Oh, Todd, I did miss you. We'd had our good times, and he was the youngest guy I'd ever been with, basically my age.
The girl he was with, Rochelle, was talking to someone next to her, not yet aware I was there.
Todd grinned that miles-wide smile of his, his teeth perfectly straight thanks to both of his parents being dentists of some type or other. I'd never actually met them, and I always imagined it wasn't the distance, with them being in Australia, but that Todd was ashamed of me and my less-than-sophisticated upbringing.
Todd poked me playfully on the leg and said, “Did you win a trip, too?”
“No, I'm here with this guy.” I pointed to Smith and got a funny idea. “He's my dad. Finally, after all these years, I tracked him down.” I turned to Smith, a wicked grin on my face. “Right, Daddy?”
Smith opened his mouth to disagree, but the crowd around us erupted in applause as the opening act took the stage. He gave me a look that said I was going to get a very serious spanking later for my disobedience. His stern expression made me very aroused, as did—to my surprise—sitting next to Todd.
Being so close to my former lover, smelling his familiar scent, brought memories rushing back.
I thought of the two of us at that tacky p**n o movie theater, and me giving him a furtive hand job under a tented jacket.
Then there was the night we made love in his shared dorm room, even though we knew his horny roommate was awake and watching in the candle light. I hadn't been able to get off that evening, due to nerves, but I'd climbed on first thing in the morning, desperate and wet, and he'd risen to the occasion like a champion, more than once.
Up on stage, the opening band made their entrance with a great flashing of lights and smoke. I'd never been in the front row at a concert like this, and when the lead singer made eye contact with me, I was immediately starstruck, my insides fluttery. My excitement overwhelmed me, pushing tears into my eyes, even though the song wasn't familiar, let alone huge.
As I watched them, they kept looking down at the front row, down at me.
The guys on stage were all sexy, owning the stage, and owning me with their eyes. Sitting pretty in the VIP section, I felt desirable and overdressed in the exact right way, like a spoiled rich girl. I could get used to this, too.
A pretty hand with short, purple fingernails reached across Todd and patted my leg. I took Rochelle's hand and squeezed it in greeting, and we both leaned across Todd to say hello. I couldn't hear a word she said over the band, but I didn't need to. We'd been friends, and though we'd drifted apart shortly before graduation, we knew each other's hearts and minds. Seeing her with Todd made absolute sense. I knew them both, and they were a good fit, more natural than me with Todd.
My left breast was resting against Todd's arm, yet he didn't shy away. Emboldened by the drinks I'd quaffed moments earlier, I leaned in more, curious about what he would do. He didn't react at all, not even when I rested my hands on his muscular thigh, ostensibly to talk more easily to Rochelle.
She was telling me about some job she'd started in her hometown, but I couldn't hear anything over the band.
Suddenly, I remembered something in vivid detail. The shock washed over me in waves. I didn't just send messages from other people's phones as pranks. I also used to send filthy text messages to Todd during classes, telling him about dirty things Rochelle and I were going to do to him. Rochelle had been going through an experimental phase, dating a bisexual woman, and she and I thought it was the most hilarious thing ever to joke about “tag-teaming” people.
Rochelle was a strawberry blond, but she loved my darker red hair so much, she started dying hers a similar shade. People said we could have passed for sisters, or even twins.
The details kept washing over me. I'd earned the nickname Tori the Torrid by sending messages from Rochelle's phone to her lesbian girlfriend, pretending to be Rochelle, who'd asked me to do this as a service to her sex life. I was always shooting my mouth off, telling insane tales about strap-ons and all-night sex marathons. I'd never even seen a strap-on in real life until my recent visit to the Montreal sex shop, much less considered using one, so it was all fiction. It was all just a joke.
I wasn't that adventurous, torrid girl.
Only here we all were.
I must have been making an inviting expression, because Rochelle grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me, right on the lips. I was so stunned, I didn't pull away, but let her kiss me. Her lips were cool, and her skin was smoother than any man's, smoother even than immediately post-shaving.
Todd was the one who actually pulled us apart.
His voice was loud enough to hear over the song. He chided Rochelle, “Not in front of Tori's father!”
Rochelle pulled out her cell phone and typed in a message, then held it up for me to read: Your father is Smith Wittingham? Lucky you!
I turned to my right. Smith was nodding his head, pretending to be focused on the band, but I knew he was riveted by all the drama he'd arranged for. I had a new name: Smith Shit-Disturber Wittingham.
My tension was gone, though, thanks to the kiss from Rochelle.
I started to laugh.
Thanks to the wine and the loud music, I was feeling hot and loose and out of control.
I typed out my own message on her phone: I was just joking. Smith and I are f**king. Big time. And dating, I guess. You could say it's complicated.
My head was still buzzing from her lips on my mouth, and Todd was here, touching my arm.
I'd missed both of them. I'd missed them so bad, and as we all settled back into our seats, I realized how lonely I'd been.
At least the concert was loud, and I didn't have to talk to anyone. I could feel Smith's eyes burning me, daring me to turn and give him a reaction, but I refused to look his way and give him the satisfaction.
To my left, Todd adjusted his posture, and I could see why—the man was sporting an enormous erection. By the look of it, he had little blood still flowing to his brain. That was one of the cutest things about Todd, after his Australian accent—his ability to get a full-on, raging hard-on at the merest suggestion of play.
When we were together, I'd certainly taken advantage of that, doing things like sticking my foot in his crotch when we were at a restaurant. I wondered if his current porksword was for me, or for Rochelle. Or both of us.
I uncrossed and re-crossed my legs, fanning my face with one hand. The energy in the concert hall shifted, and Smith elbowed me. I glanced up and saw the lead singer of the band was extending his hand to me, inviting me up onto the stage.
Oh, shit. I put my hand over my face and sunk down into my seat. Could the evening get any more surreal?