TupeloHoney

We were both too young, and had too much to do. I let a couple great ones go like that. I think most road musicians have, which is one of the reasons why the road is so hard on you. I eventually came back to one though, and have been with her for the last 22 years. Thanks. I enjoyed your story too. I'm glad you came back to the one.

Ethereal714, that was a wonderful story. I feel like kicking you in the butt though! Why did you let her go-oooo?

Thank you. Thank you vury much. It warms a dude's heart to know that his 38 years of dedication to that noble cause are recognized and appreciated. I curtsy deeply to you, sir.

Tim, thank you very much. I found your post moving also, and I appreciate you sharing what you shared. Please don't apologize for anything you said earlier in the thread. Boy's clubs are nice, in my opinion. Think of what rock and roll would miss without the swaggering, muscular, "my balls are huge and full of cum" energy that's part and parcel to so much of it, even when it's a woman performing? Besides, I don't really belong here. I'm a guest, a non-musician, and I would have thought it fair if people had told me to {censored} off, or made fun of what I posted in some way. It's your right to react in what ever way you feel like, because you didn't ask me to come here, or for my opinion. I'm grateful that I spread a little understanding, to whomever absorbed it. Don't have any regrets about the past, but if you see things differently now, for the better, then that's wonderful too. Maybe you'll never know specifically if you touched anyone in a special way, but you can almost bet on it, and if that gives you a little energy for continuing to create, then that's just as good as a {censored}, isn't it? Thanks again. I'm reading a lot of the boards because it's so interesting, to get to know what the creative and business process is like for all of you, and I've also found a lot of cool music I never would have been exposed to otherwise. I'm begining to despair about what's available from a lot of the major labels nowadays, so sites like this and the internet in general are indispensible.

thanks for the compliment! I don't get that often. yes, I am the guitarist. Kevin Shields is very influencial to me, he's not technical, but what that guy does with his guitar, it's pure art. but no copious oral for me, not yet. I'm rather a giver though Oh, I do appreciate Kevin Shields. I don't understand the why's, how's, and wherefores, but I know he builds beautiful landscapes. When I saw "Lost In Translation", I knew immediately it was him I heard. Regarding being a giver, the world can never have enough of, nor celebrate adequately, the men who truly enjoy that.

TupeloHoney, as the starter of this thread, I have to thank you for this great piece of writing you produced in this thread. It's the best thing I've read in here since Mr Knobs' story. You made me wish I had met a girl like you as a groupie...that "so and so" dude is indeed a lucky mother{censored}er ! Well...for that, I first need to have groupies... Thank you, though I am nowhere near the writing ability of Mr. Knobs. I was wondering if that's been published yet. I just basically copied what I wrote in my journal to tell my grandkids someday. Eh, maybe not. It might creep them out to think of grandma that way. And to this day, I think of myself as the lucky one. I still can't believe it sometimes, and it's been five years.

wash your face, pluck your eyebrows, brush your teeth, wear deoderant. And, just in case things go that far, wash and at least trim your balls and your ass too.

TupeloHoney, would you have gone that far if the band wasn't as successful? for many bands, groupies are a myth unless the band is famous enough to be on MTV. any advice to regular indie bands? Yes, I would have, all things being the same with him asking someone to go get me. Because the music would have still been the same. I've been following them and loving and buying their CD's from the original EP, and attending concerts since they started coming to my area (I'm from Minnesota, and usually if a band is going to do a concert in this area, it's either part of a big package, or they'll choose Chicago before Minneapolis). And chances are, if I'd just seen him out and about, like in a restaurant or something, I never would have approached him. Even with the fledgeling bands I like now, though they aren't famous, I still wouldn't approach them. I just feel like it's annoying, and if you're seeing them out and about, it's probably the little free time and shred of privacy they have left, and I hate to make an annoyance of myself. Plus, there's no good way (in my opinion, for a girl like me who isn't a hobag) to let a person know that you appreciate their music to the extent that you would like to thank them with your body if that's desirable. Maybe, if you're an Indie band and you have a regular gig or you play around the area where you actually live, you could just invite a girl you like to have a drink with you after, or maybe try to have some parties after your gig and invite them, but make it clear it's not open to everyone, just them? Or, maybe have one of your friends who's a girl sidle up to the girl and engage her in a little conversation (at set breaks), letting her know that you noticed her? I dunno--anyone who cites My Bloody Valentine as an influence should get copious oral sex at least, just on principle. By the way, if your screen name refers to the fact that you're the guitarist . . . you are really, really good. Great control and expression (not that my opinion about that means anything. I just know what I hear). Your singer has a beautiful voice as well.

