tagExhibitionist & VoyeurShe's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 06

She's Gonna Be A Star Ch. 06

byflinchny010©

(Emphasized words are in /slashes/.)

* * * * *

Club Trash: Emergency conference

Ali had a gig at Club Trash. It was exclusive, highly lucrative -- $2000 for the band, and that was their "unproven first-timer" rate.

While the band unloaded the van, I took Ali by the hand and dragged her through the backstage area doing my manager stuff. I had to find our dressing room, where we could stow our gear before going onstage, locate who was going to pay us.

Ali was along because I'd found that things went smoother with security staff and organizers if Ali was there to smile and preen. I could get through crowds more quickly if I was pushing her ahead of me -- men made way for her, and if they didn't, they quickly forgave her for mashing up against them. Her band didn't mind when she didn't help -- she was the lead, after all, and she always screwed things up, and she didn't have any of her own equipment besides.

The back of the club was full of serious-looking counter-culture types, all of them moving quickly. The manager was a youngish guy with a pierced lip and a goatee. He was wearing a black t-shirt, and had all sorts of leather bracelets on. Though he looked young, I knew he was no pushover.

As soon as he saw us, he called, "Your gig is cancelled."

"Shit!" cried Ali.

"It's not cancelled," I said to her quickly. "Tell me, fast: How much is this worth to you? What will you do to keep the gig?"

She looked down at herself, and then up to me. Her eyes were on mine -- they were soft, and apologetic, as in, "I'm sorry I have to say this, Tyler." She said, softly, "Anything."

I started guiding her closer to the manager. "Anything, as in you'll take a paycut? Or anything, as in you'll suck off a bouncer?"

"Anything and everything," she said. "I still love you. But I really want this gig. It's all we've talked about..."

She broke off as we came up to the manager. She stared at him in fright, and sort of sank back against me for support.

"Why is the gig cancelled?" I asked him, "And what can we do to fix that?"

"Fix it? I just fixed it. We can't use you. Get out of here."

I shook my head. "You already have a band cancellation. I saw it on the blackboard -- Bush-League has a line through it. You have a hole in your line-up, and an existing arrangement with Ali Katz. I'm cool with you cancelling, but you owe us a chance to make it work."

He wasn't watching me, but he was listening, I could tell. He was a busy man, I would've understood if he simply turned away without answering. But Ali had him locked in. He only had eyes for Ali, his gaze traveling up and down the distressed neglige she was wearing as a stage outfit. With her punked up hair, choker, dark lipstick, and heavy eyeshadow, she looked like an undead bride.

I grabbed her shoulder, doing it messily and dislodging a strap. I shook her amiably, squeezing her shoulder. His eyes drifted down to her decolletage, and the inviting curves of chest under the loose lace. I felt like a pimp.

I said, "Ali's been looking forward to this all week. You're not going to break her heart."

He shrugged, finally peeling his eyes off her. "Look, no one's saying this chick doesn't have tits and ass. But my crowd out there is expecting debauchery on stage, man. Bush-League cancelled because their strippers got too drunk to dance. See what I'm saying? It's not about the music. People wanna get insane, dude, they're looking at the stage and wanna see fuck-ass insane shit. I caught Ali's act at a bar this week. Her angsty folksy shit won't fly with the crowd tonight. Her thing is too soft."

"I'll tell the band to ramp it up," I said. "Everything we have can go up-tempo, get loud and wild."

"Even if I believed that, she's not about the sex."

I shook my head, honestly shocked. "She's /all/ about the sex. You saw her perform at a bar, right? Not at a club? Well, dude, they got rules at bars. She's not going to cut loose at a bar. Frankly, you don't know what she can do."

He seemed to waver. He looked at her again. Ali had a downcast expression, her face down and her eyes on his, awaiting judgement. His eyes traveled down her torso, and she obligingly uncrossed her arms, to give him an unimpeded view.

Then he hardened. "No, dude. I like you guys, I'll have you back. But you're not performing tonight."

I let go of Ali and grabbed his arm, walking him away from her.

He spoke before I could. "She's not into it. What's your name? Tyler? She's not into it, Tyler. Any performer would be raising hell right now. But look at her. She's a mental five-year-old. I'm not going to get the magic I need from her tonight."

We looked at her. She stood, alone and separated, hands at her side, plucking at her skirt. Her strap was still down. As the backstage crew passed her, all big and imposing with their leather and weird make-up, they stared at her chest, her coltishly crossing-uncrossing legs. She seemed to be sunken into herself. Alone, she wouldn't have lasted five minutes in there before someone convinced her into a back room.

