Lollapallooza, a concert "event" in Waterloo, NJ. A full day of live, cutting edge, alternative bands, thousands of people in an open field, no arranged seating, just a mosh pit (for "slam-dancing", basically a release of pent up energy) up front, people laying out in the middle, portapotties lining the sides, and concession stands in back. The bands included notable like Living Color, Nine Inch Nails, Jane's Addiction, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Butthole Surfers, and Ice T (rap? he thought but it was more like heavy metal).
A friendly mosh pit, where one could lose oneself without worrying about someone trampling over you if you fell - in fact if you did, so many hands grabbed you back up that you'd fly up into the air, at least just a bit. Girls everywhere (well there were guys too). Food and beer (not for him, not his style). What more could a guy ask for? Not much. But in the end, after a spectacular day, they had to leave. They wandered the littered field, checked out the once booming speakers, the stage hands packing up so that the same thing could happen a couple days from now somewhere else.
Standing in line for the busses back to the parking lot, the 21 year old guy stood patiently. What a pain, he thought, looking at his buddies around him. They'd been standing there for about an hour, but their "what happened to me" stories slowed down after about half that time. Now they were just exhausted fans, waiting to get back to their cars, knowing that a 3 hour drive up north awaited them. Finally the decrepit school bus fleet trundled down the dirt road, looping around in front of the tired but cheering fans. They swarmed each bus, oblivious to the fact the busses were still moving. Sunburned, warm, and satiated from the full day of music, sun, and just the overall experience, the masses crowded each other. All sounds were muted as the exposure to blaring music all day had deadened everyone's hearing. Combined with the darkness only partially penetrated by the lot lights, the world took a surreal feel to it.
He noticed one girl, a little taller than her friends, all of them about his age. She stood about 5'3", had shoulder length highlighted brown hair, pulled into a ponytail for now, a white t-shirt and a white or beige pair of shorts. Her arms bore the signs of a little too much sun, redness glowing under a tan surface. A few strands of hair lay over her flushed cheeks, and her eyes, bright and eager even after a full day of activity, betrayed her enthusiasm for life.
Never, he thought, would someone like that be approachable. She looked definitely attractive in a real way (not like a plastic model), not really showing off her body. Still, he could tell she was attractive underneath; all the curves were right, the shapes all there. Her slim hips and fit shoulders showed a concern for her own body. Her shorts bore the marks of the mosh pit, little smudges of dirt here and there - he liked that, a girl that could have fun with the rest of them. In fact, many of the girls here seemed full of life, of enthusiasm, the kind of girl he'd want to date. He looked back at her and he could sense and almost feel her butt moving beneath the thin fabric.
His friends nudged him over and he lost sight of her, but then, suddenly, miraculously, she appeared in front of him. At this point, the wave of busses had gone (accompanied by a groan and cry from the crowd), but with a taste of possibility, everyone seemed a little more hyped up. There was animated chatter, re-visits to some of the more interesting happenings during the day, and talk of the traffic from the lot and on the highways. A two hour traffic delay proceeded them to the location; it could hardly be better leaving it.
His mind, though, was not on the traffic, his unglamorous but trusty and individualized car waiting in the lot, or his friends' rowdiness next to him. It was on the girl in front of him. More specifically, her sun-soaked, female scent; her shoulders moving under the shirt; her neck, smooth and inviting, her ponytail sitting tidy just behind it; her tanned arms. There would be more, but he was too close to look down discreetly. The closeness was not unusual in the packed, somewhat moving crowd. He found himself occasionally bumping her, her hips, her butt. At the first touch, he literally sprung away, afraid of provoking a piercing glare or accusing eyes. But she nonchalantly looked off to one side, completely oblivious to the touch. But her actions were a little too deliberate, a little too casual.
He realized his heart was pounding, and his flushness wasn't just from the sun anymore. He wasn't sure of what to do, what to say. Maybe he shouldn't say a thing?
He tentatively reached forward the couple inches separating his hand from her butt, and tentatively, nervously, softly touched it. He was ready for the alert, the scream. But strangely, she didn't do a thing. He moved his hand forward again. Nothing. He lingered, the backs of his fingers just barely touching her shorts. Now, he thought, he was asking for it. This wasn't a casual touch, a mosh pit thud, a crowd jostling shove; it was a soft, longing touch. And not to an elbow or a wrist, but to her beautifully curving rear end.
He couldn't even look directly at her - he looked off to one side. And out of the corner of his eye, he watched her look off in the opposite direction. And the whole time, his fingers were on her derriere. He turned his hand so it faced palm up, and slowly, gently, cupped her cheek. She kept looking with a curious fascination at the woods off to the right. He glanced around him, and everyone was still crowded together, still looking for the bus that would show up shortly. Now he was wishing it wouldn't show up for hours.
