I laughed when I first saw her. She was standing with the VIPs, her nose turned up at all the other fans as if she were the only one who deserved to enjoy the band’s presence. Almost as if it were a privilege for the band members to enjoy her presence. The dress she was wearing was atrocious, a shimmery red halter-top with a strip of nothing going down her front between her boobs, just a few flimsy pieces of fabric holding the thing together. The sides of the dress were the same, and she wore knee-high leather stiletto boots, wobbling on them as she attempted to walk.

Giggling, I pointed her out to my singer through the tinted tour bus window, and he gave me a confused look. “What, is she a hooker?”

“Doubt it,” I said, still laughing. “She’d be talking to more people if she were. She’s just a slut.”

He shrugged and went to talk to some of the other band members, his interest lost. I kept watching her as the bus drove by, until we turned a corner and then I lost interest too.

We parked behind the club, and the roadies got out first, unloading the equipment and lugging it inside, where the owner led them to the stage to set up. Then I got out, checking to make sure none of the fans followed and were waiting outside to ambush the band, and when I deemed the coast clear I let the boys out.

I forgot about the girl in the rush of preparation, until they let the VIPs in. She stood apart from the others while they laughed and talked, her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face. I don’t know what her problem was, but my singer felt bad for her, and excused himself from the fans who were talking to him and approached her.

She lit up like a slutty Christmas tree. I couldn’t hear what she was saying from where I stood, leaning against the wall in a corner and supervising the interaction, but whatever it was made my singer frown slightly. He stiffened, and I could tell the conversation on his end was much more formal than I was accustomed to seeing from him. The slut kept firing off whatever gibberish popped into her head, either not noticing or not caring about my singer’s discomfort.

It wasn’t long before she held up a camera. I had no idea where the hell she kept it. She wasn’t carrying a purse, and there wasn’t much room in that dress for her own body, much less pockets worth putting anything in. My singer nodded, and gestured for me and the rest of the band to join them.

“Mind taking a picture for us?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I replied, and took the slut’s camera from her. They stood in a line against the stage, her standing between my singer and the bassist. Instead of the bright smile that usually adorned fans’ faces, her lips curled in a smug smirk. She held her arms close to her sides.

My singer wouldn’t even look at her. His hand closest to her was jammed in his jacket pocket and his body twisted away from her, as if she had some kind of contagious disease and just by touching her he’d catch it. None of the band seemed willing to actually smile. I took the picture, and handed the camera back to the girl.

Once the other VIPs realized it was picture time, they all jumped at the chance. I was kept busy with the cameras, and thanking them for coming to visit. Once they were all done, I led my boys backstage to change.

I watched the concert from backstage, admiring my singer from behind and watching the fans’ reactions. The audience moved almost as one with the music, and my singer crooned into the microphone, getting even more of a response from the girls in front. Someone’s voice rose above all the others, and it didn’t take me long to realize the source of it.

It was the girl in the slutty red dress. She was bent nearly double over the rail, her breasts jiggling obscenely as she writhed, in what was probably supposed to be a dance. It looked to me more like she was exposing herself. I was tempted to call security and have her taken out. But as I listened, I changed my mind.

The song they were playing wasn’t one I remembered seeing on the set list. They must have added it at the very last minute. It was a song I was very familiar with, and one that held a special place in my heart. It was the closest thing to a love song my singer ever wrote, and it was about me. For me, really. And there Slutty-Red-Dress-Girl was, acting as though she and my singer were the only people there.

I laughed. She thought she was so in love. We all did. My singer turned around to glance at me, and winked. I laughed again, and relaxed.







Photo by Pete on Flickr