So, you’re a star
On the road
Name in lights
Face on billboards
Obscene amounts
of money
You can have
almost anything.
And anyone.
Tonight’s show is over
Or beginning.
Backstage, you stride
into the crowded room
High on adulation
superstar adrenaline junkie.
At the stage door
girls jiggle in line
Meanwhile, you snort one.
Bourbon lubricates
a raw throat.
Touring can be rough.
Soon, you undress,
slip on a robe,
nod at Melanie,
she knows you so well.
Dutiful assistant,
she goes off to
find tonight's prize.
Doesn’t take long.
Cowgirl boots,
pelmet skirt,
shirt tied
at the navel
cradling big
bouncers.
Perfect.
Ply her with wine
straight from the bottle.
Toke on this.
Strip… set those
bouncers free.
Your fingers
which strum chords
pick strings
work frets
prepare to play
an altogether
different tune.
Clear the room?
No. This is a show,
a performance, and
you’re the star.
Pink rosebuds
harden to your touch.
Her head nestles
into your shoulder.
She sighs, twitches,
parts thighs.
Fingers probe,
open her
like a flower.
Pinch the clit,
caress it, roll it,
breach her entrance
hear the squelch.
Oh yes. Smile.
Placed on the couch
she undulates,
hips rising,
frantically rubbing
her slit,
wanting you
needing to please
The Star
The raucous crowd circles
A show not to be missed.
The tongue that
la-la-las in warm up
now laps and licks
prods and pokes,
tastes fresh juice.
Oh, such sweet sap.
Pliant thighs
tremble, quiver,
her head rolls
side to side,
on the edge,
on the brink.
Moaning, groaning —
not yet.
You’re the star
in control,
always centre stage.