This is an excerpt of Part 2 of Red’s Rock Star Romance. Click here to read an excerpt from Part 1.
“I’m speechless”, I said, turning to Nicky.
“Then don’t speak”, he suggested with a smile, taking my face in his hands and giving me the longest JD and Coke flavoured kiss I’d ever had. God, it was delicious, and I was wholly lost in its lusciousness.
“Red…” Nicky breathed into me, drinking in my kisses as if he’d spent a month in the desert and I was the oasis he’d craved. “I am…crazy about you…I haven’t…stopped thinking about you…since the last time I saw you…I want you…I need you…to…” He broke off, kissing me fervently between breaths, and I was swept away by his intensity and sincerity.
After a while he sat back to have a proper look at me. “I can’t believe I’ve finally kissed you”, Nicky said, “You’ve been on my mind for months.”
I laughed, legitimately surprised at a rock star thinking about me, a random girl he’d met a couple of times on his travels around the globe. “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.
“Did that song sound like I was kidding?” He argued, mildly offended. I had to concede that no, it didn’t. “I’m not some asshole rock star, you know” Nicky persisted.
“I never said you were an ‘asshole’” I joked, mimicking his American accent. At that I got another fake dead arm. And another kiss, which led to…Nicky’s hands on my breasts, my hands on his chest, and a simultaneous lifting of tops that could’ve taught The Chippendales a thing or two in the name of synchronised stripping. Nicky dipped his head, and through my lace bra took a nipple in his mouth. There’s something about the feel – and even just the thought – of licks and kisses through material which really gets me going, and I groaned involuntarily as he teased me with his teeth, the lace from my bra scratching my skin just the right amount, his hands kneading and cupping as he embraced my full breasts with his hands.
I pulled Nicky closer towards me, and desperate to feel his skin on mine, in less than as second I’d shed my bra so that I was pressed against him, naked from the waist up. We were burning with lust for each other, a slick sheen of sex sweat sticking us to one another before we’d even fully undressed. But then that didn’t take long either, as laughing together we fought to rid ourselves of our hot, tight, skinny jeans. With a little help from the other we each managed to free ourselves of our Levis, and soon I found myself lying on top of Nicky in my knickers, dry-humping him like a teenager, desperate to feel him inside me, but prolonging the excitement and anticipation for as long as possible. It was so good to be so carefree and yet so intensely, sexually raw at the same time that I felt freer than I had with anyone in a long time, and I let myself go in an abandon of harlot-like hormones and lust.
“Wow”, exhaled Nicky “now this was worth waiting for…” I bucked against him, confirming his statement, letting him know that I wanted it too.
I’m a music journalist, and over the course of my career I’ve interviewed all kinds of musicians right across the music spectrum: Producers, guitarists, rappers, ravers, singer-songwriters, multi-instrumentalists, Metallers, classical violinists, punks, pop stars, opera singers, DJs, jazz legends – you name it, the lot. But because of their crazy stories my favourite interviewees have tended to be the rock stars. This may also have been because there have also been a few specific frontmen – and women – I’ve had the hots for. These people just have an aura about them: raw talent which translates into raw sex appeal on and off-stage.
There’s one particular American band I’ve been lucky enough to interview three times. I say ‘lucky’ because I unexpectedly developed a thing for the main guy, and over the course of each subsequent meeting it became clear that he had a thing for me too. The first time we met was backstage at a festival, where I interviewed the infamously red-haired Nicky and his various bandmates on the steps of their tour bus. Although I did nothing to encourage it, there was the inevitable flirtation between a young music journo (me) and a gang of excitable, hyped-up, sleep-deprived and highly-sexed blokes (them), involving a lot of inevitable banter about my pillar-box red dyed hair and whether I was a real redhead in the sack, and more general testosterone-fuelled larking about, which even the cameraman found funny. Thankfully they were all very charming rather than annoying and rude, and so somehow I was able to keep the band on track long enough to talk about their music and the festival, whilst simultaneously knocking back their offers to hang out with them in their tour bus before they went on stage (wasted opportunity I know, but I liked to keep it professional – and besides, I had other interviews to do).
However, I did notice Nicky checking me out appreciatively (subconsciously, rather than leering with a sense of entitlement like some stars did), and calling me “Red” with a teasing tone and an openly admiring look, but I didn’t encourage it. OK, well maybe I did a little, but with subtle signs of my own, as these guys were used to women throwing themselves at them, and I didn’t want to be just another groupie. And I wasn’t. Not that time anyway.