I could see the manager had a point. But I didn't have to admit that to /him/. I shook my head confidently. "That's what she's about. That's her whole thing. She's a giver. She isn't me-me-me. She goes onstage, finds the level with the audience, and gives them what they want. I /know/ she can do this. Don't worry about her."

He shrugged. "/You/ know she can do it. But my career is built off what /I/ know. What's my insurance against putting up a wall-flower like that? Nice tits, nice legs. Good voice, I have to admit. But music doesn't matter. She has to want it."

"She wants it," I said. My pulse was pounding -- was I really going to say what I was going to say? "Tell you what. If she screws up on stage -- and she won't -- she'll make it up to you. She wants it that bad. She'll dance on the bar naked. She'll serve shots off her chest. If she had money, she'd pay you, but she doesn't. What else can a hot girl do? She'll suck you off."

I had become a pimp. I didn't like that. But he took it in stride -- maybe this sort of thing wasn't so uncommon. "Not me," he said, "I have a girlfriend. But she can do that bar stuff you said. And the shots."

He shook his head. But I sensed that we had him.

I gestured Ali over, and she walked up meekly to stand next to me.

The manager turned to her. "We're putting you on right now." Before she could smile or say anything, he grabbed her neglige, clenching the fabric between her breasts. Pulling her close, he said, "You fuck up out there, and you're going to pay. You're going to work my club naked for the rest of the night. You got that? Dumb-ass drunken New Jersey boys are going to be grabbing your snatch for the next eight hours. If you fuck up. Do you understand the terms of this agreement?"

"Fine by me," she said. I marveled at how even her voice was. The manager seemed quite unhinged and dangerous. "But I won't fuck up."

She held his eyes until he let go of her top. She was half uncovered, but she didn't move. Finally he nodded and turned away, screaming at his staff about the change in line-up.

"I'm gonna fuck it up," she said to me. I started leading her back to the band.

"You'll do fine," I said. I didn't actually believe that myself. I'd been so intent on saving the gig, I hadn't thought about being able to deliver. "Still, if you mess up, I'll have fun watching you pay the price."

"Running around naked. You're a pervert. I'm so afraid. He was so mean to me."

"Welcome to the music biz," I said. "His ass is on the line. He didn't have to take this risk, he could've bounced us. So he puts your ass on the line."

I gathered the band around us. They sensed something was wrong from Ali's distraught frown.

"Gentlemen, we're going on first. But there are other changes..." I trailed off. I had too many changes to tell them. They'd never remember it all. I had the chilling fear that we would tank the gig.

"What changes?" asked Raff.

We were all in a circular huddle... a new tradition I'd instituted. Everybody but everybody was staring down Ali's front. She still hadn't replaced her strap, and the other had slid down to match it. Her top was staying up by sheer static cling.

"They don't want a folksy set. They want it dirtier, more distorted, heavy bass, heavy guitar. We're doing all the same songs. Just speed them up some. Make them more raw. Can you do that?"

"Heck yeah," said Raff. "I've been dying for some adrenalin."

I said, "Raff, you're going to do some filler solos. Nothing fancy -- just long. Watch Ali for the changes. Another change: all of you are going to have a personality tonight. I want you to stay gelled, stay centered around the girl here, but you all have to project some charisma. Take yourselves seriously. Mega seriously."

"Can do," said Andrew.

"Who has the best stomach? Andrew? Take off your shirt. No shirt for you tonight."

"You bet." He peeled it off and tossed it in his case.

"They want debauchery out there. We're going to be peddling Ali's ass every second she's on stage. They want us fucking crazy on stage? We can do it. Get yourselves pumped up. We're starting with 'Drink Sweat Juice.' The rest of the set is the same."

They looked doubtful. That song was our softest, slowest piece. "Sure it's lame. Just pump it up some. Don't worry. I have a plan."

They put their fists into the center of the huddle. "Hup!"

We broke, and they started swiftly moving their gear onto the stage. The stage was just around the corner. We could hear the music blasting off the dance floor. I guided Ali off to the side. She was shaking, she was so nervous.

I'd also never seen her look sexier.

