Pollack Is My Groupie
by Sheila E (NA)
Except for the busted bass-string halfway through the set, it was a good show. The opening band was the right kind of mediocre: skilled and rehearsed, but not so talented that they’d show me up. The crowd was solid.
The lights on stage of this theater were hot, but that’s how I like it when I get ready to rock.
I sweat under the lights, hair dripping and in my eyes; it’s a look my publicist says I should cultivate, so I know it’s both sexy and real. Through the heat and sweat and sexual dominance of my stage persona I see a hoarding throng of fans, fists pumping the air, as they reach for me in frustration, blocked by my impenetrable fame, strength, and the ring of 35 security guards at the foot of the arena stage. The guards long for me too.
After the double-encore, and my exquisite yet devastating guitar solo of 4'33 by John Cage, I take my exit from the stage and head back to the dressing room where my bass player and drummer are doing lines. I tell them to take that shit out to the bus. They move. They know when I’m being serious. It’s my fucking tour.
Franco comes back to the dressing room, asking me “que quiere”. It’s true, I make him use the formal Usted with me, knowing I can have quisiera from him. But tonight I’ve had enough of his clammy massages and so I ask him to go get me a Red Bull. His rejection is plain. He leaves so quickly, in such a schoolboy huff, that he forgets to close the door. Goddamn emotional roadies. I get up to shut the door myself, but before I reach the doorknob, some random fan walks right in my dressing room. He’s got some audacity doing that, which I like, but he says he’s a writer, which I don’t.
He launches into an almost embarrassingly gushing speech, prefacing it all with lines like, "I'm normally more restrained," and the oft-abused, "I NEVER do this type of thing, really." Turns out he just had to ask me a few questions about life, and love, and oh, just everything really, and he would really really appreciate an autographed t-shirt. For his little sister. In the hospital. Or something similarly cliched.
I almost call Franco back in to kick this guy’s ass, but then he tells me that my performance was the rawest expression of direct sexuality he’s seen since he accidentally walked in on Hemingway jerking off in the shower. I guess this is supposed to be of interest to me, but as he’s talking and making this tremendous effort to impress me with a bevy of similar anecdotes, I gesture for him to step aside.
I don’t mind the talking so much anymore because now he’s standing at a three-quarters angle and he's got a great ass. I’m so focused on this, that as I walk behind him to shut the door, I let my hand sweep only millimeters away from his culo on its way to the doorknob. I begin to think that this may not be an intrusion, so much as a very fine opportunity. As I turn, I shut the door and him inside with me. It’s at this point that I take the opportunity to deeply inhale whatever molecules I can steal from the back of his neck. He smells like the metal you can taste in the air just before a thunderstorm. A little salty. A little dirty.
My pulse doubles and although I act nonchalant, it occurs at exactly the same moment that my labia twinge with the arousal of mild electric shock. I like it, but I have to continue to play my part here. He is, in fact, a writer – and despite my increasing levels of attraction to his body, I have a multi-million dollar image to nurture and protect as a total motherfucking badass.
“Thanks for the compliment,” I say, as I maneuver back around him to fix myself a drink. “By the way, I was wondering if I could ask exactly what the hell you are doing in my dressing room. And where the fuck is security? In the meantime, can I fix you anything while we wait for them to come and throw you out of what is clearly my private room?”
“If it’s a problem, I can leave. Do you have any scotch?”
“It might be a problem and yes, I have scotch. But you’re not getting the good stuff. It’s from Sandra and she wouldn’t like me offering it to a guy. How do you take it?”
“Neat.”
I fix him the drink with my second-rate scotch and give myself a little extra of the same as I size him up, officially, this time.
With all the boys and girls so easily within reach here – like candy in a candy-dish, or trail-mix on the trail, I realize in this moment what I have been missing on this tour. I sigh a little because it’s now so obvious. I’ve been missing a Man.
So I look at this writer, standing right in front of me. While he doesn’t seem too insistent on any particular point he's making, his body is comprised of strong, masculine lines, the kind that are barely hidden by the black leather pants he’s wearing. His pants are comprised of strong, masculine leather, the kind that barely hides the kind of strong, masculine lines I like so well. But he’s talking about Catherine Deneuve and lawn bowling in Chiapas. I think he’s just making shit up now.
Fortunately for both of us, I don’t equivocate. And the more I consider it, neither does his body.
Goddamnit. It’s like a muscle. Like a river. The kind that easily wins races and contests it never entered. he's got casual grace in his movements – the kind that is abetted by an understatement of power.
He’s run out of anecdotes by now, so we sip the remainder of our scotch. I know we have a physiological chemistry between us because the momentary silence we share now moves from awkward to sexy. Our eyes lock two seconds too long, and lip-by-lip, our mouths twist up into curls of devious knowing.
