Ok, every once in a while, a band comes along that is so amazing, so incredible, you just have to see them live. No matter how impossible the tickets are to get, you have to find a way. Because you know it will be one of those nights where a year later, when they’re playing stadiums, you’ll be able to brag that you saw them in a club before they blew up.

Midnight Strut was one of those bands. And unfortunately, my friend Marcy swore she’d grab tickets for us, but flaked. She told me she hooked up with some guy, the love of her life, blah, blah, blah, and he convinced her to give my ticket to him. Yeah. My ticket.

I was shit out of luck until the club’s Instagram went live, saying they were releasing a small number of tickets an hour before the show. So here I was, flooring it across town and praying the box office still had one left.

A red light took forever, so I looked both ways and I cut across traffic like a maniac. Don’t judge me. You would’ve done the same if the best band in the city was about to play without you. My hands were sweating all over the steering wheel, and I kept glancing at the clock like somehow staring at it might slow it down.

By the time I found a spot near the club, the line outside already went around the block. I slammed my door, locked it with a beep, and took off down the sidewalk, half-running in heels that definitely weren’t meant for sprinting.

The ticket booth was lit up like a little glass cube, and for a second, I thought that I might’ve made it. I could practically feel the ticket in my hand and imagine how the stub was going to look framed on my apartment wall. But then the guy inside lifted a sign and slapped it against the window.

SOLD OUT

Fuck.

I wasn’t about to give up that easily, not after speeding across half the city like a deranged driver who technically didn’t have her license. Yeah, I’m 22 and still on my learner’s permit. Sue me. Anyway, I pushed through the line of other disappointed fans and made my way straight to the booth.

I tapped on the glass. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

The guy inside completely ignored me.

“C’mon,” I said, “I really need a ticket.”

He shrugged, leaned toward the glass, and gave me a smug look. “We’re all sold out. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, c’mon, please? I gotta see ’em.”

He cracked a little smile, pretending to look sympathetic, but the suggestion in his eyes gave him away. “Sorry. Not much I can do.”

He downgraded “nothing” to “not much” in 10 seconds. Look, maybe you’re reading this from somewhere in Wisconsin, and that means nothing to you. But this is LA, and I knew exactly what it meant. There’s always a way in. A ticket’s just the easiest one.

I sighed, more annoyed by the game than the fact that I was about to play it. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

His face lit up, like he’d tried the same thing with five other girls and finally found one desperate enough to go along with it. He looked around, then pushed his chair back. A second later, I heard the click of a latch, and the side door of the booth swung open.

“C’mon in.”

Not one of my proudest moments, but I stepped off the sidewalk and into the little glass box where I was about to blow some dork who’d never get laid if he didn’t control the door at one of the hottest clubs in the city.

He didn’t even ask for it. It was just understood. He leaned back in his chair and undid his belt like the same thing happened every Tuesday night. Because it probably did. “I can’t give you a ticket, but I can get you in the side door. Whatever happens after that is up to you. Got it?”

“Deal,” I said, not exactly sure what that meant, but at least I was going to get inside.

So yeah, that’s how I ended up on my knees in a box office on Sunset, giving head to a guy who probably got blown more times a week than he had hot meals. And let me tell you, the worst thing about blowing a ticket guy in LA is that they’re used to it. They’ve had every eager fan down here, so if you wanna get one of these guys to pop in under twenty minutes, you better bring your A game.

I usually start slow to test a guy out. You know, lips tight, tongue working the underside, one hand easing him in. But I didn’t have time for that, so I went right at him. I skipped the warm-up and jumped straight to ruthless sucking. He gave this little grunt that told me I caught him off guard, and pulled back a little, but screw that. I wasn’t slowing down for him. If he couldn’t keep up, too bad. The faster I could get this guy off, the better. I wasn’t going to coddle him. Half a minute in, and he was poking at my tonsils.

Did I gag? Not a chance. That’s a trick I learned long ago. Let’s just say the backseat of a Civic taught me more than high school ever did. He was squirming in minutes, and I had him gripping the counter like he was bracing for an earthquake.

Five minutes, max. He gave a low groan, and a second later, he filled the back of my throat with a wad of cum. I swallowed most of it like a champ and wiped the rest off my mouth with his shirt. That’s not the last time you’ll be hearing about cum on shirts in this story.

