The Concert Dad

Saying "I'm not like other women" seems clichéd enough of a phrase to mean the exact opposite of what is intended. So, what I will say is that I am a woman of varying tastes and wide interests, and that is something that has brought me as much joy as it has difficulty in life. Deciding what I really want out of a given situation has never been easy, but not out of any stereotypical womanly fickleness or inherent indecisiveness. I've just always been interested in everything and never found much sense in denying myself the ability to experience something new and different firsthand.

In high school, I bounced between coteries of jocks, preps, theater kids, dirt bags, band geeks, and a whole host of others encompassing a broad variety of otherwise cliquey interest groups and associations. Swim team to debate to dance squad to choir practice. I sampled from everything and wound up amalgamating the tastes and flavors from all of them into something that was mine. Because of this, I usually found myself accepted in theory, but, in practice, kept to the outer edges of the social circles in which I traveled. This meant having lots of acquaintances throughout my formative years, but precious few friends. I never won homecoming queen, but I never expected to. None of these versions of me were the one I wanted to be, anyway.

I mostly kept to myself -- being so many different versions of me for so many different people was exhausting work -- and read whenever I got the chance. I read everything. And when I say "everything" I mean everything. Things I liked, things I didn't like; I committed myself to finishing a book even if I found it repulsive by page five. It was the storytelling I loved, and I knew reading the good, the bad, and the ugly all gave me an opportunity to learn how to do it well. For school, I devoured the Arthurian romances of Chretien de Troyes, classics by modern artists like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Virginia Woolfe, and John Steinbeck, and about everything in between. I even read Edmund Spencer's Faerie Queene on a dare from my Honors English teacher Junior year in the original Middle English. But my favorites by far were what I called my potato chip books -- high fantasy, horror, Gothic detective, and romance novels. As I grew older, these interests started to blend together in new and interesting ways. Before I knew it, I had descended into a realm I had never imagined existed.

My mother called them smut novels, and she certainly wasn't wrong about some of them. But for a girl that didn't really belong anywhere, erotica provided an outlet for me to explore parts of my own sexuality without traveling too far outside my own head. I had problems, you see, with making romantic connections with my peers. It had nothing to do with how good I looked -- at the risk of sounding conceited, I always believed I was pretty, in spite of a lack of boobs (a very sensitive set of A cups worked just fine for me, though). I just found the boys my age to be far too...boyish and immature. I guess my dad, who passed away when I was thirteen, set the bar too high. He pushed me to be adventurous with my life and never let anyone convince me that I was somehow less.

Honestly, I never had any real interest in physical intimacy of any kind with anyone other than fictional characters until after high school. And by then, my reading history had turned my tastes to something more exotic than the boys in my town were able or willing to try. It stated with Jacqueline Carey, who is, in my mind, the queen of spicy fantasy novels. I read through her entire catalog my senior year and it left me craving more than just another book to read. Then I found it, just after my eighteenth birthday. My favorite book of all time. Chains of Oleander, by Liam R, Jolliet. His novel about Mariana Oleander, a woman in her mid-thirties going through a delayed but kink-filled sexual awakening under the guidance of her lover, Adrian Caldwell, after spending a life in self-denial resonated with me in ways I couldn't have imagined before.

The author, who only had a partial head-shot on the inside cover of the book, had never published again, which was sad to me. The story itself was fantastic, with just the right amounts of romance and exposition, but the sex scenes were amazingly explicit. Excruciatingly so. To the point that I couldn't finish a single chapter without masturbating. I went out and bought a little remote controlled bullet to help me with that, so I could flip through the pages and enjoy the constant buzzing without having to constantly wipe my hands to keep from getting my own crazy juices all over the pages.