Hi Lets hope so anyway, the past few weeks I've been having serious anxiety about the commercial appeal of my band, and in a meeting with our lawyer we had a big arguement over how mainstream we want to get, but yeah. As an individual I'd hope that I'm not accessible to everyday people, but in a good way - I always love talking to the fans, nothing gives me more pleasure than sitting down for a beer after a gig with random people who happened to be in the bar and got converted to our cause, bought a CD, etc. Yeah. thanks New band I've just joined for the money and because I want to play big venues and be in the music magazines (I'm not quitting Bubblegum Screw) http://www.myspace.com/andreafaithful You're welcome. Not that my judgement is nearly as useful as those of the other musicians here, but I personally like Bubblegumscrew's music (such that I've heard) MUCH MUCH more than I like Andrea's(Not to dis your gig or anything). And I think I have a pretty good ear, and I know I have a pretty eclectic music collection with plenty of stuff in it that a lot of non-musician people will have never heard of, but which I consider essential works.

Cool story, don't worry about it being too graphic or whatever...we're all in rock bands here To be honest if you didn't go through with it that night you'd be regretting it every second of every day... When you break it down sex is just sex, nothing important, so sort of why not? That's always been my reasoning - why the hell not? By the way, I went to your band's website to listen to the music. All I'll say is, I'm glad I've gotten the chance to say hello to you now, because in a few years I predict you may not be accessible to everyday people. Hi. Sorry if you're embarassed. I wanted to send you a private message about it, but for some reason that feature doesn't work for me.

Cool story, don't worry about it being too graphic or whatever...we're all in rock bands here To be honest if you didn't go through with it that night you'd be regretting it every second of every day... When you break it down sex is just sex, nothing important, so sort of why not? That's always been my reasoning - why the hell not? Thanks. I just wanted to show that some of us are sincere, and actually hope to give you something back, not just have bragging rights or a piece of you. And you're right--I don't regret it to this day, but I think I would have if I'd said no.

