Email: rachelkramerbussel at gmail.com



 

Lusty Lady

BLOG OF RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL
Watch me talk about my debut as an author, Sex & Cupcakes: A Juicy Collection of Essays, in this Q&A with my publisher Thought Catalog Books

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Lesbian French fry flirting and rock star female dominance in my two new stories

I've got stories in two hot off the press Cleis Press anthologies: "French Fried," my Parisian lesbian French fry flirtation story (Fuck Yeah French Fries indeed!!!) in Best Lesbian Romance 2012, edited by Radclyffe, and "Rock Star Rewards," about a rockstar and her groupie plaything in One Night Only: Erotic Encounters, edited by Violet Blue. Check them out!





A big excerpt (also at PGW, woo-hoo!): Rock Star Rewards
by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Anyone who tells you that fame is the biggest perk of being a rock star is lying; sure, the high of being onstage, the rush of hearing your song on the radio, the fact that I never have to commute on a subway train at eight in the morning again. There’s the fact that I can dye my naturally red hair an even more fiery shade of red/orange/badass and get applauded, not sent to HR. There’s meeting celebrities, even going to the White House once, and travel galore, and knowing that every day I get to see my art not boxed up or hanging on a wall, but alive, being hummed or sung or danced to. I love entertaining people, love being able to take my thoughts and feelings and turn them into a rock song that goes beyond words. But best of all, I love the boys who love me back.

Okay, “love” is overstating the case. I hunger for the boys who lust after me; they’re men, really, but I like to call them boys, even to their faces, and they like it too. They, my groupies, are the biggest perks of the job, by far. The kind of fan a six-foot-one Amazonian tattooed screaming redhead lead singer (of my band Fiery) gets aren’t exactly the type who’ll object to anything. I once had a boy come backstage and told him I wanted my own personal tattooer to put my name on his ass. No sooner had I said it than this sweet young thing dropped his pants! Even I don’t have an on-call tattooer, and I wouldn’t have gone through with it anyway; I just wanted to see what he would do.

We tour about ten months of the year; I’ve chosen bandmates who like the itinerant lifestyle as much as I do. Two of them, Steffy and Craig, are actually in committed relationships, while Benny is like me, the kind of guy who just goes with the flow. We’re in a city one night, maybe two, and we don’t form attachments, except to each other. We’re not lovers, though we have been known to take a tumble on the rare night when there just aren’t any groupies to our liking or we want a warm body to curl up next to far from home. Usually, though, what happens is something like what happened tonight. Our gigs usually end around midnight, and then the real show starts. Sometimes while I’m onstage, I’ll roam my eyes over the audience, try to pick out a boy who just looks like he’d be the perfect fuck. You might think that I’m not discriminating, but that’s far from true. I have standards, especially because this guy’s only gonna get one shot to perform. You don’t want someone so insecure or uncertain that he shoots too soon or can’t get it up. I want a guy who’s turned on by my power, but not so turned on that he can’t access his own, if fucking is on my agenda.

If I do spot a candidate, I’ll have our roadie, Genius (his nickname for himself, but one that, with his voluminous store of random knowledge, we’ve had to concede is pretty accurate), go pull the guy aside, give him a backstage pass. Does that sound sleazy? Well, so be it. Nobody’s complaining. I look for boys who I can toss around my hotel room, who I can pick up, throw across the bed, maybe take over my lap and spank. You work up a lot of adrenaline, not to mention aggression, when you’re onstage, and even playing the shit out of my beloved electric guitar isn’t always enough to get it all out of me. Besides, the guitar won’t fuck me back. These boys will.

Sometimes I think I should’ve been born a guy; I’m told I talk like one, cuss like one, and even fuck like one, but I don’t wish I were a guy. I like being a loudmouthed, smartass wild girl. I like being unpredictable, and I love having a new specimen of manhood to play with every night.

There is a magic to getting to start over, to have a human body at your fingertips, waiting to be explored. Tonight, it was Jacob. He was twenty-five, but looked a few years younger. He had black stubble set against his pale skin, and was wearing a slightly worse for wear t-shirt of ours from five years go, along with black jeans that had seen better days, and black and silver sneakers. I cared more about the look on his face than the look of his clothes, and what I saw when Jacob stood before me was pure adoration, like he was ready to worship me in every way. He already was, in a sense, as I flung myself all over the stage, flitting my eyes back to him on occasion. He clearly hadn’t brought a girl to the show, and his eyes seemed to bore into me.

If I were looking for a soul mate, I, like other women, might have a whole checklist of things I wanted to know: job, pedigree, hobbies. But since all I wanted was some fun for the one night I was in town, a way to let off steam, to keep on seeing that worshipful face after I’d gotten off the stage, I didn’t care about all that. What I cared about was how looking at Jacob made me feel: sexy, hot, invincible. During sex, I like to feel the way I do onstage, like the ruler of my own mini-universe. When I winked at Jacob, I saw the small gesture make its way through him; he knew what it meant, he knew what I wanted. After so long in this business, I can spot my special submissives easily.

There was no band t-shirt that said, “I want to be ordered around and made to lick a powerful woman’s pussy.” There was no hairstyle that could convey, “My dick gets hard when a hot woman growls at me.” It wasn’t a fashion statement, for me or for them, but somehow, we found each other. Powered by the adrenaline rush of knowing I’d have a boy to test out the new red suede flogger I’d picked up at a sex shop that afternoon, I blazed my way through the set list and even added two songs to the encore.

“Hot damn!” Genius greeted us as we left the stage. “Someone’s got a fan.” He was onto me; he was always onto me, and not just because I’d pointed out Jacob earlier. Genius could spot these guys a mile away, too, and sometimes I was kind enough to let him play with the ones I didn’t want, if they swung that way. He knew, though, that my music was powered by sexual desire, and that I was hungry to continue that flow of energy.

“Should I go get him for you?” The others just looked at us and rolled their eyes. They didn’t quite share our groupie-spotting vision.

“Nah, make him wait a little while. Give him these to play with,” I said, reaching under my short skirt to take off my sweaty

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