“Wow. I’m impressed,” he said, zipping up like he didn’t just get his dick sucked by someone way out of his league. “Follow me.”

So out we went, and of course, the whole line outside turned on me instantly. Jeers, whistles, the whole deal. Everyone knew exactly what just happened in that little booth. I should’ve been embarrassed, but come on, it’s LA. If you can’t laugh it off, you’re in the wrong city. So I tossed my hair and gave the crowd a sloppy little bow like I was accepting an award... then flipped them off. No one fucks with me.

I followed the ticket guy, I never got his name, down the alley next to the club. I trailed behind, trying not to step in the mystery puddles that were anything but water. He hammered on a steel side door. “Open up, Eddie, it’s me.”

A minute later, the door cracked open. Eddie squinted at us, with the neon glow from the street making his face look all angles.

“She doesn’t have a ticket,” the ticket guy said, jerking his thumb at me, “but she’s a guest of the club. Got it?”

“Sure thing,” Eddie said.

The ticket guy turned to me, sneering. “You’re on your own now. Enjoy your night.” Then he slipped back toward his booth like a troll returning to his cave.

Eddie swung the door open wide and waved me in. “Hurry up.”

Inside, the music was already rumbling through the walls. Not Midnight Strut, the openers. Eddie led me through a maze of nicotine-stained hallways, confidently leading me somewhere. He didn’t look back, just talked over his shoulder and trusted that I could hear him.

“Did he fuck you?” Eddie asked as casually as he’d ask about the weather.

“Nope,” I said. “A blowjob.”

“That’s good.”

I didn’t ask why. You don’t ask why in situations like this.

We ended up at the end of a longer hallway, where two guys in black stood like statues in front of a set of double doors. The music was louder here, and I figured the concert hall was beyond them. Eddie stopped and gave them a nod.

“Gentlemen.” He shouted over the sound of the band. “This is… I didn’t catch her name. She doesn’t have a ticket, but she’s a guest of the club.”

The two guards glanced at me, then smiled at each other. Eddie tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing and walked off.

I stepped toward the door, but one of the guys held his hand up like it was a stop sign.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

The other one laughed. “We can’t just let you in there without a ticket.”

“And we’re all out of tickets,” the first one added, like they’d done this routine a hundred times before.

The second guy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a lanyard. A glossy laminate with a shiny clip and Midnight Strut printed on it. “But,” he said, dangling it in front of me, “we do have a backstage pass.”

I rolled my eyes. I’ll never understand why these losers insist on playing these stupid games. It’s like they get off speaking in bad porno-script speak. “Let me guess. I gotta fuck you guys to get it, right?”

“That’s one hell of a guess,” the first one said.

He jerked his head toward a door just off the hallway, painted with block letters: Guest of the Club.

I actually laughed out loud. “You’re kidding me. This happens so often, you’ve got a whole room set up for it?”

Neither of them bothered to answer. One just pushed the door open while the other leaned back and hollered down the hall. “Eddie! Nobody comes down this way till I say, ok?”

From somewhere in the maze, Eddie’s voice shot back. “Sure thing, boss.”

The room inside was a windowless box that reeked of stale beer and desperation. A desk sat against one wall with a chair shoved underneath, and there were some boxes stacked in a corner. That was it.

The guys closed the door behind us, and I dropped to my knees like I knew my role in the ’90s porno fantasy they wanted to play out. Neither of them undid their belts. They just unzipped their pants and pulled their cocks out. I don’t think either one was wearing underwear. I took one in each of my hands and stroked them until they were hard enough to wrap my lips around. They groaned in stereo, their heads tipped back, while I let spit run down my chin just to keep things messy.

When they were both standing proud and firm, I stood up and sat on the edge of the desk, lifting my skirt until it was up around my waist. I tugged my panties to the side with a couple of fingers, and I spread my legs wide enough to make the invitation obvious. “So,” I asked, “who’s first?”

The taller one stepped forward, rolling a condom down his shaft. “I gotta be careful,” he said. “Can’t bring something home to the wife.”

He lined up and pushed in. I leaned back on my hands, thinking about how oddly considerate this guy was for someone who was cheating on his wife. I guess in LA, even fidelity had fine print.