Well I guess I'll take my chances. Someone tell me if it's gone too far, and I'll edit. I took a deep breath and eased myself over on top of him. I'd given myself solitary pleasure before, thinking about looking at him and others in the band from this perspective, fantasizing about the possible correlations between the ways they moved on stage and the ways they might move in bed. He'd taken his hat off and twirled it like a frisbee across the room. His hands were on my ass, squeezing hard and pulling me down tightly on top of him, crotch to crotch. I laid my chest against his, my mind counting down the seconds to launch as my face lowered toward his and we kissed. It was a good, good kiss, gentle explorations with our tongues but firm, and a little hint at the urgency to come. Mr. Morrison was singing softly in the background. I believe it was "Into The Mystic". We were kissing a little bit when he broke away and said, "That was some crazy dancing y'all were doing. That's what caught my attention. Then it was your hair." He gathered some of it up at the back of my head before pulling me in for more kissing. To be sure, I've thought this whole episode over many, many times since, and that's the moment that touches me most to recall. I did my best, then, to tell him with my hands and my mouth and other parts of me he wanted, all the things I'd wanted to tell them all when I had my headphones on all those times. He stopped me while I was sucking him and said if I didn't stop he was going to blow right away, and he didn't want to yet. I have to admit that it gave me a thrill, to know that I was pleasing him that deeply, that he had to stop me or lose control. I thought but didn't say that there were so many times he wouldn't stop in a solo, but kept taking me higher, and still higher, driving me and driving me, until trickling down into the rest of them again while I breathlessly tried to collect myself. I was surprised, but he wanted to lick me. I didn't think that was something I could expect in a situation like that. I came twice that way. This is the one time I am tempted to tell who he is, because I feel that any man who's as voracious and persistent in eating {censored} as he seemed to be deserves to be applauded. But I won't say anything. He's married now, and I'm sure his wife wouldn't want to read about any of this or hear it by word of mouth even. Her imagination is probably fertile enough regarding what happens when he goes on the road and she can't join him. Well, the rest of the story is pretty anticlimactic to anyone but me. I will say that it makes sense that so many musicians probably try to hit it and quit it without getting truly intimate, because the worry is that the girl will misconstrue things. I made sure I didn't, just settled it in my own mind, but just the same, when he woke me in the morning and wanted me again, and then after when he didn't seem in any hurry to roust me out, except that they were leaving later that afternoon, I was feeling that if he'd asked me to get on the bus with them and come to the next city, I would have. Truthfully, I didn't want it to end. But after a roomservice breakfast and a shower together, he called down to the front desk, ordered me a taxi, and had them charge it to their room. He did give me his E-mail address and pretty much begged me not to give it out. I said I wouldn't, and I never have. I gave him mine too. He came to the door with me in a towel. The suite was desserted except for the distant sound of a shower running and a television somewhere. We kissed long and deep at the door, and I felt him stirring a little beneath the towel, but when I put my hand on him he kind of groaned and said he wished he could, but they had to go soon. He said again that it was nice to meet me, and that he'd had a really good time. I told him I had as well, and with one more peck on the lips, I left. The next day he did E-mail me and thank me again for a good time. I wrote back and thanked him for the last night, and for everything, but he didn't write back. A couple years later I sent an E-mail to the same address, but it bounced back. I never heard from him again, but that's okay. It was a beautiful experience, and I was happy to look back on it with the knowledge that I'd maybe managed to give him a small measure of the joy he'd given me and so many others, just by picking up his guitar. It's a night of lore repeated to this day amongst my friends, but I haven't ever given them that many dirty details. My girlfriends all got lucky too, but not with anyone from the band, and they have their own dirty details to share. I'm only telling you because it's anonymous, and I feel I can. I wouldn't dissect it to the bone like that with my circle of friends, because even if it was just the once, and even if I'm probably doing just what we're not supposed to do as fans or "groupies" I guess, blow things up bigger than they are, read more into it than that he could have had practically any woman in that crowd and he happened to spot me, that he was young and horny and beautiful and the world was his and I just got lucky. But I can't really help it. When I'm an old lady and perhaps it will have been a long time since anyone has made love to me, I will have that night to remember.

