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…
I love stripping on stage. I have the audience in the palm of my hand and I’m playing with them, slowly teasing them with the power of suggestion: an item of clothing shed here, a flash of skin there, the hint of a curve revealed, a coquettish smile over a bare shoulder – and I have them hooked. It’s an art, burlesque, if you do it right, and I do it so right that people come back for more. When I scan the tables and make eye contact with my spectators, I see men exhale the breaths they’ve been unconsciously holding in, and I know women are instinctively and involuntarily squirming in their seats. Oh yes, I’m bloody good at my job – in fact I’m famous for it. “Coucou…” I tantalisingly beckon in French with a finger, “Coucou!” and there isn’t a person out there who doesn’t want to follow me as I leave the stage clad only in my ostrich feathers.
Last night was no different, except for one thing: in the audience I saw someone. Someone who had a certain something about them – that sexual allure you can pinpoint a mile off, that animal magnetism you couldn’t bottle if you tried. He was suited and booted like the rest of the upmarket crowd before me, but whilst the others on his table were sitting taut and engrossed, he was relaxed and attentive, and his smile was generous and true. I knew in that way you know that he would be mine before the night was out.
And then there he was backstage, this man: not tall, not short, which suited my 5’7” in heels perfectly. My sister Annie introduced us: “Coucou, this is Benjamin Dax–”
“– Call me Ben” he interrupted. Suddenly I was looking into a pair of brown eyes sparkling with intelligence and humour. I liked what I saw.
“Ben then, nice to meet you.” I smiled and held out a hand: Ben took it in his, so that my fist was embraced in his palm and his fingers were around my wrist. The pressure was so subtle as to be almost imperceptible, yet somehow it felt electric. My professionalism escaped me: my legs went weak and I could only smile goofily like a teenager. Annie noticed and grinned imperceptibly.
“Drink?” Ben offered, “I think you’ve earned it tonight. You were sensational up there.”
“Thank you – I’d love one. But not here” I replied, recovered, “I feel as if I’m still onstage. It’s like the eyes of the world are still upon me!” And indeed they were: all carefully selected heads present were surreptitiously turned our way, wondering what the handsome well-dressed stranger was doing backstage with their star, their Coucou.
“I know a great little place,” Ben suggested, “a short hop away. I’m sure you could manage it – even in your heels.”
“Take me, I’m yours” I acquiesced, throwing on my fake fur coat over my glamorous offstage outfit. Ben nodded approvingly. That’s the thing about being a star – people expect you to be dressed like a ‘somebody’ when you’re not working, and I do hate to disappoint my audience, even during my time off.
With a casual wave to Annie and the others I followed Ben out of the door. This was no longer my usual way of doing things, so I was slightly nervous. But, true to his word, Ben’s “great little place” was just around the corner, and he was a real gentleman the whole stroll there: taking my arm, he walked on the outer part of the pavement, sheltering me from passing vehicles, whilst on the pedestrian side he answered any questioning glances from passersby with “No, it’s not….she gets that all the time –” turning to me “ – Honey you really should change your hair, people are confusing you with Coucou again!”
I could actually feel myself relaxing in Ben’s confident and charming company, and as we walked into the bar I took the strong hand he offered as he helped me up the stairs, and I deliberately didn’t let it go until we were sat in our private booth. Ben smiled at me over the table as the pretty waitress took my order, his eyes never straying from my face. “I’ll have the same,” he said, “Mojitos for both of us”. Over the next few hours we chatted and laughed in our secluded sanctuary. I felt elated: here was this perfect stranger sat opposite me, unafraid of my fame – my face – and yet still perfectly attuned to my body, my womanliness, but without the cachet of celebrity. I was impressed – and entertained. I felt recklessly intoxicated: the feel of Ben’s knee pressed against my leg was driving me crazy, and as his hand massaged my thigh I felt like some kind of glamorous courtesan, dressed up to the nines with my stockinged feet in his lap. I was flirting like a demon and loving every moment of it. And so it was that my professional mask slipped bit by bit, so that by the end of the evening I was no longer Coucou but Elizabeth once more – I was me. And I was having a hell of a lot of fun again.
