, but instead of a voice saying, “next,” a very nice-looking guy stuck his head out of the cubicle and said, “Which one of you is B, here to see Dan?”

Well, that sounded like an “in” to me, so I gave up any thought of bailing. I tried not to smirk at the other girls as I entered the cubicle. Nice-looking guy pulled the drape shut behind me, gestured that I could set my top and purse down on a small round table, and then I was face to face with the lead singer, who was holding an old-school Polaroid camera.

“Wow,” I said, “I didn’t even know you could get film for those anymore.”

“Turns out you can, but it ain’t cheap,” he responded, holding out his hand. “Chad,” he said, as I took his hand and we shook, “and you are B?”

“The one and only,” I answered.

“I can see that. And B stands for…”


“Ah, Brooke, beautiful name.”

I started to thank him, but he continued, “My ex-girlfriend’s name is Brooke. Broke my heart seven different ways…” I glanced at the nice-looking guy, who rolled his eyes like he’d heard this rant way too many times. “Tore my heart out of my chest and stomped on it with the Doc Martens that I bought her. Ripped my head off, and took a crap down the hole in my neck.”

He gestured at a portable bulletin board, where several dozen Polaroids were pinned. “Let’s get your shot up there, and then you can be off to Dan-land.” I looked at the photo board, expecting to see faces, but that’s not what the Polaroids were. They were all variations of the same flesh-colored abstraction. I stepped closer. I squinted, and heard Chad snickering. He handed me a drumstick, held up the camera, and said, “Ready when you are.”

Now that I was right up to the board, with the drumstick in my hand, the shots made sense. They were photos of asses. Girls’ asses. Girls’ naked asses. Each girl bent over at the waist, with half a drumstick sticking out of her asshole. Most of the shots were framed to show that the girl was totally naked, usually a bare back and part of a boob dangling at the edges of the shot, but the emphasis was, half a drumstick, butthole.

“Gee, Chad, what an irresistible offer. Not gonna happen,” I said.

“Your call, one-and-only. Every night there’s a few who think they’re too good.”

Well, confidence is a great thing. I’ve always found it very attractive. There’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance, however, and arrogance never works with me. That night, it didn’t matter if I was impressed with Chad, I wasn’t there to see Chad. He and his ego were just tiny bumps in the road. At that moment my only thought was, “If he lays a hand on me, the next time he sings they’ll have to duct-tape the microphone to a bloody stump.”

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