The night wore on, and more drinks went down. I thought about my worry of earlier, but even though he was clearly feeling good, he wasn't sloppy. The speed in the acid I was on was still keeping me bright-eyed, so I didn't feel the drinks I'd had at all. I thought that pretty soon it might be time, so I excused myself to go to the bathroom. "Use the one in my room. I'll be in there in a second if that's cool." He whispered this to me and rubbed his nose against my cheek a little bit. My whole body seemed to respond, but not necessarily sexually. All my pores seemed as if they were like little mouths, open and breathing. He was kind of waiting for my response, so I nodded my head and smiled. "Goodnight Olivia!" my friend called. My face got hot as a poker again, and I turned briefly to both shoot her a look and wave a little. I hunched my shoulders up against her "Call me later if you need a ride, or when you get home tomorrow!" People laughed a little, but it didn't feel too bad. I smiled again because I heard so and so say, "I'll make sure she gets home." I didn't really have to go to the bathroom, but I wanted to clean myself as best I could. I took off all my clothes and used the hotel soap to wash my armpits and my nether regions and my face. I dug in my bag for a little makeup, and some perfume that would have to do for deoderant. I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time, but decided that what I was seeing would have to be good enough. I couldn't tell, because acid distorts things. I'd peaked long ago, but my image in the mirror was still a little wavery. Just before I left the bathroom, I heard the door to the bedroom close. When I came out, the lamp on the bedside table was on, and he was laying on the bed, fully clothed, watching television. I edged my way into the room and sat on the side of the bed. "You having fun?" "Yeah. This is awesome. Thanks for inviting me over." He turned off the television and put the remote on the bedside table. He picked up another one and used it to turn on a portable stereo in over by the window. Van Morrison. Hence my screen name. I was frozen on the side of the bed until he reached for me. I let myself be pulled back, and soon my head was on his chest, my leg over one of his. "Damn. I can feel your heart pounding." "Sorry." "You scared or something?" I was, but I said no, and explained that I'd been tripping. "Has it been a good trip?" "Unbelievable. The show, and now this . . . It's really been nice to meet you, after all this time of listening to your music and everything, and loving it the way I have." "That's good. It's been nice to meet you too. I could tell how beautiful you were from a distance even. You're {censored}ing hotter up close." "Thank you." We didn't say anything for a little bit. He just rubbed my back and we laid there. I realized later that he was waiting for me to make a move, but luckily he saved us. "So can I be really honest with you?" "Yeah." "I'm not gonna tell you I'll call you next time we're in town or any of that bull{censored}. We could exchange E-mails but I hardly ever check mine. I'm not gonna be pissed if you don't want to do anything, but I really want to {censored} you. Is that cool?" Now some people might think that was {censored}ed up, but I didn't. No matter how much fun we'd had, I knew from the start that I was there to give him something, to give him what ever I could. And it was okay with me. I don't know how much further I should go with this part of the story. It doesn't seem like the system is censoring me so far, but do posts get deleted for cussing and possible TMI? I think I have an idea from what I've read of the entire thread thus far, but I'm not sure where the limits are.

I'm probably not going to be reporting the conversation accurately, because I can't remember it exactly. This is how I recorded it in my journal: "Hey. You're Olivia, right? I'm so and so." "Yeah, I know. I mean. Sorry. I didn't mean to sound bitchy." "You didn't, it's cool. Can I have some of that?" I handed him my cigarette, and he carefully reached around my hand to grab it, as in my disorder I'd handed it to him cherry first. The thought that I'd nearly burned some very important fingers made my stomach do a little roll once again, and the fact that I was staring directly into the eyes I'd only seen on CD covers and in magazines, and that they were so beautiful. The kind of blue with a little gold sunburst around the pupil. Fringed with dark eyelashes a girl would envy. He kept his eyes on mine as he took a drag, and exhaled a little snicker with the smoke. "Are you doing okay?" "Yeah. I'm freaking a little bit, that's all." "Aw, don't freak out. It's okay." "Oh no, I'm good." He took another drag. "That's good. Here's your smoke back." "You want one?" "No, I'm actually trying to quit." "Now I feel like I've corrupted you." "Nah. I still bum them, I just don't buy them. If I buy them, I chain smoke." "I know how that is." I didn't know what I meant by that. I'd never tried to quit smoking. "So did you like the show? It looked like y'all were having fun." "I always like your shows. More than like. I've never been to a show that wasn't good." He laughed and said that if I was on stage, I'd know that there'd been plenty of shows that weren't good. You just had to know where the mistakes were, and be close enough to hear the cussing between bandmates. But he was glad I liked it. Here's where I planned to say all the words of devotion I'd thought of earlier, but somehow they didn't seem appropriate. He was trying to treat me like a friend, not like a fan. I could see that. And I at least had the sense to respect it, even if all of my other senses were swimming. He turned back to chat a bit more with some of the other people sitting around us, and a few who came up from other parts of the room. The drummer threw himself over the back of the couch to jokingly hump the girl who'd reached around to ash her cigarette, and I felt blessed when his leg bumped the back of my head. So and so looked back and said "Hey look out dude." The drummer didn't hear him over the sound of his obnoxious but hilarious faux sex sounds, and I found myself laughing with everyone else. His hair was still wet from the shower, so it was probably darker than when dry, but it was almost black and wavy with damp curls that curved behind his ears under the black porkpie hat he was wearing. I thought about how many times I thought about touching that hair, about lifting it from his sweaty neck as I kissed him deeply just after he left the stage. There was a droplett of water clinging bulbously to the end of one curl, and without realizing I was doing so, I reached up and brushed it away. He kept talking to the highschool friends but squeezed me against him a little more. My elbow was on his upper thigh now. The fact that he had a few acne scars could only be beautiful to me, because it was a bit of vulnerability, a hint of the hell of highschool that the band sang about sometimes. Phrases and lines and choruses of songs flitted through my head. Someone else had given him his own cigarette, and he talked animatedly between drags, releasing his arm from my shoulders to gesture. I was drinking it in.