A long silent minute passes between us.
Finally, I walk over and pick up one of his hands to examine it. They have that dandy-boy smoothness of someone who never lifted amps in and out of a 350 Ford eight summers in a row. I am looking at him now, and thinking that I want some of that dandy-boy smooth-hand lovin’ to put my hips in a vice-grip. I stare at his hands with an intensity so raw it almost makes me unaware of how my nipples are springing to life now, like baby sparrows in the nest craning for attention. I set down his hand, and let one of mine run casually over my own breast, to calm its request for mommy.
He yammers on again, like he's nervous now. I told him I don't read books, thinking it will disarm the yapping monologue he's entreating me to now. Something about a Ben Affleck of the literary world. He’s more tiresome than he realizes, because what he doesn’t know is that I fucked Ben last week and it wasn’t anything to write home about. Frankly, I’m more interested seeing what’s in his pants.
But he won’t stop talking. I interrupt by pushing him into my makeup chair, so he’s kind of slouching. His face becomes flushed, but he tries to act blasé about it. I pace in front of the chair, with incredible posture.
“You’re still unauthorized. Who do you think you are?”
“Neal Pollack?”
“Well, Neal Pollack,” I pause. “Have you ever been fucked by a real life rock star?”
“Does Joan Baez count?” He asked flatly. I was expecting him to take that with a little less aplomb.
“No.” I emphasize this with a karate-kick that lands centimeters away from his left earlobe. My stiletto heel punctures the makeup chair upholstery. “Can you handle helping me out with this, Neal Pollack?”
I watched him intently.
His soft hands yielded a surprising strength as they tore open the boot Donatella made for me last season. Yes, his pulse had quickened somewhat, I could see it, quivering in his neck with steady rhythm he could not know.
“These are really nice boots,” he said as he destroyed them. Ok, so he’s got fashion sense, as well. I take it from him and throw it aside. In the same manner we remove the other boot, and as my left leg is stuck next to his head, I see his eyes transverse my lucky silver mini skirt as I allow him the too-long look at my own personal O’Keefe. I never wear anything else when I perform, and I had perfected the karate-kick move in Salt Lake City a couple of weeks prior, when I needed Franco’s help getting the damn boots off and wanted to scare him into thinking we were on the “unstable” part of the tour, so he’d leave me alone. But if those were Franco’s eyes, lingering over the part of my anatomy Camille devoted two running columns to in Salon, I would have kicked Franco directly off the bus. I choose instead to indulge Neal Pollack. I want him to see a slice of what has fascinated the western media for nearly a decade now. And so he looks. After I’ve had enough, I walk back over to the sink and set down the rest of my scotch.
“Done with yours?” I ask.
“Actually, I’d like a little more,” he says. I give him more. He’s going to need it.
I grab the bottle, and head back over to the chair, taking a long shot for myself straight from the bottle. I climb upon two surprisingly strong quadriceps and straddle him tightly as I hand him the scotch. I untie the strings of the halter-top I’m wearing and as it drops around my waist I grab my tits, squeezing them together and leaning back just so to form a deadly valley before him.
“Pour.” I command.
He does so. A small pond of scotch is created.
“Your shot.”
And with that, Neal Pollack sipped at the liquor dribbling down between my breasts, mixing with the sweat from my body. The cool drying effect of the alcohol was mitigated by the warm sensations granted by his lips and tongue as they found their way to my attentive nipples. When this bottle of scotch hit the floor I secretly apologized to Sandra in my head as I took his hands and placed them under my skirt, as we pushed up the latex-poly-blend fabric over my hips. My entire nervous system contracts involuntarily, pleading already, but I know it’s too soon. As he reaches those writerly hands around to feel my ass, I reach up and grab what I only now notice to be his incredibly sexy, partially bleached-out hair, scratching his head and pushing his mouth into my tits as he suckles and bites at my well-documented nipples. Throughout all this, I can feel his cock growing fantastically hard – like sculpture – through those leather pants, and I grind myself into him, matching his strength equally on all fronts.
I’m ready to fuck him right here and if he doesn’t know it by now, I should give back my MTV Video Music Award for Best New Female Rock Performance involving Sexual Aggression.
But we’re interrupted.
The door resonates with a shy knocking that we almost don’t hear. We ignore it. The kissing happens recklessly now, with all kinds of tongue. As I pull away I refuse to let go of his lower lip, captured between my teeth. The knocking persists.
“Fuck off, Franco,” I bark, as I provide ample suction to the side of Neal’s neck.
The knocking carries on, and I relent for a moment, whispering an apology into his sweet, perfect ear, and I stand up, as we both take a deep and well-deserved breath.
