I was never one of THOSE kind of concertgoers.

You know the kind — dressing like whores, hoping to get backstage with the band, barely-disguised promises of sexual favors evident in their expressions and outfits.

And so, even though I'd been to see plenty of rock and roll bands live, I'd never been backstage. Never even given it more than a fleeting thought.

Until one night changed everything.

It was a crowded, sweaty club in downtown Houston. The two opening acts had been tolerated, albeit impatiently, and the headliner was minutes away from taking the stage.

I was on my own this particular night — none of my friends were available, due to class schedules, work obligations, and other various and sundry excuses. I didn't really care — I'd been to concerts by myself in the past. The only disadvantage was not having anyone to talk to during the set breaks.

Conversely, an advantage was that I could slip closer to the stage than a group of two or three people could. Being on my own, I could find the gaps that a crowd of people inevitably leave between themselves and perfect strangers. At shows like this one, which were general admission, this was a big plus.

Before the band took the stage, I found myself front and center, separated from the edge of the stage by only three rows of people. Not bad.

The headliner tonight at the Meridian was a band I'd loved for years, but somehow never had the chance to see live. I screamed until my throat was raw as they took the stage, rocking their way through a mix of their older classics and newer work. And as I watched them perform, singing along to every song, something happened that I'd never experienced at a live show before.

I started to get horny.

At first, it was merely a dull ache in my groin. Granted, it had been a while since I'd gotten laid. But as I watched the band rock on stage, getting sweatier and sweatier, I felt my arousal grow.

The guitarist's arms were coated with a sheen of sweat, and the drummer's forehead was thick with wet hair. The bassist gyrated erotically on stage, but it was the lead singer — Brett — who captured most of my attention.

As the set continued on, I found myself wondering — could I do it? Could I try and be one of the groupies who "go backstage" after the show?

I was still undecided, wavering between proper behavior (going home) and something a little more unseemly, when the band finished their set. Like all the other people in attendance, I knew there would be an encore. But the audience shifted around in the pit during the break, and I found the opportunity to get even closer to the stage. Now, I was in the second row, separated from the stage by only one person.

If things had turned out differently, I probably would have just gone home after the show.

But, fate had a different role for me to play that night. During the second song of the encore set, I was rocking out with the rest of the crowd, giving the well-accepted two-finger "rock" salute with both hands, banging my head along to the beat.

Brett leaned down to sing the chorus to the crowd, crouching just over our heads. Our eyes locked, and I felt myself stunned as Brett leaned over, inches from my face, singing just to me. An electric shock ran down my body, centered between my legs.

Then, Brett leaned over further still, bracing one hand on my shoulder, leaning way out over the crowd, fingers caressing my neck. It was only for a scant few seconds, Brett performing to and singing with the crowd, then pushing back against my shoulder and returning to an upright position on the stage.

But the electric shock that ran to my groin was even stronger this time, and that's when I knew.

I wanted to fuck Brett, the whole band, but mainly Brett, right then and there.