Well, that didn't take as long as I thought. Anyway. I remember seeing a documentary once where some musicians were being asked about groupies, about the love and lust their music inspires in some of their fans. Carlos Santana said "I try to tell them, listen, I can't do to you with my body what my music does to you." Or something like that. That's always stuck with me. As we distributed ourselves around the room (my friends had no problems involving themselves with the passing of bowls and mixing drinks and amiable small-talk), I started thinking about my own expectations, as I'd already fretted about his. I started thinking about something I'd mused about many times before, how much I hate the fact that magazines and some fans think they are owed so much more than the music, that they have the right to speculate and even demand to know the every visceral curve of the celebrity or musician they're interested in at any given time. It calmed me some to think that that's something I could say to him, that even though I could never explain the places their music had taken me, and never repay, I felt the only thing he owed me was a good faith effort at keeping on with integrity as long as they could, and all I owed him was the money they asked for the CD or the concert. I decided I'd tell him I would never dowload music for free and steal their music. Somehow I'd tell him I didn't expect any more than he'd already given, and for that I was so grateful. I was sitting on the floor interjecting into a conversation with one of my friends and two guys who had been friends with the drummer since highschool and now traveled with them once in a while, and one of their girlfriends. The girl looked like she could be a porn star maybe, but she was very sweet. They all seemed to want to know a little about me, about what I thought of the band, what my favorite album and song were. They all wanted me to know that so and so was a really good guy. This was so helpful, but my stomach still lept into my throat when a door on the left opened and he came in. Another guy jumped up and grabbed him in a bearhug, and they exchanged excited greetings. The scene was repeated as everyone but the singer trickled into the room. Later I learned that his wife was in town and they had a room of their own with their baby somewhere else in the hotel. Another girl I hadn't been talking to leaned past me to ash her cigarette and said "That's his brother. The guy he hugged." It took me several minutes to realize that I was staring in turns at each of the members of the band, and I only realized it because one of the highschool friends informed me that my cigarette had burned all the way down and the ash had dropped onto my pants. I could feel my face get hot and directed my eyes to my lap as I stubbed out the already cashed filter in the ashtray. The three of them exchanged knowing but not unfriendly looks with eachother, kind of like I was a sweetheart and they felt for me. I could hear my friends talking and laughing in various places, and Sarah even called my name a couple of times, but I didn't respond. I was listening through all the chatter to the sound of so and so as he moved about the room, talking loudly to friends, accepting congratulations on the show, dissing the skills of the videogame players, clinking ice into glass. Several minutes later, while I was still eyeing my lap and taking occasional puffs from the fresh cigarette I'd lit, when my contribution to the conversation around me had been reduced to monosyllables, I felt someone plop down next to me on the floor, and an arm go around my shoulder. Someone said to him, "Hey sweetie! You guys were awesome as usual." "Thanks, man." "You must be exhausted!" "Nah, the shower helped. That was {censored}in' kick ass, wasn't it? Did you see all those {censored}in' people?" "Yeah. You guys totally melted some faces tonight." His arm tightened around me, and I leaned into him. I was almost going to burn myself with my cigarette to stop the tears that sprang to my eyes, but luckily I managed to swallow them down. I became acutely aware of my slightly lived-in smell, compared to the soapy freshness of him next to me. I hoped that by the time my eyes made their way from his boots to his face, I would be able to speak. I gingerly rested my hand on his leg, and relaxed. I had a few minutes to look at the side of his face before he turned to me.