The first guy was pretty terrible and just went through the motions. I don’t think he would have cared if I checked my phone while he got himself off. My guy just wanted to nut, and he did about three or four minutes later. He groaned into my neck and filled the condom, almost like he was bored of sex.

He pulled out, stretched the rubber off, and tossed it into a garbage pail tucked beside the desk. That’s when I noticed it wasn’t empty. Another used condom was already sitting in there.

He patted his buddy on the shoulder. “She’s all yours. I’ll get back to the door.”

And just like that, I was handed off.

The second guy didn’t even bother with a condom. He shoved his pants down, stepped between my knees, and slid right in. Right away, I could tell he wasn’t like the first guy. The first one just wanted to get off, but this one was different. He wanted to fuck. A slow grind at first, gradually hitting harder, making me clutch at the edge of the desk.

“Pull your shirt up,” he said, practically drooling as he stared me in the eyes. “I wanna see your titties jiggle when I fuck you.”

I yanked my shirt up and let the girls bounce free. “They teach you that line in charm school?”

That got me a laugh, but it didn’t slow him down. He picked up the pace and hammered into me until my head kept tapping the wall behind me like a metronome.

“Let’s try something different, before I get a concussion.”

He pulled out, and I slid off the desk and turned my back to him, bending over the desk. I pulled my skirt up over my ass before placing my hands against the wall to brace myself. “Have at it, big guy.” He wasn't big. I was flattering him.

He lined up and shoved it back in, this time from behind, with his hands holding my hips like handlebars.

He pounded me for a couple of minutes. There was no small talk now, just the sound of his thighs slapping against my ass and the occasional grunts and moans that either one of us let out. Next thing I knew, he jerked himself free of my pussy and shot a hot mess all over my back.

I stayed for a minute, bent over the desk, catching my breath, thinking Midnight Strut better be fucking worth it.

The doorman set the lanyard on the desk next to me, rewarding me for a job well done. “Enjoy your night,” he said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Every time someone said that, I ended up with a stranger’s dick in me. I couldn’t tell if it was some in-joke with the staff, or something management insisted they say, hoping it would make their dive of a club seem more classy.

I had to figure out what to do with the cum on my back. I couldn’t walk into the club dripping like a Pollock painting, but my options were pretty limited.

I eyed the boxes in the corner and spotted one that had MERCH Sharpied on it. I ripped it open, pulled out a crisp black tee with the club’s logo splashed across the front, and turned that $80 shirt into a cum rag. I told you.

For half a second, I thought about folding it up and stuffing it back in the box. But even I have limits. So I tossed it in the trash with the condoms instead. I almost wish I’d taken a picture. Two used condoms in a trash can with a cum-stained shirt. On Sunset Strip, that counts as installation art.

I took a second to straighten my skirt, tug my shirt back down, and make myself look halfway human again. Then I dug into my bag, flipped open a little mirror, and checked the damage. My hair was still decent enough, but the makeup needed some help. A little touch around the eyes, some lipstick and I was back in business.

With the backstage pass now dangling from my neck, I stepped out into the hall like I ruled the place. “Thank you, gentlemen,” I said, pointing at the lanyard. They gave me the kind of looks you could only ever get from two guys who just fucked you and never wanted to see you again, but would definitely jerk off thinking about it, then swung the doors and let me through.

The club hit me all at once. The thundering sound of the band, the strobing lights, the bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the air full of sweat and perfume. The opening band was just hammering out their last song. It was familiar enough to the people up front to sing along to the chorus, but not well enough known to prevent them from going silent during the verses.

The crowd was wild, and you could feel it. There was a sense that something bigger was about to happen. The buzz and electricity in the room weren’t coming from the lights and the amps. It was from the anticipation. Midnight Strut would be taking the stage soon, and everyone knew they were in for something special.

I almost went straight to the floor and pushed myself to the front, but it’s a good thing I decided to grab a drink first. I elbowed my way to the bar. The bartender pointed at my pass and shouted across to me. “Over there,” he said, pointing toward a roped-off corner in the shadows. “Drinks are free for guests of the club.” Apparently, getting passed around by staff had its perks.

“Thanks,” I said, flashing him a smile before making my way through the crowd.