I started experimenting a little with pain as a source of pleasure. Not just the act itself, but pushing myself to endure it. That led me to my first tattoo -- a cluster of red oleander flowers down the underside of my forearm to match the one Mariana got near the middle of the book when she finally came to terms with her submission to Adrian. Most times, though, this took the form of clothespins on either my nipples or inner labia. Sometimes both at the same time. I tried a few other things to enhance my enjoyment, too, like wrapping a belt around my neck and pulling it around one of the spindles of my headboard. It wasn't quite what I was looking for, but I did the best I could with what I had. At that age, there was always the threat of my mother walking in and finding me stark naked in my bed with a belt around my throat and my hand two or three fingers deep in my aching hole. She wasn't always as open-minded as I needed her to be.

After graduating high school, I took a gap year and signed up for a summer writing workshop at Syracuse University. I found some success with small publications for my poetic works and a couple short stories, which encouraged me to apply for a three-month long writing residency onboard a cross-country train ride. Getting to see the country by rail was an experience unto itself. I took in sights and shows along the way, and indulged whatever curiosity I could muster the courage to try. A lot of it was food related, but there were other things.

An older man joined me in the dining car for dinner one night -- just to share company. He was kind, mid-forties, recently divorced, two kids, and a sales job that let him pick his own travel preferences. He was kind if awkward, and handsome, I suppose. In a way, he reminded me of my father. We shared the meal, a few stories, and then an hour in my sleeper cabin. I tried to put what I remembered reading in my dirtier books to good use, and he lauded me with praise for how I tended to him. What ever shyness I felt melted away completely with all those compliments, and it made me even more eager than ever. And even though I had to finish myself off with my little bullet after he left, I felt completely satisfied.

I had three more encounters like that over the rest of my residency and they were all wonderful But it was the game I liked the best. Something from Chains of Oleander, where the two main characters would tease each other mercilessly, and the first one to cry uncle lost to game and had to pay some kind of penalty -- usually fulfilling some weird desire for the other. I didn't have anyone to play the game with, though, so I had to play it by myself. I kept detailed entries in my journal to record all of my encounters and how much further I had pushed. The last was my favorite, by far. He was a big, strong man, at least twice the size of my petite frame. He didn't just tell me what he wanted, he guided my hands, mouth, and body exactly where he wanted them, and used me exactly how he wanted to. He was rough -- not violent, though; that's different -- and in the morning I knew I'd been fucked. I had hand prints on my backside and, to a lesser extent, around my neck. My scalp ached from how he'd grabbed fistfuls of my hair while he railed me from behind and drove my face into the pillows, and my throat was sore from him forcing his cock into it. That was something I hadn't thought I would enjoy as much as I did. The fullness of him going down my esophagus, the sticky wetness of my spit as he churned it up and pumped it out of my mouth around his throbbing dick, the feeling of his twitching member shooting his load into my mouth until it overflowed and made the biggest, sexiest mess all over my chest. I had no need for the buzzer that night, even if I'd been able to get up to take it out of my luggage.

At every stop where I stayed for more than a day, I added a new tattoo to my arm of either a local flower or a bird I'd seen along the way. I had a nearly complete sleeve by the time I returned home, including the front of a train on the back of my hand with bits of smoke trailing back up and around my arm through the gaps in the rest of the artwork. At my last appointment in New York City before returning to Binghamton, I got my nipples pierced as a bonus. A sort of celebration of my journey.

By February of that year, I had a completed manuscript to send along with my applications to colleges. I sold some of the short stories I'd written to magazines, as well. It felt good to have some success, but I didn't want the adventure to end. I got a little part-time job at a coffee shop, just to make a few extra bucks, and by May I had accepted a full ride to Princeton University's creative writing program. Everything was falling into place academically, but those months at home left me feeling otherwise empty and bored. I guessed that was how it would be once I got to college, too. Busy with studies and surrounded by other people in the same boat. I needed a chance to let myself hang loose for a bit. That chance arrived in August.

