Mathewson
Smooth, creamy, toned legs disappear under a barely-there skirt. It’s just long enough to cover the goods, but short enough to have my dick straining against my ripped-at-the-knee jeans. My eyes trail a seductive line up the curve of her hips, straight to her modest breasts. Strawberry blond curls fall over her shoulders, and I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch a strand.
As my eyes continue upward, I stop on deliciously plump red lips. Her tongue darts out, running a line across the bottom lip in a seductive tease that has precome building at my tip. A moan escapes as I try desperately to look away. I need to save myself the embarrassment of losing my shit right here. This girl isn’t even trying to drive me crazy, yet she has my balls tight and knees wobbling. Fuck.
“Dude, what the fuck? You’re zoning out again. We’ve got shit to do, man,” Kip, our drummer, calls from the corner with a chuckle.
I know he’s right. Right now isn’t the time to be spacing, but shit if I can help it. I’ve been out of sorts this entire semester, and she’s to blame. Caroline from Econ 101 has me tied up in knots just thinking back on the way she looked today, head thrown back and a look of ecstasy plastered all over her face. When she moaned, I damn near combusted on the spot. It took all my willpower not to drag her off caveman-style to the nearest closet and fuck her like she was begging to be fucked.
There’s just something about her. She’s smart, sophisticated...sexy as hell. She’s not like all the other college girls who throw themselves at me and my band members on a weekly basis. She’s practically ignored me all semester. But those few interactions we’ve had left me wanting more. She’s everything I want for my future.
What the fuck am I saying? The last thing I have time for is a girlfriend. I don’t even partake in one-night stands—not that I don’t have a line of girls willing. I have big plans, and they’re never gonna happen if I don’t work my ass off.
My dad is hell-bent on me coming to work for his wealth management company, and that’s the last thing I want. Punch-Drunk Kids—my music—it’s everything. But unless we get our big break, it’s a pipe dream. My dad will never support that, and I don’t have the money to move to New York or Nashville or wherever I need to go. I have two more semesters and gigs lined up almost every weekend. The master plan is to be picked up by one of the multitude of agents who will be at any of these events.
I shake the thought of strawberry blond curls and curves for days from my mind. Those things are distractions, and distractions are not what I need.
“All right, man, let’s play it from the top,” I yell out to my bass player, Rocky.
We have a massive show next weekend, and we’ve been told our dream agent is stopping by to watch. We have to be on our game, which means we need to practice constantly. Kip hits his drumsticks three times against his set, and the rest of the guys begin to play. I sway, leaning into the melody and allowing it to overtake me. Before long, the lyrics I wrote and have rehearsed for months pour out of me, smooth yet raspy—my signature sound that drives the girls crazy.
We practice for what feels like hours before we call it a night.
“See ya tomorrow, man; get some rest,” Rocky calls from the door. He’s our latest addition, but he’s still been with us for more than two years.
The original four, me, Kip, Ian and Tyce, all went to high school together and have been a four-man band since junior high. We had a falling-out with our lead bass, and Rocky joined our crew. Ian knew him from class freshman year, and he meshed perfectly with our vibe.
I wave my hand and watch the others pile out, calling their goodbyes as they go. It’s my job to check the emails nightly, as our fan mail piles up. We’re still small enough that we have to respond to everyone ourselves; it goes a long way with our followers. I’m thankful to see only three waiting for me tonight.
The first is a request for band swag, to which I quickly send a response, committing to sending some guitar picks and signed posters to the girl by the weekend. The second is a thank-you for performing for a charity event last month. There’s no need for a reply, according to the sender, but I send one anyway. I want them to know we appreciate the gig and are happy to donate our time when it’s for a good cause. And that leads me to my third email.
A request for another charity gig, except this one is ridiculous, callous and never happening. Originally when I read the email, I was considering doing it, but then I saw which sorority she was in, and I changed my mind. I’d heard the rumors that some sorority on campus is trying to raise funds because of a fire that recently happened—which is commendable, but they’re just fucking gross. They’re auctioning off their virginity to raise the money. I doubt they’re even virgins. The girls I’ve met on Sorority Row are far from pure.
This chick’s fatal error is that she forgot to erase her sorority’s signature off the bottom of the email before hitting send. She addresses the letter to whom it may concern. Who the hell sends an email to a band like that? Then she requests a date that we’ve had booked for months. It’s the neighboring town’s big music festival where all the agents will be in attendance. We’d never miss it. We haven’t in the past five years. Regardless, we’re booked all year. The nail in the coffin is the auction. I wouldn’t put our name with that sorority if they were paying me, much less volunteer our time. The cause is good. Execution, fucking bad.
Caroline,
I’m sorry to disappoint, but Punch-Drunk Kids hardly has the time to commit to legitimate causes, let alone something so last-minute and, frankly, trashy. We won’t put our names on a headline for a sorority that finds it appropriate to sell yourselves for money. Sorry, not happening. Go get jobs. Contribute something to the world. I assure you, no guy worth anything will ever take you or your lack of morals seriously.
As for the victim of the horrific fire, Punch-Drunk Kids sends our best wishes. We’ll make a donation to the animal shelter, although I’m sure your bodies will rake in enough cash from the campus miscreants.
Sincerely,
Matt James
Without another thought, I hit send and head home, where I dream all night of a strawberry blonde girl with killer legs.