"Oh my my, oh hell yes, honey put on that party dress," my best friend Carrie said. She'd been quoting Tom Petty all day, and it was starting to get just the teensiest bit irritating.
We were getting ready for the concert, and she was determined to dress me "slutty" from her own personal wardrobe. Because Carrie was about two sizes smaller than me, all her stuff looked even sluttier on me than it did on her. I stepped into a little black party dress with thin spaghetti straps, lots of fringe, and a total of about two square feet of very thin material. It fit me snugly, to say the least, and the skirt rode about a mile above my knees.
"Yes!" Carrie squealed when she saw me in it. "We have a winner. But lose the bra."
The white bra did kind of look ridiculous beneath the black dress, but without it I would be almost completely exposed.
"Everybody will be looking at my chest," I said.
"Duh," Carrie replied.
So I hesitantly removed the bra. I pulled the dress straps back on and eyed myself in the mirror.
"God, I wish I had your tits," Carrie said, eyeing mine and feeling up her own. "They're gorgeous."
"You can totally see my nipples," I said. They were poking through the material of the dress like I had stuffed tic-tacs down there.
"That's kind of the point," Carrie said. "Trust me on this. Erect nipples make men your slaves. Now drop your panties."
"What?"
"I never wear underwear with that dress. It gets me so jacked up and horny that I'd fuck anything that moves. That's totally the mood we're going for," Carrie said. "Besides, men are psychic about that sort of thing. They can tell how naked you are without even looking."
So I let my panties slide down to my ankles and kicked them away. I have to admit that there was a certain thrill in knowing that if I were to sit down just the wrong way, my pussy would be on display for the world to see.
"Too bad there's no time to shave you," Carrie said. "Some guys like a little hair, though."
She turned me around so she could get a good look, eyeing me from head to toe with a critic's eye.
"What do you think?" I said.
"I'd fuck you," she answered. I'm not sure if she was being serious or not.
We were on our way to a Tom Petty concert. Carrie had won tickets by being the fifth caller to the radio station. "Front row, baby," as she said. She had invited me along for the express purpose of meeting a guy at the concert so I could get laid. I'd just broken up with my dickhead boyfriend Jerry and, though we'd had anal sex many times, my vagina was practically untouched. (Long story.) I was, technically anyway, a virgin. This was a situation which I intended to remedy. Tonight. Carrie was enthusiastic about the plan. She had never liked Jerry.
"I am so glad we're doing this," she said. "This is such the right thing to do. You won't even remember that jerk's name after tonight."
I have to say, I was getting excited. In addition to me being dressed like a high-class whore, there was the fact that Tom Petty had always turned me on. Ever since that video with all the "Alice in Wonderland" stuff. At the end of the video, when Alice's body mysteriously turns to cake and the whole band starts cutting off slices . . . ooh, that was hot. In fact, the first time I ever masturbated, I fantasized that my pussy was cake and that Tom Petty was eating it. With icing.
As if that wasn't enough, Carrie had provided what she called "additional lubrication." She had a flask full of it. I'm not sure what it was, I'm not much of a drinker, but it burned going down and seemed to stoke the fires in my nether regions. Then she pulled out a baggy of green stuff and some rolling papers.
"Let's get to the point," she said, lighting up the big spliff. "Let's roll another joint."
I'd never smoked pot before, but tonight was a night for new experiences, wasn't it? When she offered it to me, I surprised both of us by taking a hit.
So, lit up like Christmas trees, Carrie and I made our way to the concert hall. Guys were checking us out from the second we walked through the door. Carrie was dressed in a comparatively modest halter top and tight jeans. ("Tonight's your night," she'd said. "I don't want to steal your thunder.") She was even wearing underwear. Still, she got her fair share of eyeball attention.
She pointed out guys here and there, who she saw as "prospects," but I didn't see anybody who did much for me. Either they reminded me of dorks I had gone to high school with or, this being a "classic rock" concert, were old enough to be my Dad. Despite my vows to give it up for the first halfway attractive guy, I suddenly found myself having standards. This was, after all, my virginity we were talking about. So we just took our seats in the front row.