“Who the FUCK is it?” I demand.
“Kylie?” – with a singsong, southern voice I know to be both doe-eyed and just barely 18 on the other side of the door.
Oh good. “Kylie, baby, can you do me a favor, sweetheart?” She thinks I’m god.
“Sure, anything.” The tensile strength of her ass is near perfection; her tits are positively heliotropic. Neal cannot see this behind the door, but I think of these things. For him and for me. For later.
“Can you go tell Franco to go back to the fucking bus and stay there, then bring me some water in about 15 minutes?” She does anything I ask. “I’ll need you then.”
Always eager to please, dear Kylie sings back, “sure thing!”
“Thanks, babe.” Her pixie-like footsteps fade away from the door and I explain that Kylie runs a pretty decent fanzine for me out of Chapel Hill, and we brought her on the tour. If he’s very good, he’ll get to meet Kylie too. But I don’t explain that yet. Instead I sit on the countertop as Neal walks directly in front of me.
“Neal Pollack,” I say, “Can you be good?” I knock my head back twice, luring him in my direction. He approaches me again, but this time he’s not seeking an autograph or whatever the fuck it was he came in here for in the first place. I match his steps backwards, until I am right up against the wall.
I grab his finger, place it in my mouth, and trace the tiny lines of his forefinger with the tip of my tongue. When I am convinced it’s what I want, I move his hand down between my thighs, already streaming with wetness, and let his fingers run gently down the line from my clit to my vagina .
In a low voice I usually reserve for intrigue or high finance, I allude to the real reason I haven’t kicked his ass out on the concrete yet: “Here's the deal, Neal. You've already been here too long, so you’re going to make me come quickly, and then I want you to get the fuck out of my dressing room.”
Soon his hand is between my thighs. Plying me. Working the lips around my clit gently but insistently like the best bass players can. Toying with it until it swells beyond its usual form, until it starts to hum like a choir of tiny stacked amps. Once I am buzzing on this nice plateau, he stops abruptly and tells me I really ought to read more fiction. The prick. I slap him, and after a few excruciatingly unbearable seconds of pure wanting, he thrusts his fingers directly into my wet, waiting pussy and says he'll send me a copy of his Anthology. My entire body responds. Every nerve ending salivating. Involuntary muscle contractions without recourse.
My nipple ripens in his left hand, squeezed between strong, steady fingers that belong to (yes, indeed) a Man. I ask him if he's ever played the drums. He mentions something about uncredited participation on the Bitches Brew sessions. Touched with a simultaneous softness and hardness that is difficult to reconcile in my mind, I satisfy it with reconciliation in my nerve endings. I am so ready, and before I know it, his cock is in my hand. I have reached for it without a thought and am surprised to find a more solid thickness than I ever expected to find between two equally strong but more obvious quadriceps. I am instantly impressed. Instantly curious. Instantly fantasizing about that thickness pushing me apart and it’s all making me graphically wet.
I pull my hand out slowly, stepping backwards, keeping his waistband in my hand as I recline on the chaise lounge, bringing him along with me. I tell him to climb on top of me, but on all fours. I slide down between his legs and immerse myself in his pants with my teeth on front, and my hands on his ass. As soon as I’ve made even marginal progress unzipping his fly, his cock springs out of the front of his pants, warm and hard and close to my mouth and I can’t help but be impressed now. I think that we’ll run out of time if I start to suck him, but it’s too much to resist. I have always had a weakness for great cock.
I turn, pushing him down on the lounge. Without breaking eye contact, I wrap my lips around him, and give myself over to his taste as I take more and more of him in my mouth, until he’s nearly down my throat. He repeats my name twice as he grips my right knee so hard that I feel like I'm bruising. We paused for a moment to decide what to do, and without too much discussion we reversed our position until he was behind me, fucking me impossibly hard, grabbing me and taking me exactly as Franco, Johnny, Jackson, or Bobby never could. At times, he was throwing my whole body down on the lounge, while at other times he was almost picking me up on top of him. Zero Gs. He pries me open and ratchets himself in so far that I have no recourse but to be both broken and fulfilled at once. Multiple Gs. He pushes us both to a limit where we finally are incapable of further movement, and nothing but inertia pushes us onon. And on further still, until we mutually crescendo into a sea of total satisfaction and collapse. We breathe heavily and in synch together. I pull a tour t-shirt up from the floor to cover the wet spot. We lay there for several minutes until I called security.
As he’s escorted out, I tell him that Kylie and I would love to see him at our show in Philly as I sign the damp t-shirt and throw it out the door after him.
"For your sister!"
Franco packed up my things, and then we got back on the bus. It was another eight hours until Denver.
