A bit about me and my career: I've been working this writing gig for the last twelve years, and as long as I have something to say, I'll keep doing it. Over the last few years I have become a regular contributor to Ruthie's Club, a monthly staple at Voracitybeat, and a member of the staff of a great place called Clean Sheets. This spring my business partner and I launched Masters Publishing...the jury is still out on the success of that particular venture.
I'm starting this blog in response to the release of Best American Erotica 2006. Several months ago I got the note from the extraordinary Susie Bright: "Fifteen Minutes", my story of that Unholy Trinity of sex, drugs and rock&roll, was being published in BAE '06. What a thrill that was! I have every BAE collection, from 1993 on up. It's going to be a great feeling to put the '06 volume in my bookcase, knowing I'm a part of the series I have enjoyed so much over the years.
Originally published on Ruthie's Club, "Fifteen Minutes" is the story of what really happens with those groupies who disappear into the limousines and onto the buses at the end of the show.
Here's a bit of a preview:
She was in her early twenties, John guessed. Her body looked young, but the hard living made her face look ten years older. He watched her from the sidelines, took note of her bleached blond hair, her long painted nails, her tank top that was just a little too tight and a little too short. Her jeans were cut off just below the hip. When she turned just the right way, she flashed anybody who cared to look. She wasn’t wearing any panties.
Girls like that were a dime a dozen. They were a joke in the music world, referred to as ‘gherms’, because that is what they were. They would follow the band around like a sickness that sticks to the skin. They were good for the occasional nightly release, the blowjob that left a bad taste in both their mouths. When they spread their legs it was with a practiced desperation. Anybody who fucked a groupie knew they were fucking somebody who had been indiscriminate with hundreds of guys before them. It had nothing to do with the man behind the microphone or the keyboard player’s talent or even the bus driver’s gift of getting everybody there safely. It had to do with comparisons between friends and one-upmanship.
“Is he a good lay?” one would ask.
“He is after his own pleasure,” another would snarl, as if they really cared.
Tom had asked for a blond this time. It was rare that the frontman wanted a woman after the show. He was more careful than most, usually refusing to feed the game that was played out on tour buses and backstage stairs and the occasional pricey hotel room. “A little something for me and then for the boys,” he said this time before he climbed onstage with guitar in hand.
The blond would do. Her legs were long and lean. Her tits were bouncy under the tank top, her nipples hard as rocks while she watched the band do their thing. She wasn’t jumping up and down or cheering them on. She was bopping lightly along with the music and studying the players as if they were her favorite kind of treat. She had been down the groupie road before. She would do.
Want to read the rest? Buy the book! (Is that a shameless plug or what?)
Speaking of books, my latest was released a few months ago. Sex & Guitars, set against the backdrop of Nashville's Music Row, is the story of a woman in love with a married man. Coffee Time Romance just gave Sex & Guitars a five-cup review; they called the novel "a stunning portrait of codependency and addiction....the sexual encounters were brutal and yet tender, endearing and frightenining, all of them necessary."
Venture to my website to get the latest updates on short stories, interviews, where to purchase and read my work, and all those wonderful things! Here's the link: Gwen Masters Website.
Until next time...