I went with a group of girl friends from high school to New York City to see an indie post-metal band we all liked play at the Palladium. We pooled our money to pay for gas and food and a nice hotel room a short train ride from the venue. My gap year and their summer break were coming to an end, and this was everyone's last chance to let their freak flags fly. I was eager to have some fun before I cloistered myself at Princeton to get serious about my writing. I was sure, especially with it being the ivy leagues, that I would be far too busy with classes and writing to put much effort into anything else. And, of course, I had no real desire to date any college boys my age. I tried to spend some time with one of the townies, but my time on the train had spoiled me and he simply could not keep up, one way or the other.

I sat in the back seat the entire ride into the city and watched the landscape speed away along the highway while the girls all went on and on about their college romances -- the cocks they sucked, the parties they went to, everything; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I thought about telling a story of my own, but didn't really feel comfortable letting them know what I had let four men over the age of forty do to me in the sleeper car of a cross-country train over my time in residence. Thinking about it made me hot enough.

When we got into the city, we stopped for a quick pizza dinner and then made our way to the hotel to clean up and get dressed into the clothes we'd all hidden from our parents. Getting them to let us go on this little adventure had taken enough effort; there was no way it would have happened if they knew the outfits we'd brought to try and one-up the other's rebellious side. It started with tattoos, of which I had the most so far, but everyone showed everything.

Basically, it was five girls in a hotel room taking off their clothes to show off what they'd done to their bodies over the course of a year. It was pretty hot -- not quite porno hot, but it was getting there. Michelle, the closest thing I had to a bestie, showed off her best new feature -- a vertical clitoral hood piercing. She gave it a little flick and had a baby orgasm right there. Of course, I couldn't hide my own new additions from the end of my trip.

"Look at you!" Michelle shouted. They were all surprised that I had done something like that, I guess, and I suppose I couldn't blame them. They didn't know the real me, after all. "If we don't find some guys at this concert worth fucking, maybe we can take care of each other," she teased and gave my nipple rings a little tug.

"Maybe we will," I answered in the same teasing tone and give her little piercing a flick back, making her moan and then laugh, red-faced. I wondered how far that sentiment ran, and if her forced sarcastic tone wasn't hiding something worth exploring later.

Nobody dressed with any modesty, and I was no exception to that. The chances of running into someone I might actually be interested in were slim, but I didn't want to be the one stick in the mud for this trip. And if there were, by chance, a man or two worth my interest, I wanted to look my best. I kept my hair the way I always did, with its natural black curls bobbed just above my shoulders, and painted my lips a bright crimson red. I wore a black, pleated skirt that hung just below the curve of my ass and a red mesh crop top that stopped above my navel over a lacy black bra that matched my g-string panties. I had a set of thigh-high fishnets on with my clunky red Doc Martens which added another two inches to my height, making me all of five foot two and still the shortest one of our group.

I had to take special care with the rest of my makeup and highlight some of the sharper features of my face, as I was in serious danger of looking like a minor and those were not the types of perverts I wanted to attract. The other girls did much of the same, and dressed in skirts equally short if not shorter. We all liked this band pretty well, but I am fairly sure I was the only one that went to this concert intent on enjoying the music. We had pit tickets, after all, and a lot of things that went on in the mosh pits were not really moshing.

Within fifteen minutes of getting to the show, Michelle had already found a group of boys who looked old enough to buy her drinks and cute enough that she wouldn't need many of them before she got in the mood. The crowded main floor absolutely pulsed with people, even before the opening act had a chance to start things off. We hung out for a bit, but I was honestly distracted with the music and didn't notice that the girls had wandered off.

Suddenly, the energy I had been feeding off was gone. I spent a few minutes trying to rejoin the group, but to no avail. And that was when he showed up -- a boy about my age whose idea of personal hygiene might as well have been a can of department store body spray. He some how managed to sneak up behind me and grab me by the waist.

"Sup, baby," he said right into my ear as he tried to pull me into him. He reeked of cheap beer and bad weed, and his hands felt like bony little claws.

I pulled away and turned to see this thing -- grubby, greasy, and definitely in need of a shave. "I'm not your baby," I replied as I took a few cautious steps backwards. We were pretty near the front of the venue, and the amount of room to maneuver wasn't making it any easier to escape this creep. Then I made the foolish mistake lots of girls my age make, and tried to be nice. "Sorry, I'm not really interested tonight."