As the bar closed, we called a cab – to Ben’s. “No chauffeur, I’m afraid”, he smiled ruefully. “A refreshing change,” I beamed at him in response. As per our historic family rules (although it had been a long time), I sent my sister Annie a ‘safe’ text to let her know where I was headed and with whom, and I stifled a smirk at the thought that since she was probably tucked up in bed she would read it in the morning – which is when a barrage of return texts would be coming back my way begging me to tell all. This evening I really was being the old me again – how wonderfully invigorating! I felt all dizzy with joy at the thought of truly shedding the stage for a night. But not, it has to be said, as dizzy as when in the back of the taxi Ben stroked the hollow at the back of my knee, both reassuring and exciting me at the same time. I turned to him as the streetlights flashed by, looking up at his face to get the measure of him. “Yup, I’m still here”, Ben laughed, now squeezing my leg with his hand. I placed my own over the top. “Me too”, I smiled. Ben’s eyes danced, and his grip tightened, but he made no move to kiss me.
Soon enough we drew up outside a smart block of flats. The building was art deco in design, and as Ben helped me out of the cab I read the words Underwood Mansions inscribed over the grand entrance. “I’m on the third floor”, he said, showing me into the old ornate lift. Holding my hand, he surveyed me in the mirrors, drinking in the sight of me.
I couldn’t help it: “What do you see?” I asked, pouting my famous lips, my elegant reflection echoed back to me in multiple by the fabulous gilt-edged mirrors surrounding us.
“I see a beautiful woman who needs to stop working so hard”, Ben smiled.
“Just as well I’m making the most of my time off right now then, isn’t it?” I batted back with a wink of my stage lashes.
I noticed Ben’s even teeth under the ornamental light, the beautiful curve of his mouth, and the softness of his skin. I wanted to touch his face, but didn’t quite have the courage, so I did the next best thing and took his other hand in mine so that we stood face to face. Despite the warmth of my fur coat the hungry look in his eyes gave me goosebumps, and I trembled slightly in anticipation, my very essence vibrating with desire at his touch. I was eager for him too.
The bell announced the third floor, breaking our reverie, and as though in a dream I tottered along the corridor to Ben’s place, my arm threaded through his. I could feel the strong muscles on his forearm and smell his fresh, masculine aftershave. I was under his spell, and my body hummed in recognition.
First published on Cliterati under my Mia More alias
I love my pubes, but I don’t love the maintenance.
Shaving is inexpensive, but the effect is short-term and the re-growth unsightly, while waxing is costly and uncomfortable – and frankly, it’s weird paying someone else to regularly prune your lady garden under a bright light as Enya plays on the salon stereo (more pain than the wax, believe me).
So I took the plunge, and recently bought a series of four laser hair removal sessions via Groupon. After the initial test-patch consultation (which was agony – I’d forgotten the golden rule: never wax during your period, let alone laser!), I returned for my first proper appointment. Pre-shaved, as required (this leaves the pubic roots more accessible to easily absorb the laser light), I had also taken two paracetamol and two ibuprofen to blunt the pain, and come armed with with four layers of EMLA cream (a cheap topical anaesthetic available over the counter here in the UK), which nicely numbed my skin in preparation for a serious nuking.
And a nuking my poor pubic roots got! I am a woman who can handle having all her pubes waxed off with only a slight swearing, but Jeez, lasering is far more uncomfortable, and even painful at times. The fact that the laser machine beeps before each single activation of the laser only adds – Pavlov’s Dog-style – to the expectation of pain. Still, at least it wasn’t Enya.
Already, after only my first session, I noticed that many of my pubes hadn’t grown back. I also noticed that I’d instinctively just plumped for a simple rectangle, and hadn’t really properly decided on a serious shape for my lady garden. This would be forever, after all.
I love being totally bare, but I don’t know if I want to be naked as the day I was born on the day I actually die. Provided I make it to a ripe old age, wouldn’t it be a little disconcerting to be totally pube-free? Of course, avoiding any future grey pubes would be nice, but I’d always fancied dying my pubes pink or purple now and again anyway, so having none at all would deny me this little bit of potential fun.
I think the Triangle effect is a bit twee, and the Pine would have to be really carefully done – I’m not sure I entirely trust the shaping skills of my unknown pube-nuker. My husband D said he slept with a girl with a V shape once, and it totally turned him off (although, as you may notice, he still managed to sleep with her somehow!).
The Toothpick or Brazilian (in the UK that means a Hollywood landing strip – confusing, I know – whilst a Hollywood here denotes having the lot off), would look the most likely path for me to choose, as I love having my labia bare (as does D), but then it doesn’t give me much leeway in future.
So perhaps the rectangle I instinctively, originally and unthinkingly shaped my shaven pubes into, would indeed be the safest long-term option? Hmmm… Pubes for thought…
Whilst writing this post I listened to the following on Spotify: