Here? Is he being serious? Follows his dick into the restrooms, me into the restrooms. I could push off against the sink, bump him firmly in the crotch with my arse to make him stumble, but I immediately recognised his smell, so I did nothing. Guys who still smell this attractive after one of our gigs are few and far between, and when he called after me, that sweet-smelling sweat turned out to go with a voice that crept down my skin. I have a thing for voices. They either go straight to my nether regions, or they don’t.
I wait, tense to the nipples, but still he doesn’t speak. When he reaches past me for the soap dispenser, I can feel his warm breath against my ear.
Shit, a hot flush, great timing. And I left my fan in our van. He probably thinks I’m blushing because I’m shy, or because I’m aroused; what the hell do young men know about women my age!
Oh, why not …? I tilt my pelvis. Barely audible, because of the running water, I hear him briefly catching his breath. And he just keeps dispensing soap. Ah, there he is, his soap-filled hands are now slowly washing mine, yes, there’s something to this, this could be something. When he runs his soap-smooth hands toward the inside of my elbows, it feels as if he’s moving up my thighs. And still he doesn’t speak. Neither do I. What is there to say?
I press my arse a bit further back until I can feel him. Clear as day. Maybe this is what he was waiting for, he rinses our hands and closes the tap. I place my hands against my flushed cheeks, he dries his on my gym shorts. These terry-cloth shorts are perfect for it, of course. It was my sister’s idea, she picks all my outfits; if you have the body of a girl, you need to use it, she always says – and these shorts are extremely comfortable while playing the drums, so you won’t hear me complaining. And I can tell the effect it has on the men in the audience; I have yet to meet a guy who fails to be turned on by a female drummer with the body of a girl, wearing gym shorts and sitting behind her kit with her legs apart. Predictability can be fun, too.
Or not. This one, too, is reaching for my eyeshade: Can I see your eyes?, he asks with that voice of his. Yet another way in which they are predictable; they want you to look at them, they want to see in your eyes how much they’re arousing you.
The eyeshade was my sister’s idea as well, by the way. Not because she wanted to hide my eyes, but for the added effect; she was always good at estimating the effect of something. She had been right about this as well: those big, shiny manga eyes on the mask, staring at you from behind the drums, evidently compounded the effect of the gym shorts.
I’m too late to stop him, he has already removed my mask, and now I can feel his body and his breath stopping short, looking at my apparently repulsive eyes in the mirror. Even though I can’t see it, I always feel it in the sudden stiffening of their bodies and hear it in their shocked voices, I can hear it as if they’re saying it word for word, which some of them actually, brazenly, do – they’re angry, in fact, they feel cheated: Shitthisbitchishandicapped! Howthefuckdidthishappentome! HowdoIgetoutofhereassoonaspossible! I drop my head. But I’m not ready to give up on my bit of fun just like that, and I quickly say: Just close your eyes, we don’t have to look at each other, we can feel each other even better in the dark.
OK … he replies, somewhat hes-itantly. This voice doesn’t go straight to my belly anymore. But at least the boy doesn’t walk away. He rests his head against my neck. Then tries to see if he can kiss it. If he can slide his hands under my T-shirt. Apparently, he doesn’t want to give up on his bit of fun yet either. I smile. I let him reach my nipples. Say something, I moan. What should I say? he asks, and he still sounds too uncertain, there’s no way I’ll get wet like this. Can you sing? I ask as he squeezes my nipples, as if he’s hoping it will make my small breasts swell. No, he laughs. All right, then be quiet for a minute, I tell him with a sigh, I need some kind of rhythm.
I can hear him chuckling, he doesn’t understand. I’m not some seventeen-year-old clump of hormones, I need a bit of preparation, I say, as I lift his right hand from my breast, close my hot, wet mouth around his middle finger and then shove his hand down the front of my gym shorts. I place my feet wide apart and bend my knees a little. Just shut up and follow my lead for a second, then you can do whatever you want, I tell him, and I can feel him nodding
gratefully.
I begin to move my pelvis to the rhythm of the simple bass line and dry drum playing in my head. The singer’s voice joins in, masculine and deep and yearning at the same time, his when you hóld me clóse …, the way he sings baby you set my soul on fí-ur … My hand on top of his, I guide the boy’s finger in circles to the rhythm of the man singing you have been my one desi-ur inside my head. My pelvis waltzes to his cold shivers down my spiiine, I well up around his languishing mi-i-i-i-i-ine …