"You mean to tell me you didn't see anybody you liked?" Carrie said.
"We'll hook up with somebody after the show," I said, though I was having doubts. This suddenly didn't seem like such a hot idea after all.
Then the lights went down and everybody around us started to get excited. The Heartbreakers ripped into "American Girl," the spotlight came up, and there, not four feet away from me, was Tom Fucking Petty.
Christ, I thought. He looked good. The same age as my Dad, true, but still hot and freaky. He was wearing tight jeans and my mouth watered when I looked at his bulging crotch. That wasn't all that was watering, either. I felt moisture drip down the inside of my leg and remembered what I wasn't wearing. My pussy was sopping wet, and he'd only been on stage for a few seconds.
Then he started to sing. That voice, so sinuous and reedy. I shivered. And those lips. I remembered my cake fantasy and, despite being in the presence of literally thousands of people, I found myself wanting to slide my fingers down between my legs and give my clit a few healthy strokes which, at that point, would have been more than enough to get me off. It was driving me crazy that I couldn't. I knew then that I would either get with Tom Petty or no one.
It was a few songs into the show, "I Won't Back Down," I think, when I started to imagine that Tom Petty was checking me out. Or maybe I wasn't imagining it. Carrie, dancing beside me, screamed in my ear: "He's STARING at you!"
I looked up on stage and, swear to God, Tom Petty and I made eye contact. He actually smiled at me.
A few songs later, Carrie threw her arms around my neck. "Kiss me," she yelled over the music.
"What?"
"You really want to get his attention, make out with me for a minute," she said. "He'll flip out."
Before I could think of how to respond, Carrie kissed me full on the mouth. I'd never kissed a girl like that before, I had no idea how cool it was. She was a way better kisser than . . . shit. Carrie had been right. At that moment, I couldn't even remember my stupid ex's name. We started going at it really hot and heavy. If things don't work out with me and Tom Petty, I thought, I just might settle for Carrie. Weird.
I had this crazy desire to touch Carrie's breast, which I resisted until Carrie herself grabbed my hand and put it on her tit. Needless to say, I had never felt a girl up before, but I understood right away why guys were so crazy for breasts. It felt so soft and warm in my hand, but with this hard little nub at the center. I started playing with her breast, and Carrie leaned into me and kissed me even deeper. We must have put on a pretty good show. Tom Petty stumbled on the lyrics for "Learning to Fly."
Carrie released me and we exchanged a smile containing God knew what kind of promises.
"Maybe some other time," she screamed into my ear. "Tonight, you belong to Tom Petty."
The band finished with the song and then started in on "Last Dance With Mary Jane." My absolute, hands down, no doubt about it, favorite song of all time. And Tom Petty wouldn't take his eyes off me. I couldn't hold his gaze for very long. It was too much. I wanted him so badly. I didn't even think about the next thing I did. It just came naturally. I pulled the strap down on my dress and flashed him my right breast.
"Yours," I mouthed to Tom Petty.
"Buy me a drink, sing me a song, take me as I come because . . . uh," Tom Petty froze. He just stopped singing. I couldn't believe it. The sight of my naked breast had caused him to fuck up in front of thousands of people. It took him several beats to recover.
After the song, he went to the back of the stage and wrote something on a scrap of paper. He tossed it to me, then started blowing his harmonica for the opening lines of "You Don't Know How It Feels."
"Let me run with you tonight, I'll take you on a moonlight ride," he sang.
"Bellmore Hotel, Room 222," the note said.
"Yes," I said, nodding up at the stage.
Carrie squealed when she saw the note. "Holy shit," she said. "You're going to fuck Tom Petty."
They finished that song, then went off-stage to thunderous applause. They came back on to do "Free Fallin'" as the encore. It might have been my imagination, but I swear they rushed through it.
After the concert, we walked over to the hotel, which was only a few blocks away. I almost chickened out on the way, but Carrie provided me with verbal encouragement and a few shots of liquid courage from her flask. She walked me to the elevator, where she handed me a few condoms and gave me a kiss for good luck.
"Come with me," I begged.