The private area was a little quieter, less dense, with more room to move without brushing up against five different people with each step. The music still thudded through the walls, but people could at least talk without yelling at each other. And that’s where I saw Marcy. The girlfriend who’d promised me a ticket. She spotted me at the same time, and we both pointed at each other’s lanyards like busted kids caught in the act.

“You little slut,” I said, smiling into my drink.

“Me? What about you?”

“So my ticket? The guy?” I asked.

“All bullshit,” she admitted with a shrug. “I never even had the tickets. I knew I wanted a backstage pass and what I’d have to do to get one. I didn’t think you’d be game.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

That’s when it dawned on me. The used condom in the guest room’s trash can before I got there. Mystery solved. Marcy paved the way for me.

She slid over and clinked her glass against mine, bonding by admitting to each other that we were both sluts, as if we didn’t already know.

We leaned against a railing together, sipping free booze and soaking it all in. When the lights went dim, that was our cue. The band was about to go on, so we stepped out into the main room, standing side-stage thanks to our backstage passes.

Midnight Strut were everything I’d hoped for and more. They weren’t just playing songs. They were detonating them. Each chord from Markie Vandal’s guitar felt like it was cracking the walls. Every lyric sung by Lexx Chrome got shouted back by the crowd like they knew them better than he did. And the rhythm section of Johnny Starr on bass and Spike Thunders on drums kept it all from falling apart, like their sole purpose was to contain the chaos. The world didn’t know them yet, but they played like it already belonged to them.

All I could think was This is it. This is history. Ten years from now, people would lie and say they were here. But me? I’d know. I was actually here, watching it happen in real time, standing 20 feet from the band.

For a while, everything melted away. The ticket booth, the guest room, the insane crowd. All of it. It was just me and Marcy, with the sound of a band too good for a club this small.

Their blistering set started to wrap up after forty minutes. Lexx stepped to the mic, covered in sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest, and shouted, “Thank you, LA. You’ve been great. I hope you think we were too. This is our last song. Sing it if you know it.”

The first few notes hit, and the room exploded. Bodies pressed tighter and fists shot in the air. Every voice in the club tried to scream louder than the speakers. It was absolute pandemonium.

Marcy glanced at me with her eyes wide, and I already knew what she was thinking.

“This is our chance,” she mouthed. I nodded my head in agreement.

Everyone, the crowd, bartenders, and most importantly, even the security, were locked on the band. Nobody saw us slip behind the stage while the room watched itself burn.

We moved quickly, cutting through a side hall, and in seconds we were standing in front of the band’s dressing room. I put my hand on the handle, praying it wasn’t locked. Marcy’s face lit up when it opened, and we snuck inside.

The club was a rat’s nest, but at least the headliners got a decent room. For starters, it was clean. That was a first. Up until this point, every floor I’d seen was concrete, but the dressing room had hardwood covered in throw rugs. They had couches and chairs, along with tables of food, and ice buckets full of beer spread throughout. Far from luxury, but it was the best the club had to offer.

“Now what?” Marcy asked. I could see the feral look in her eyes.

“They’ll be here any minute,” I said. “Let’s let them find us how we want them to see us.”

Then I leaned in and kissed her. She brought her hands up to my face and kissed me back. A few seconds later, we were fumbling at each other’s clothes, pulling them off piece by piece as we made our way to a black leather couch.

When I lay into it, the couch was cold against my skin, but I barely noticed. My legs were spread wide, with one foot on the floor and the other flung over the back of the couch. Marcy’s head moved between my thighs, and her tongue began to work me like she had something to prove.

“I owe you this for the lie,” she said with her lips kissing the inside of my thigh.

She wasn’t wrong. She never had any intention of getting tickets for us, and was willing to hang me out to dry, leaving me to miss one of the most incredible performances I’d ever seen. Still, if a lie ever deserved payback, this was the kind of apology I could live with.

My head tipped back and my eyes closed. Every nerve wound tighter. I was just about there, ready to cum, when the door slammed open.

Lexx and Markie burst in like a storm, sweat still dripping, adrenaline pouring off them in waves. They were high-fiving and shouting over each other, glowing with post-set invincibility.

“We did it! We fucking did it!”

