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Things got a bit friendly when she came out in a pair of tight black pants, with a cream camisole with a bit of lace around the neck, covered by a loose black and red long sleeved ‘cardigan’ that tied together in the front just below her chest. She stepped close to me and pirouetted, telling me that she loved the way the pants felt, that they were silky smooth. I placed my hand on her thigh and slid it up and down. I could feel the muscles in her leg move under my hand. It felt like a silk or rayon mix and felt very thin but clung to her like a second skin. She twisted sideways and said that she was worried that the pants brought to much attention to her big butt. Without thinking I moved my hand from her thigh and slid it up the back of her thigh till I cupped one of her butt cheeks in my hand. ‘Looks and feels fine to me.’ I stated, but I felt her tense up as soon as I started talking and realized what I’d done. She’d started to relax before I was able to get out an ‘I’m sorry.’ I. I was already a little tipsy, so the music and the screaming from the crowd joined and it all just sounded like a night club. They began to blend, show after show. You can’t tell when the crowd is cheering anymore. You can’t tell when a girl is screeching or a guy is hollering. It all sounds like one thing, gigging, which I had now come so accustom to. I laid my guitar against the huge, pumping speaker that was next to me the whole show, reminding me that my hearing wouldn’t last long into my age. All the guys went down to get pissed and I trailed along, having already drunk to my limit which is only at a slightly bubbly stage. I don’t like getting too fucked to function. However, the past few nights proved different. Often did I wake up in the back of our van, a hangover yanking me to my pillow and flimsy mattress. I didn’t remember what’d happened the night before or what city we were in now, and to be perfectly honest, I didn’t care. I sat on the stairs of the stage with a bottle.
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