I ran a finger over her lips. Her breath was warm and shakey. I smeared the lipstick to the side, giving it a messy blow-job look. I ran my hands over her sides, to confirm that she /was/ wearing panties. Since they were hanging bonelessly, I took her hands and put them on my waist. Then, since I couldn't help myself, I let my own hands rest on her breasts. They filled my palms, overflowed my fingers. Her nipples slowly grew hard as I squeezed them.

My petting seemed to calm her. I'd wanted to replace her anxiety with something else, anything else. We were getting stares from the back-stage staff, but who cared?

I said softly, "I'll be right in front of the stage. Look to me for hints."

She nodded wordlessly.

"We're going to change the words you say. You're going to be a fucking pagan sex goddess out there. For the next thirty minutes, you don't belong to me. You don't belong to yourself. You belong to everybody else. Do you hear me?"

She nodded again.

"Look at it this way," I said. "If you fuck up, you're going to be naked for eight hours anyway. What can you loose if you give it your all?"

"Okay," she said. Her voice cracked.

"But if you /do/ fuck up, I'm gonna call Alexi to come take pictures."

That made her smile. I leaned in and told her how to run the set. Performing is what she was /made/ for; I knew she'd remember everything I told her.

* * * * *
Ali Performs at Club Trash

I found a spot at the front of the stage as the house music dropped in volume. Raff, Andrew and Seth had their instruments and were starting the first song. They were serious-looking, intent, consummate musicians. In their zone, ignoring me. Raff had the distortion cranked on his guitar, Andrew's bass seemed to vibrate the stage.

The venue was a huge, tiered affair of massive volume, filled with fog and criss-crossing laser-lights. There had to be over a thousand people scattered through the club. I was soon pressed up against the stage by the heavy crowd on the dance floor.

They started 'Drink Sweat Juice'. Even though they'd sped the song up, it still sounded slow after the house music. The change was arresting -- like an anthem. I hadn't expected that.

Ali strode onto the stage. She was five feet off the ground, her ankles were level with the audience's eyes. We all got a good look at her clogs, and her legs. She didn't look at the audience -- she strode to the mike, opened her mouth, and blasted.

In the first place
Here's what I feel
I'm stretched like lace
Pinned like a bug, you
Tell me to kneel
So what else can I do

Mostly nonsense words, wrapped rhyme. The song was a showcase for her vocal chords. After the beat-heavy, muttered vocals of the house music, she was new and different. The audience pressed up on the stage, all eyes. The problem was that they were quiet.

The fast version of 'Drink Sweat Juice' lasted three minutes. By the end of it, Ali had made her point: she could sing. But the audience was fidgety.

"Enough of that flaky shit music, yeah?" Ali growled.

The audience hooted back at her.

"What?" She eyed the guys in the front row. "You think my dress is short enough?" She grabbed the hem and swished it back and forth.

More cheers.

"Think it should come off?" She had a wicked smile. "It's /soooo/ hot in here. Maybe I'll be cooler if I just. Take. This. Dress. Off. Will that make you like me? Fuckin' losers. Will that make me fit in? Cocksuckers."

She waved a hand, and the screaming, dripping power chords of 'Half Cooked' started.

"Let's get some juice on, huh?" she screamed. "Lets get the fuckin' show /started/!"

Mo...ther... fuck!
Built like the shit!
Ho-ho. Take it.

This was another of my masterpieces. Raff and Andrew throbbed to the beat. Ali ripped the microphone off the stand and let the stand fall behind her. Her legs were spread, the whole band was banging from the waist in synch.

The crowd was rocking right along with them. You get enough people, primed on dancing, stoked on alcohol, and a heavy beat is all they need. Ali Katz had an honest-to-gosh mosh pit in front of her.

I was screaming with laughter, shaking my head. This was a goddamned band! I knew all their secrets, all of Ali's weaknesses. I'd seen them practice. They were all half-formed, insecure personalities, but they owned that stage. Watching them, I could forget everything I knew about them, and see them as just a band.

Call me a whore!
Built like the shit!
Uh-oh. Make it!

Blam! Blam blam blam blam blam blam. Steady, thumpy wall of sound distortion. Ali was screaming like a banshee, her straps off her shoulders, tits half out of the neglige. Her legs were split, her dress forced up her legs. The bottom of her panties were in full view, and it didn't matter.

Under-booked, over-looked
But I'm half cooked
In the right place,
Shit-faced, so
I won't tell you no.

I felt a little ashamed, even. Who was I to think I could manage this group? Manage this singer? Who was I, to spend half my time getting off on Ali, putting her in horrible situations, manipulating her trust and watching her naively float through life on the wake of libido she created?