"Maybe give me a shot before you make that call," he said to me, grinning as he tried to close the distance between us.

"Definitely not with that look," I said, feeling less and less like being kind. "Just give me some space, okay? I'm here for the show."

"I got a show for you, baby!"

There were bodies everywhere, moving and gyrating, jumping and bumping into one another. I did my best to weave my way through to the front and at least have a chance at hailing security if things went sideways. Once there, I tried getting on my tiptoes to find a friend, but still came up empty handed and managed to make myself an easier target. So, I turned and tried to make a path along the barrier separating the crowd from the stage and ran into a wall of taught muscle in, of all things, a white button down oxford cloth dress shirt and blue jeans. His beer went all over his Doc Martens and mine as he dropped his cup.

"Hey," the guy shouted at me, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sorry," I stammered and backed into the railing. I tossed a backwards glance over my shoulder and saw the guy still in pursuit. "I'm really sorry, I'm just," I took another look over my shoulder, and when I looked back, he was staring at my face with a softer look and a kind of weird understanding.

"I told you not to wander off," the guy said a little louder. "With you getting your mom's height genes, there's no way you're going to be able to see the show from anywhere but here, sweetie." I must have given him a look, because he winked, leaned in, and whispered in my ear, "Just follow my lead," before he kissed my cheek, stood back up straight (a full head and shoulder taller than me), and glowered past me at the guy in pursuit. "This kid bothering you, honey?"

The creeper stopped dead in his tracks. "Hey, man, I saw her first. Get your own p--"

He stepped past me and thrust a finger into the guy's chest. "That's my little girl you're talking about, prick. You want to find out how that railing tastes?"

"Your daugh--what?"

"Yes. That's my little girl," he said, and the choice of words gave me all kinds of feelings. The fact that he'd just taken it on himself to put this guy in his place was great, but I had to wonder if I wasn't out of the frying pan and into the fire. "It's her first rock concert, and I'm not going to let some unwashed fuck-wit ruin the experience. Get lost before I have security throw you out on your ass." He took a step backwards and put an arm around my shoulders. His hand was warm and his grip felt solid on me, but not aggressive. In short, he felt like an actual dad.

It didn't take any more convincing to get the creep to vanish back into the crowd. "You alright, kid?" he asked me once he was sure he was gone.

"I am now, I guess," I answered, then added with some appreciable childhood angst, "dad."

He just smiled and patted my shoulder before putting his hands back on the railing. "Think of me as your concert dad," he said. "Someone to watch your back and keep you out of the side-show. Sometimes you girls need some backup, you know? Too many idiots show up to these shows without an understanding of the word 'no' or the concept of consent. Buy them an eight dollar beer and they'll follow you anywhere." He gave me a look -- a long look, up and down. By the way his features had creased talking to the kid, I put him at his early to mid forties. Things were looking up. "You here by yourself or did you come with somebody?"

The opening act finished and I had to wait for the applause to settle before I could be heard. "I came with some girlfriends I graduated high school with, but I can't find any of them."

"Need some help finding them?"

I shook my head. "They're probably all off hooking up with some of the guys we ran into when the show started," I said. "I'll try texting them later." I gave him the once over, too, as he watched the opener clear their gear off the stage. He looked familiar somehow, but I couldn't place him for the life of me. I rationalized that it was just my fetish for older men getting the better of me. Despite sticking out like a sore thumb, he didn't give much of an impression of not belonging exactly where he was. The silver raven skull finger armor on his right hand made that much clearer. He might have legitimately been there for his own kid's first rock concert.

With his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, I could see every muscle in his vein-covered forearms. He was lean but muscular, and what parts of him I could see looked like he was carved out of wood. I was already imagining those strong hands of his wrapped around my throat and pulling my hair. I hadn't gotten laid in at least two months at that point, and that was such a sad experience it barely counted.