Another city, another sold out concert.
The excitement and energy in the air before every big venue is always palpable but I’m used to it. I have long perfected the art of blocking out the machinations of the arena staff, stage panel crew, sound checks that don’t require my presence and the venue managers team running up and down the hallways behind my dressing room door.
Look, I adore sharing myself and music with my loyal fans and would do almost anything to make them happy. I mean, I agreed to this ridiculously grueling tour because of some social media campaign a fan started and that my manager thought I should follow through on. I didn’t feel like touring so soon again but I did it for them. If that’s not love for my fans, I don’t know what is.
But I won’t fool you. Though I love touring, I’m slowly starting to hate it. And these days, all I keep thinking about is when this tour is over and I can slow the pace down.
I’m just so tired.
Not only am I physically exhausted but I truly need a mental break from the damn promotional events, the groupies, having the paparazzi all up in my shit and escorting my girlfriend Chelsea to her press junkets on the rare days that I’m back in New York between concerts.
From a distance, I can hear the band practicing one of the new song arrangements suggested by Bobby, my manager. He thinks that we should spice up some of the slower tunes with a fresher beat and though I reluctantly agreed to it, I hate the changes.
When I write songs, they capture what I am feeling in the moment and believe me when I say that I’ve never written anything with a reggaeton or techno-style beat in mind. I have nothing against those trendy tunes on the radio these days but dropping a beat to some of my slow love songs just to satisfy a younger demographic?
Fuck no. I mean, the new arrangements aren’t total shit but they just aren’t…me. My diehard fans won’t mind but like me, I know they will always prefer the tried and true originals.
I squeeze my eyes shut as Diana, also known as Dirty Diana or DD for short, applies foundation to my face.
Who gave her that stupid nickname? I hope that it wasn’t me in my younger shit-stupid days.
Out of respect and unlike some of the others from the crew that actually called her DD, I always call her by her real name. Diana stopped reacting to the nickname years ago but I’m sure that it was a bitter pill to swallow. It’s only on days like today when she is on her flirt with me that I call her DD in my head. For the past hour, she has been applying the industrial strength concert ready make-up on my face to withstand the hot arena lights and all the sweating I will do.
I hate sitting still for so long. It’s the worst kind of slow torture when I’m pumped up and raring to get onstage to bathe in the screams, the bright lights, the band and the fans giving me all of their energy.
I’m tired of this life but yet it gives me life. It’s a fucking contradiction that I juggle with every day.
But yeah, this rockstar lifestyle is starting to lose its’ glow.
One too many cities with virtually no rest in between, the exhaustion is creeping up on me and killing my creative juices. When I’m on the road like this, I have no time to write new music and that’s what I live for. My first true love is song writing. Sharing and performing my songs somehow ended up being a natural by-product of it all. I haven’t really sat at a piano or picked up my guitar to just jam for the fun of it in at least four months and I’m itching to get back in that groove.
“Niko, stop frowning! You’re messing up my beautiful canvas.” Diana scolds. She has clearly been in flirt mode with me over the past few cities. The last thing I want is to cheat with her or any other woman now that I’ve made up my mind to make things work with Chelsea. “What are you thinking about that’s making you tense up like that?”
I realize that I’m frowning enough to interrupt her work on me so I open my eyes and try my best to relax my face. She’s smiling down at me with a foundation brush angled near my cheek.
“Sorry.” I return her smile. “Nothing really. Just thinking about…stuff.”
Since rejoining the tour, Diana has been sporting super straight black extensions, reminiscent of Cher in her younger days and a deep fake-a-bake tan. When I first saw her, I didn’t even recognize her. I’m not sure what “look” DD is going for these days but I do know that I prefer the original Diana with the fair-skin and red hair. I can’t understand why she just doesn’t want to look like herself but to each his or her own. Women are just too complicated to figure out and I stopped trying years ago.
Rumor has it that she is still reeling from a bad break-up, that she is reinventing herself and that she’s on the prowl for a rebound. I don’t know about all the other shit but from her overt sexy come-ons to me, I know that she definitely has me on the brain.
Each and every time Diana works on me, I wonder how many hours it takes her to put herself together – the make-up, sexy outfits, killer heels, and nails long enough to take someone’s eye out. I have never seen her makeup-less (or less than “fleek” in her words), even when we were sexing each other every chance we got during last year’s European tour.
“Well, you must be thinking about something because you are totally, totally tense.”
Diana shoves the brush into her make-up artist belt, swivels the chair around and proceeds to sweep her palms lightly across my shoulder blades before massaging them hard and deep. I won’t fool you, the kneading of her strong hands feels amazing and immediately melts my tenseness away. I close my eyes, drop my head forward and groan loudly. I try my best to ignore the fact that she is purposely pressing her tits into my back.
Fuck, her hands are like magic. Then again, DD has always had skilled hands.
When her hands slide from my shoulders down to my chest to caress my pecs, she startles me with her hot breath against my ear.
“Hmm, I know of a much better way to relax you before this show…”
Diana swivels the makeup chair back around and before I know it, Diana forces my legs open and is on her knees between my thighs. Her seductive stare from under her false eyelashes tells me what she has in mind as both of her hands trail their way to my zipper.
DD is definitely on a mission and is coming for me…hard.
© Copyright 2019 Marquessa Matthews. All Rights Reserved
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