Ali was at the edge of the stage, in the forest of the crowd's extended arms, slapping hands and heads. Her legs were wrapped in hands, up to just over her knees. When she shook her head, a heavy spray of sweat flew off her, glinting in the lights. The audience themselves were drenched in sweat. It was, what, 8 minutes into a 30 minute set? The crowd was moving!

The song died, and Ali was looking down at the people below her. She had to bend to see past her breasts.

"I've never seen such a debauched crowd," she said. "You get off on insults."

I laughed out loud. I'd told her she had to be debauched -- and then told her what it meant. The audience was screaming and smiling.

"Don't worry," she sneered. "I still want you. All of you."

More cheers.

Andrew came up behind her, and wrapped a hand around her waist. He lifted her one-handed out of the hands, and she kicked her legs in the air, her ass showing. He dragged her back a few feet, she was mashed against his sweaty chest. Her breasts were distorted, where his hand had slid up her ribcage, carrying the neglige with it.

She didn't get out of his grip. Her legs were splayed in front of her, her panties uncovered up to the straps on her hips, her shoulder-straps now hooked around her elbows.

"Don't mind Andy," she said. "He wants to save me for Mister Right."

'Mister Right' started. It was, like most of her ovuere now, a song about getting treated badly by a guy, and liking it. Andrew had to let her go so he could play, and she strode back to the audience. There were guys in the front with both arms up, as if in supplication. As she passed they grabbed at her legs, her calves, the bottom hem of her dress. The line of lace at the bottom, never fully attached, now hung off one leg.

She pulled one strap up, but the other had broken in the back, and now hung down her front, pulling the cup down.

I love it when you lie
I love it when you share me
I wanna die, I want you back
On your terms, cause... you got the knack.

The song ended strong, with people going crazy.

They launched right into 'Sad Sack' and 'Lesser Sad Sack', and then a cover of Aerosmith's 'All Night Long.'

A group of guys had the fabric of Ali's neglige in their fists. Half of them were pulling, the other half were just holding on, like the other harmless audience members who reached up to touch her legs as she passed. I watched as the fabric was pulled tight over her curves, the single remaining strap cutting cruelly into her shoulder. Ali didn't seem to notice, she kept singing, grabbing hands, and urging the audience on. She finally sank to her knees in front of the guys, I suppose to save the dress, but that put more of her within reach.

From my location over to the side, Ali was covered in hands from her waist down. Her skirt was pulled forward, so her ass was uncovered. Rather than fighting with the guys causing trouble, she was singing to them, charming all but the most reckless to take it easy.

Raff and Andrew sent urgent glances my way, but I shook my head. /Don't get involved./ Ali would handle the assault on her dress, or she wouldn't -- it was a win-win situation either way.

The club manager had finally gotten a clue, and sent out a line of bouncers to front the stage. By the time the bouncers had pushed the group away from the edge, the lace border of her neglige was gone, shortening it by several inches. There was a big tear up one side, to her hip, which disclosed that the strap of her underwear was down one thigh.

"Oh, no!" Ali sneered, standing. She backed up against Raff, who put a protective arm around her, fore-arm against her chest. "Those rotten boys wanted me naked!"

The crowd screamed.

Ali glanced at me just then, like I'd told her. I'd told her to look to me for queues, if she needed it. She hadn't. I'd also told her to look to me for queues right before 'Naked In A Window'. It was the third to last song in the set.

When she glanced, I mimed taking my shirt off. I was /almost/ sure it was the right decision. My pulse was pounding in my ears. This was so over the top, it would either work or it would flop.

Her eyes widened, and I nodded.

"Those rotten boys wanted to pull off my dress!" she said. She finally turned away from me. She shook off Raff's hand. "But it doesn't matter what they want, does it?" The crowd yelled, one solid noise. "What matters is what I want."

She crossed her arms across her body and grabbed her dress. The audience was going apeshit. There was a general rush for the stage. I was pressed against the edge, and then wedged along closer to her with my feet off the floor. The bouncers formed a tight knot in front of Ali's position.

With one swift move, she pulled the dress up over her head, and tossed it to the side. Andrew picked it up and draped it over the head of his bass.

I was only ten feet away from her. She looked magnificent. Her whole body was clad in a thin sheen of sweat that glittered in the lights. The fog machines were sending cottony billows across the stage. Her panties were pulled down on one side, pulled up on the other. Her tight little twat was half-visible through the soaked cotton.

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