True Sex Stories: Spooning

A night out at a concert leads to some hot and heavy public displays of affection.

Dan's last text gave me the address of the sushi spot where we'd meet before the show. "And, please don't change your outfit," he wrote.

I had, of course, been planning to change, but I wasn't surprised at the request. With my standard dark jeans I was wearing his favorite sweater, a dark brown cashmere number with a very wide, deep v-neck-the one he calls my "please-fuck-me sweater." I wear it a lot. It's my favorite, too.

So I left the sweater on, swapped my boots for a high-heeled pair, and took the train to the city, reading a dull book on the psychology of arousal to pass the time.

Before the opening act had finished tuning up, after sake and sushi and a hurried walk to Radio City, psychology had fallen by the wayside, leaving in its place an arousal that was anything but dull. I was pressed up against the half-wall at the back of the concert hall; Dan's arms were around me, his body crushed close into mine. As we kissed, our necks bent to fit our mouths more tightly together, I caught glimpses of the crowd sliding past us, of other couples skirting the dark walls.

Our seats, when we found them, were too far to the right of the stage to see anything much. Which was just as well, because the first band played the kind of music you don't need to watch. I put my head on Dan's shoulder and my hand on his thigh as we let the heady sounds wash across us.

"Are you asleep?" He whispered. I shook my head. No, I was just content to lose myself there, with him, for a few minutes.

When Spoon took the stage we'd already rallied. Now, fortified with beer and the energy of the crowd, we rose to our feet to move to the first song. We swayed close to each other, touching hips, and hands, reaching and bending for hungry kisses. By the third song Dan's arm around my shoulder had dipped to my breast, caressing it through the soft wool, surprising me by tweaking it hard. And again.

By the time the room roared into action with Don't Make Me a Target I was trailing my fingers over his hard cock and squeezing my thighs together to the fantasy of fucking in the men's room lounge, where Dan's his head could knock against the Stuart Davis mural as I rode his lap. My body was tingling in time to the drums.

"I think he likes us," Dan breathed into my ear during Waiting to Know You, jerking his head backwards at the solo listener in the row behind us. I smiled and sucked my stomach in, to give his hand room to sneak down the front of my tight jeans. I knew he'd feel how wet and hot I was; I closed my eye as his fingers slipped and dipped; I tried not to groan out loud.

If the music hadn't been so good, or if we'd been in the back row, I might have come right then. But it's hard to chase an orgasm when a song like Cherry Bomb comes on, and fluorescent swizzle sticks are flying through the air above the ecstatic, pulsing crowd. So, instead, we danced and kissed and rubbed and generally made a spectacle of ourselves through the rest of the show.

Well, in truth, we left halfway through the encore. But for us, the show was just getting started.

Republished with permission from Really and Truly. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact Lux Alptraum. Photo by Merlin Bronques.