Thankfully, my brother Sean is letting me crash with him until I find another place of my own, but in the meantime, I am planning to pay him rent and utilities and buy all of our groceries as soon as I find a job. It’s the least I can do for barging in on his life on such short notice. Our parents divorced when we were teenagers; and ever since they split, we haven’t seen or heard much from either of them.
For the past few weeks that I’ve been back home, I’ve dated a few guys because I’m lonely and horny. But not a single one of them has called for a second date. Which means I haven’t had sex in months because of me refusing to touch Oscar. And then, of course, there’s my three-date rule. I won’t sleep with any guy who I haven’t gone on at least three dates with. It seemed like a smart thing to do when I first started dating to weed out the losers or those looking to smash and dash on the first date. So far, though, for some reason or another, none of them have been interested in seeing me more than once.
That’s why I’ve given myself a free pass with the next hot guy I meet if he is single and not homeless. Those are my only three requirements for now — hot, not in a relationship, and has a place of his own for us to get busy. I don’t even need to know his name, because I probably won’t see him again. Which is fine. I’ll accept that I’m not two-date material. But if I don’t get some much-needed stress relief soon, I may explode. And masturbating in my brother’s small, two-bedroom apartment where we share a wall and a bathroom is a big hell no.
The odds of me meeting a guy who wants me tonight are slim to none thanks to the heat and humidity that’s got my purple hair looking like I stuck my finger in a socket. And of all the items I loaded up in my fanny pack, and my many hair accessories at home, a hair tie was, unfortunately, not one of the things I packed.
Which leads me to think that the black fanny pack hanging from my hips could be a guy-repellant all on its own. Sure, it looks ridiculous, but I’m not stupid enough to try and keep up with a purse all over the fairgrounds while trying to get drunk. Besides, I needed some place to keep my phone, money, tickets, sunscreen, bugspray and hand sanitizer.
The concession stand line is a mile long for beverages because of the heat, but I wait patiently since there’s still a few minutes before the main event.
Just when I reach the front of the line, more than ten minutes later, and am about to order my soda, a dude in a sleeveless white ribbed tank and black leather pants, looking like a wanna be rock star despite the scorching temps, jumps in line in front of me. He flashes the VIP lanyard hanging around his neck to ask for a beer, making me want to deck him for not only cutting in front of me but because he’ll be so close to Rob Lawrence, he’ll probably be able to see the sweat dripping down his abs.
“Excuse you,” I say, tapping the guy’s shoulder in frustration. “There’s a line, buddy!”
The jerk turns around, flashing me a panty-melting grin as he pushes his jet-black chin-length hair behind his ear as he stares down at my cleavage. “Not for me, baby. I’m a VIP,” he says to my breasts.
“Even Very Important Pricks should have to wait in line like the rest of us,” I tell him, making his smile crack into a chuckle.
“Tell you what, how about I pay for your order to make it up to you?” he asks.
“What about everyone else in line behind me?” I huff.
He lifts his incredibly gorgeous blue eyes above my head and says, “Sorry, babe, but there’s no one behind you. And if you don’t hurry, you’re gonna miss Wasteland Authority.”
“Fine! Let me get a big ass Diet Coke,” I say.
Turning around, the guy orders my soda word for word as I requested it and pays the twenty-dollar tab for just my drink and his bottle of beer, which is ridiculous, but the event sponsors know schmucks like us will pay it before we die of dehydration.
And by the time the line passer hands me the ice-cold beverage and I drain half of it in one slurp, I’m already feeling less antagonistic towards him.
“Thank you,” I say with a sigh.
“You’re welcome,” he replies before taking a sip of his beer. “So, are you a fan of Wasteland Authority, or did your boyfriend drag you here tonight?”
“Oh no, I’m a huge fan of Wasteland, and I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Prove it.”
“What?” I ask between sips of soda. “How do I prove I don’t have a boyfriend?” I ask as I start to think that he’s trying to flirt with me.
“No, prove you’re a fan of Wasteland Authority. Who’s the lead singer?” he asks.
“Easy – Rob Lawrence. The band’s first album was Wasted Talent back in 2010. They’ve had three albums since but haven’t released a new one in over two years. My favorite song is “Ripped Open.” My second favorite is impossible to choose from since I love every song on Wasted Talent.”
“Holy shit! Me too!” the guy exclaims. “What are we waiting for? Let’s get moving and see how close we can get to the stage.”
“Oh, um, I don’t have a Very Important Prick pass like you,” I tell him. “I’m sitting over there in the grass with my friend and her boyfriend in the cheap lawn seats,” I say as I point out the way.
“No. No fucking way,” he grumbles. He tips back his beer, finishing it off before tossing it in one of the recycling bins. “Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm that’s not holding my soda and dragging me away from the concession stand.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m gonna sneak you over into the VIP section. Then I’m gonna put you on my shoulders, and you’re gonna flash your tits to get us to the front of the stage.”
“Oh my god! You’re insane!” I tell him with a bark of laughter. That plan of his is beyond crazy! “There’s no way you can get me past the guards without a pass!”
“Wanna bet?” he asks, waltzing right up to the man standing at attention in a yellow shirt and black pants, the standard guard uniform at the VIP entrance.
“Yo, man, I’m VIP, and she’s got a great rack,” he tells the dude while flashing his lanyard. “Show him.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Just show the man your tits, baby. Do you want to get close enough to see the sweat drip down Rob’s six-pack or not?”
OMG! How did he know that’s exactly what I want like it’s my sole purpose in this life?
“When you put it that way…here, hold my drink,” I say, shoving the soda into his chest so that I can tug the elastic top of my dress down for the guard to see my boobs.
The guard’s eyes widen, and he lets loose a whistle while staring at my breasts.
“Goddamn,” the line-passing prick mutters as he gets a nice long look too. “Titties this beautiful deserve nothing less than VIP, am I right?” he asks the guard.
The man in yellow looks left and right before he actually waves us through!
“Haha!” the maniac I’m with laughs before we walk through the entrance and he crouches down. “Now get on my back and keep your tits out. We’re going to the front row, baby!”
“If you say so,” I agree, unable to believe the first step of his ridiculous plan worked to get me in VIP. He leans forward, still holding my drink so I can climb up and then ease my legs over his shoulders before he slowly rises with me draped around his neck. I grab two handfuls of his long black hair to hold on as he starts forcing his way between the people at the back of the VIP section that are standing in loose groups before we get to the tight cluster around the stage.