“Next stop is the motherfucking big time!”

That’s when they saw us.

Markie didn’t even pause. His eyes went straight to Marcy’s naked ass, and grinned. “Dibs on the brunette.”

He was already unzipping his pants as he crossed the room. By the time he reached the couch, his cock wasn’t only out, it was hard, and he slid into her from behind before he even saw her face, which was still buried between my legs. Her moan vibrated against me, and I felt it deep in my stomach.

“Fucking hell,” Lexx said as he stepped forward, tugging his fly open. His cock sprang free, and he pressed it to my lips, allowing me the honor of sucking it.

Lexx was all swagger, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he fed me his cock. I opened for him, wrapping my lips around the head, swirling my tongue just to watch his face twist up. He groaned, with a fist full of my hair in one hand, the other pumping the air like he was still on stage.

Beside me, Markie was slamming into Marcy, her muffled cries buzzed through my thighs. He was taking her with a fast, rough rhythm, mimicking the way he played guitar. Every thrust pushed her mouth harder against me, until I was shuddering on the edge of an orgasm I couldn’t hold back.

When it hit, I was loud. My moan swallowed around Lexx’s cock. He laughed, pulling out just long enough to slap his shaft against my cheek. “That’s right, baby. Sing for me.”

Johnny Starr strolled in, peeling off his sweaty shirt. “What the fuck, boys? You start the afterparty without me?” He kicked his boots off, unzipped, and flopped his enormous cock into Marcy’s hand. She stroked him, staring at his giant cock, both enthralled and terrified by it, while Markie kept pounding her from behind.

Spike wasn’t far behind. He was still twirling a drumstick in his hand as he stepped into the room, and let it fall to the floor as soon as he saw the orgy that was beginning to unfold in their dressing room. He wasn’t fazed though. He pulled his jeans down and said, “Guess I’ll find my own spot” to no one in particular.

He found it between my legs. Marcy had already moved her mouth to Bass Boy’s dick. My pussy was soaked, so when Spike pushed in, it went deep without a lot of resistance.

It wasn’t just sex. It was the same kind of chaos the band showed during their show. Cocks took turns filling different holes. Someone’s fingers twisted my nipples. Marcy got double-stuffed. They were as frantic backstage as they were on stage. Lexx fucked my face, then swapped with Spike so he could slide inside me, lifting my legs high while Spike pressed into my mouth. Marcy was bent over the couch, riding Johnny while Markie held her hair and licked her neck.

Our positions changed so fast I lost track. One minute I was getting fucked, next I was going down on Marcy. A set of hands would find my tits, then something would be in my ass. It all blurred. At some point, Spike drummed a beat on my thigh while I was riding Johnny’s big dick, and I have a vague memory of Markie trying to use a wristband as a cock ring. Marcy said something about getting pounded like a dog in heat, and Lexx wrote it down like it might be a song idea. I’m sure we broke at least one couch and the floor got sticky with spilled booze... and other fluids. It felt just like their set, all noise and sweat, which is pretty much how I like it.

I’d love to tell you the ending, but somewhere between a bottle of Jack and a line or two of… something, let’s just say there’s a hole in my memory. I can say this. That orgy was as great as their set was, even though the details are a little hazy. I’m pretty sure another girl showed up at some point, maybe a bartender or something. The liquor kept pouring, and little bags of pills and powders lined a table. It was the stuff of legends.

What I know for sure is that when the night finally burned out, I could barely walk and went hunting for another shirt to ruin. That’s the last one, promise.

By the time I finally left, the sun was coming up, and the city looked the same as it always did. My world changed, but LA didn’t get the message. My legs were jello, my hair smelled like smoke, and I’d stolen a second shirt to wear because the first one became a DNA-soaked souvenir.

People were already lining up at the café next door like it was any other Wednesday morning, and I wanted to grab someone and yell, “Do you have any idea what happened last night?” But I didn’t. I just got in my car, sat there for ten minutes trying to clear my head and find my keys. The same thought kept circling back, over and over. They’re going to be huge, and I was there when it all kicked off.

Someone will write about it one day, and whoever writes the book should start with last night. Because this was the night Midnight Strut became rockstars. You won’t read my name, but I know the full story. And I’ve still got the stained t-shirt to prove it.