Beautiful prose, TupeloHoney. Thank you. It's nice to remember outloud in a place where I (mostly) won't be judged. I'm kind of just copying from my journal. I'll keep going in a bit, but I have to go do some stuff.

We all knew exactly where the hotel was. Two busses were parked out front, but surprisingly there was no one in sight. It was very fancy, and we felt out of place to say the least, creeping through the surprisingly quiet and ornate lobby toward the elevators in the clothes we'd been wearing and dancing in for 8 hours. I hoped he would let me take a shower. For some reason, that thought made my stomach knot up again, and I grabbed the hand of a friend on either side. The concierge (or maybe security? He was wearing a suit and a name tag) intercepted us, and asked if he could be of service. He was perfectly professional, and not scornful, but nevertheless impenetrable as he blocked our path to the elevators. I don't blame him. We were slightly dirty and pie-eyed young ladies, and he'd probably been trained for exactly our kind of interloper. I scrambled in my bag for the 3x5 card. He examined it closely, and motioned us over to his desk so he could have us within arms' reach while he dialed the suite or maybe personal security's cellphone. He turned away from us a little, so I could hear him muttering, but not what he said. He turned back a little and asked my name, then hunched back over the phone. The reciever went back in its cradle and he said, "Take the elevator on the left to the 10th floor and turn right. You should be met by a security agent there. He's expecting you. Have a lovely evening." Still clutching each other and at least speaking for myself absurdly grateful for his manners, we stumbled toward the elevator. In the hall we were met by a large black man with a beautiful suit on with the jacket open and a cell phone clipped to his belt. He smiled in welcome, asked us how we were doing tonight. From somewhere close by we could hear the muffled sound of talking and laughter. He asked to look in our bags "just for weapons of any kind. Anything else is your business. I'm not the police." We complied, showed our ID's to prove we were 21, and were directed to a double door a sharp right turn and a short hallway away. I froze at the head of the short hallway, and my friends had to push and drag me to the door. One of them opened it, and we kind of moved into the room in a block. We must have looked just as scared and scruffy as we were. Oddly enough I thought I ought to avert my eyes from the people in the room, but this was hard to do. It's not like the room stopped when we entered anyway. There were about 30 people there, mostly women but not by much, sitting on floors and couches, standing behind the bar and a few guys playing video games in the corner with their backs to us. There were a few people on the balcony. The doors to the balcony were wide open, and the curtains were stirring a little in the breeze. Physical Graffitti was playing from somewhere. The air wasn't exactly thick with smoke, but it was present, more pot than cigarettes. There were some full ashtrays on the tables, and trays of fruit and cold cuts and dinner rolls and condiments and garnishes on one end of the bar. One of the women came up and asked if I was Olivia and her friends. I said yes, and she introduced herself as a friend of so and so's, who'd asked her to look for us. She told me he was in the shower, and that she would introduce us around and grab food if we wanted and drinks and have a seat wherever we could find a spot. The guys would be in in a bit. "He knows you're here" she said "but let him come up to you when he comes in, okay?" Okay. I could do that.

