Groupie Dreams: The Allure of Backstage Passes and Hot Chicks

Virtual Papi

Benty

The heavy velvet rope was not a barrier but a promise, shimmering under the dim, backstage lights that hummed with a secret energy. His gaze found me in the hazy half-darkness, a silent acknowledgment that made my breath catch in my chest. The world beyond this curtain, with its roaring crowd, faded into a distant, meaningless echo. He stepped closer, the scent of his leather jacket and stage sweat creating an intoxicating cloud around us. A single, calloused finger gently traced the line of my jaw, a touch so feather-light it felt like a whispered secret against my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat answering the one that had just echoed through the stadium. In his eyes, I saw not the rock god, but a man savoring a moment of quiet intensity, a shared understanding that needed no words. The air grew thick with unspoken longing, a magnetic pull that drew me into his orbit. A slow, knowing smile graced his lips, meant only for me, erasing everything but the heat blooming within. In that suspended silence, I wasn't just a fan; I was the only song he wanted to hear.