Less than a year later we met again backstage during soundcheck at a well-known London venue, where Nicky and the gang were christening the opening leg of their long European tour. Our cameraman that day was a cameragirl: a friend of mine called Fiorella, a super-cool, very friendly and utterly gorgeous Italian chick who was a magnet for men the world over. But it seemed that Nicky only had eyes for me: “Hey Red” He said when he saw us, a sudden smile hitting his face like a ray of sunshine in the grotty, grey Green Room.
“Hey Red yerself” I batted back, flattered that he remembered me.
Happily, his bandmates were so taken with Fiorella that Nicky and I had a moment to look each other in the eye and establish that we were the two main members of our mutual appreciation society. A slight blush hit our cheeks (I know – even him, the rock star!), a knowing smile played at the corners of our mouths, and as he unconsciously adjusted his jeans my body began to hum for him. From then on all I could feel was Nicky’s gaze on me, and I think Fiorella noticed I welcomed it, as she motioned for me to interview him alone first. I took a deep breath to steady myself and sat alongside Nicky on the sofa, kicking off my shoes so that I sat facing him with my legs curled under me. He shifted position so that he could look at me properly. I could see every nuance of expression in his face, and I swear he could feel my body burning for him. There were sparks practically flying between our knees.
Suffice to say that even Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence could have learned something about on-screen flirtation during the next fifteen minutes, as Nicky and I tried and failed to keep it entirely professional. Forget the heavily-laden sentences we were somehow managing to string together, our body combined language was screaming sexual attraction, and from the way his bandmates were smirking in the background it was plainly obvious to all that Nicky and I seriously had the hots for each other. This interview was going to make for intriguing (and possibly cringeworthy) watching later…
Over on Cliterati, this weekend (3rd – 5th November) is all about the inimitable porn star Daisy Rock, as the website will be playing host to the exclusive, free showing of ‘Daisy (Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go To Ibiza)’, Director Jamie Patterson’s behind-the-scenes documentary on the outspoken adult actress. You can read my review of the film and watch the trailer here.
In addition you can see this short clip where we chat with Jamie himself, and hear about his experiences filming behind-the-scenes on a porn shoot (beware, the word ‘Boobies’ does put in an appearance). The video also includes a brief introduction to the Cliterati team. Yes, really.
So get yourself saddled up with popcorn and pizza for the weekend, and immerse yourself in ‘Daisy’ and the real-life world of a porn star. We can pretty much guarantee you won’t hear anything along the lines of “anal sex is like taking a shit backwards” anywhere else. We’re right, right?
Daisy Rock on Twitter (well worth a follow – Daisy is a lady who’s got a helluva lot to say, and you really don’t want to miss any of it: trufax, Baby!)
I love these Irregular Choice boots because they’re a great style (crazy cowboy vs rocket riding boots, anyone?!), an unusual combination of colours, and are nice and wide – meaning they’re also very comfortable. But mainly I love them because they’re totally bonkers (that means ‘insane’, for all you Americans out there)!
Let’s just deconstruct these crazy blue boots together for a moment: they have a gorgeous gold band around the top, the toe is ‘m’ shaped (apparently the devil wears Irregular Choice rather than Prada), there are gold stars indented here and there, and the soles are also gold.
But best of all, the boots show a yellow sketch of a boy wearing a striped T-shirt, and a space helmet with a helicopter propeller stuck to it. And yes, he is indeed flying off through the stars with a big exuberant whoooooosh, and a very happy smile on his face.
I think perhaps it’s because he’s listening to David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust album – Starman, perhaps – as there are expressively drawn airwaves coming out of his lovely little ears. In fact, he could even be a young Ziggy, jetting off for a play-date with his pals – the equally small Spiders From Mars. I like that idea…
It’s not often that footwear inspires a musical story about space – or any other story for that matter! Therefore I now pronounce these Irregular Choice brand boots very special boots indeed. I hope you all agree!
This is one of my favourite coats: a Karen Millen cobalt blue military 3/4 length, with twenty shiny black silver-surround buttons paired down the front.
I always get really positive comments on it, which is great, especially since it’s lost colour every time I’ve had it dry cleaned, so I don’t feel it’s quite as smart and crisp as it once was.
It’s still a stunning military-style coat though, despite the fact it’s had a helluva lot of *general* use (see what I did there?), kiddie muck on its cuffs and baby snot on its shoulders!
I’m wearing it with my chunky brown G-Star Raw biker-jackboots (more on these later)…