What exactly was I going to say to this guy? What if I cried (I've heard that that's kind of annoying)? What if he didn't really want to know me except in the biblical sense? What if he was an asshole, and I started having a bad trip? Did this make me a whore? A bad person? How could I possibly make love to him when I couldn't even wrap my head around being closer than 10 yards to him? What if he was only attracted to me from this distance, and when he met me, thought I was ugly and I ended up sitting on a couch by myself in the suite, tripping (badly) on acid and surrounded by people I didn't know who didn't even see me, except to see if they could get some ass because everyone by now knew that it turned out so and so changed his mind and I was up for grabs and now he was in his bedroom with some pornstar who after all of course he'd want more than he'd want me. What if he wanted to do some drugs I didn't want to do and he decided I was a buzz kill or some other class of mistake? What if he wasn't interested in my giving thanks, and wanted to do some stuff in bed that I'd never done, or didn't want to do? What if he was a drunk who'd piss himself and still expect me to suck him? What if the fantasies I'd had with my headphones on were so far from reality that on the walk home the next day (if he didn't kick me out as soon as he was done with me) that I'd feel just like the empty fast-food wrapper fluttering all grimy down the deserted street? My anxiety was starting to head me in a direction I didn't want to go (I'm sure some people know about bad trips, and how they begin), so I closed my eyes, and just tried to pull the night stars and the music and my friends all around me again, to slow my breathing and let go. It was working, and got to the point where even if I opened my eyes to look at him, it was okay. I could let an hour from now take care of itself. Okay I know I've kind of gone off on my own reminiscences, and people probably want me to cut to the chase. I will in the next post.

I guess I actually wasn't just standing there that night. I'd dressed comfortably for an outdoor summer festival. I was thinking function, not fashion. I was wearing a pair of low-rise jeans, well-fitting but roomy enough to dance in, and a retro-looking flow-y top. I chose the top because I knew I was going to drop acid that night, and had pre-imagined how much it would entertain me to be spinning around in that top, with all those colors and my hair and the music swirling around me at the same time. I had on a pair of comfortable shoes, retro Addidas, for dancing purposes, and to protect my toes from other bouncing people. I had some beads on, and we all had some multicolored scarves and stuff to wave around over our heads. We're sort of weird girls and like to do interprative dance when we're high or tripping. More toys for the trip I guess. And just before the woman came up, our favorite song had just ended, and we had been dancing in a circle, spinning around with our arms linked, throwing our heads back and singing as loud as we could, though the PA was so big we couldn't even hear ourselves. That was okay because we weren't there to hear ourselves. I say all that to show that I wasn't there to be noticed, but to notice. I wasn't dressed sexy at all. I was being fed and I was busy eating. After the Asian lady left, we turned more to the stage than we had before. He was working, but once or twice I saw him shade his eyes from the glare of the footlights and try to spot me once again. You'd think this would be the time I would be waving my scarf, but I was suddenly overtaken by fear and a little awe, and was just standing there, looking up at him. He was shirtless and drenched in sweat. His hair looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower. I could see his chest rise and fall. He's a very animated guitar player. One of the things I'd wondered about him was how he could manage to hit all those notes while strutting and jumping like he does. The third time he shaded his eyes, I guess he saw me. Maybe he saw me. Well anyway, he cracked a big smile just before they launched into the next number. My girlfriends were pulling at me and squealing, saying we should just go now and beat the band there, asking me if I was going to {censored} him if he wanted to, urging me to make sure to use a condom, facetiously telling me they hated me. I felt a little as if I'd been struck in the middle of my forehead with a ballpeen hammer. I was trying to convince myself that this was just part of my trip, and wasn't really happening. I was stunned, and then I was scared. Terrified.

