This story features, and is dedicated to, two of my creative muses. The wonderfully talented musician Jenny Lewis, best known for fronting Rilo Kiley, and my friend Rosanna, who knows I love her dearly. Do feel free to send me any feedback you might have.
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It's safe to say that Rosanna was excited. The butterflies in her stomach that had started when she woke up that morning had only been exacerbated by the slow progress of the day. She attended a pair of tedious politics lectures in the afternoon, though did not exactly concentrate on the Reform Act of 1832. For it was Friday, and she had tucked away in her purse a ticket to see Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins, that night at the Carling Academy. As Rosanna walked idly back to her rented flat, through the sleepy back streets of Oxford, she allowed her imagination to settle on her musical heroine.
Jenny Lewis. 5'1, and as gorgeous a pouting redhead as you'd expect from a child actress. The periodically bisexual Rosanna had been knocked out long ago by both her stunning looks, and breathtaking voice. And tonight, she'd be standing right in the front row, as close as was proper to her object of desire.
7 o'clock. Rosanna stood in front her hall mirror, and checked herself out. Tight jeans, strapless top, draped artfully round her neck, as a sop to the cool May evening. At 5'9, with raven dark hair, exotic, almost Persian features, and a swimming pool toned body, she felt more than ready for a hell of a night. Walking at a leisurely pace, she reached the venue, and with a kiss on the cheek to her butch friend working the door, she was able to skip the lengthy queue and head straight to the bar. Sipping on a Desperado, she politely applauded the two local warm up acts, then sinuously slithered to the front, as the lights dimmed and n anticipatory hush settled on the audience.
... and breathe. There she was. Beauty incarnate, Miss Jenny Lewis. Rosanna barely noticed the music as Jenny shimmied, swayed, strutted and swaggered her way about the stage, clad in a shimmering silver dress that barely reached the middle of her thigh. Rosanna found herself mentally storing one particular moment, where an enthusiastic movement from Jenny momentarily flashed a glimpse up her skirt. Just a fleeting whiff of white lace, and it was gone again. Rosanna felt a reflexive tingle between her legs.
And then, just like that, it was over. Rosanna left in a music and lust filled haze, so overcome was she by the much longed for night. Texting her friend Isabella, she found her way to The Turf Tavern, and settled down with a generously sized glass of white wine. An hour or so later, returning from a quick toilet break, which mostly involved fixing her make up, she was stopped in her tracks. Sitting less than ten yards from her in the busy, low-ceilinged pub, were a number of members of the band from earlier, and none other than Jenny Lewis herself. Tongue-tied, Rosanna forced herself to approach her idol, and made a blushing introduction. Laughing, Jenny demanded she sit with them, and poured her a drink. Ten minutes, and another half a glass of wine later, she was relaxing. Jenny was everything she imagined, sweet, funny, occasionally sardonic, and of course, devastatingly alluring. With the buzz from the wine lowering her inhibitions, Rosanna was making less and less guarded looks at her host's pale, smooth legs. She was delighted to see that Jenny had not changed since the show, but had merely thrown a light jacket on over her dress.
The evening wore on, and one by one, their companions either called it a night or moved on to a more exciting venue. Only Jenny and Rosanna remained at the table by the time the barman cheerily rang the bell for last orders. Walking outside, and more than a little tipsy, Rosanna steeled herself to say goodnight, and goodbye. It was then, something of a shock to her, when Jenny leant over to her ear by the streetlight, and huskily asked if Rosanna would like to come back to her hotel. Naturally, our protagonist consented, with some enthusiasm.