I only did it once, and I didn't expect to, but it was one of those moments when you think you might regret it later if you don't, not taking the chance of a lifetime. Besides, it was nothing more than what I'd fantasized about alone in my room with my headphones on. Some people in this thread have seemed to understand, but for those who don't, it's not just that we're some skanky girls. We really do love the music, first and foremost. Love is almost the wrong word. Maybe it's unhealthy. Anyway, I read on another message board where people come to talk about "groupies" that there are different types of groupies. I can't remember what all the classifications were, but one that I read kind of hurt my feelings, because I felt like a fool. It said there's a girl/groupie who actually thinks there's some kind of conversation, an intimacy, between you and the band through the music, that they're communicating with you in a personal way. Well, that's how I felt about this band, and have felt that way about several, though many of them are no longer touring, and they made the music that inspired that reaction in me was before I was born. When I say it feels personal, I'm not being a total psycho. I mean that, when you watch them play, and when you listen, the notes and the interplay between the players really does sound like a conversation, with inflections like in regular words, with runon sentences, and emphatic exclamations, questions, begging, explaining. And together, it does seem as if they're talking to you, because you can hear the conversation, and it's about the same things you ask yourself or ask God or talk to your best friend or your mom about. Sometimes it expresses the rage and the lust and the gratitude you feel at turns about life, but that you can't just express for various reasons of social propriety or legality. And then someone comes along and says, "I'm going to say it." And they do it with words, but also with the chords and the beats and the rhythm, and I think those speak all by themselves, beyond the meaning of the actual words. They hit and vibrate something in you that can't really be expressed in words, maybe. A part of you that can only be accessed in a few ways. Sometimes it's embarassing, when that first part of you gets broken open, your knock-kneed reaction and your gratitude. It's usually only after that that you even look at the people making the sounds. At least that's the way it's always been for me. Then, after you look at them, you feel this compassion for the person or persons making the sound, because you realize that they have worked for a long, long (some of it) solitary time working out how to say what they want to say through the medium of intangibles. Maybe that's where I'm wrong. Maybe you don't really mean to say anything, it's just that you want something that sounds good in the context of understandable music theory, and that's all you know, that it sounds good. In that case, you're just a vessel, but at the same time, you've still done the work to try to be a good vessel, to carry something that rocks and breaks and moves and loves and destroys and frees people. That alone is something that inspires love. That's why fantasizing about someone doesn't necessarily correlate to what some people might say they look like. And yeah, I know that by the time I'm hearing the song, what ever passion or conviction you felt when you wrote it and first practiced it and recorded it is probably diminished, simply because you're probably already turned on to something else you're working on, that we won't hear until next year. And right now you've probably played that song 1000 times. So it's a measure of your professionalism, and your commitment to giving us a good show, that's responsible for what we hear, and not necessarily that you've got something to say to us that you just have to say, and you're gonna press the point until we are jumping, screaming, jiggling, dancing, singing, and sometimes crying with understanding about what you're trying to communicate. But the fact that you still give it your best shot, and succeed in rocking us, even when you might be phoning it in on a given night, that inspires love too. So, when people get religion, they want to go to church. They want to praise amongst the congregation, but they also want to pray, alone in their room. When they feel the spirit, when that feeling pours over them and they're shaken, there's so much gratitude and love and hunger for more that they pray harder. They just want to throw themselves into the light. You get the analogy, I'm sure. So, if there's a band that's done that to you, you want to worship. And if you have the chance to explain that or express that, personal devotional time that is, would you not take it? Of course you would. Maybe. I'm a pretty girl. I don't say that in a cocky way, because I don't think it makes me better than anyone else, and I've probably tried to play it down more than I've tried to play it up, because I think what's inside of me is more important than what's on the outside. I didn't go to this festival to be a groupie. Like I say at the beginning of this post, I only did this once. I wouldn't do some of the things some girls will to get backstage, because I respect myself, and I wouldn't blame a guy for using me like a toilet if that's the way I represent. I was just standing there. It was a big festival, and we were off to the right of the front of the stage, about 10 yards back. We weren't in the crowd per se, because we wanted to dance. But I'm still surprised he even saw me. An Asian woman came up to us and said to me, "Would you like to meet so and so?" She had a headset on, and a bunch of press-looking tags around her neck, and her manner was professional, though I knew that the only reason someone would be singled out and asked to come back was for one, maybe two, reasons. I looked at my friends, and they weren't really any help. They just stood there with big eyes. I turned back to the lady and said, "Well, I'm with my friends." She said, "That's alright. There's a get-together and you, but only the five of you, are welcome to come. If you show up with more than the ladies I see here, you will be turned away. No offense. And so and so would specifically like to meet you." I had already dropped acid, so maybe the surreality of it all didn't phase me as much as it would have otherwise. I said okay. She gave me a 3x5 card with the hotel name and suite number, and said the band would probably sprint for the bus right after the last encore, so I was to try to leave at the same time. It wasn't far away.