Misc. Erotica Rockstar Harem

The first time I heard Dillon’s music, it changed everything. I was wandering through the halls of our church an hour after service. My mind wandering just as my feet were, fantasizing of a better life as I often did, and avoiding the stares and glares of the Sunday School mothers.

I had twenty minutes to kill, as my daughter, Heather, finished up teaching the class. She’d taught it since she was a teen, showing a remarkable ability to understand and distill the information to kids. She was studying marketing in school, but I always thought she would be a great teacher.

The church was a large complex, and the most prominent building in town several times over. The large chapel hid a network of tunnels, corridors, and dark rooms beneath and behind. During the week, these halls were bustling with people as they took classes or played in sports leagues held here.

My wandering feet took me to the Music Room as they often do. Music has been a part of my soul, my whole life. Ever since I was a little girl and heard my first record, I’ve been spellbound by sound. Growing up in the ’70s, there was an endless supply of new and old music, from rock to classical, and I devoured it all. I started collecting records when I was a girl, and my collection got so large I had to hire a contractor to come and build special shelves because regular ones kept breaking.

As much as I’m obsessed with music and bands, I’ve never had much talent for it. The church guitarist taught me when I was a teenager, but my hands are too small for some chords to be any good. Others always say I’m fine, but I can hear the discordant notes and poor rhythm in my own playing, and it drives me crazy. The old adage, those who can’t do, teach, is tragically true for me.

Turning the corner to the Music Room, a soft sound reached my ears, hauntingly melodic but muffled by the closed door. I was about to turn around, not wanting to disturb their privacy when the sound fully registered. I found myself stopping, body swaying as I walked forward slowly.

It was almost like the pied piper drawing me in, I could no more stop my feet from walking towards that sublime sound, as I could stop my heart from beating. They were simple guitar chords with a deep vibrato voice woven throughout. No words were sung, the voice was played like an instrument, in perfect accompaniment to the guitar, which was plucked and strummed with such skill I felt a wave of jealousy as I reached for the door handle.

The jealousy disappeared like water evaporating before the life-giving sun as the man played on. That it was a man, there could be no question, for just the sound of his voice was doing things to my body that hadn’t happened in over a decade.

Turning the nob, I pulled open the door to the Music Room, feeling like I was trespassing and interrupting, but unable to stop myself. The door handle’s click alerted the player, and as I peeked in, he quit playing with a twang of guitar chords and looked up at me.

A young man sat in one of the small plastic chairs with one of the old, beaten up practice guitars. It was hard to tell his exact age under the grime and unwashed clothes, but from what my daughter had said, he was nineteen years old.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said with a smile. If I had hoped to reassure him, it had the opposite effect.

Before I could say another word, the boy leaped to his feet, leaving the guitar and ran for the propped open back door.

“Wait!” I called, as he took off out the door.

It felt like the light of the world ran away with him; my life suddenly dull once more without those heavenly notes. When I checked out the back door, I could see no one in the large parking lot behind the church. Shutting the door, I sat down with the guitar, trying hard to remember the song he’d been humming or singing. Only small snatches came back to me, and I craved more. Feeling out of sorts, I put the guitar away and went back up to get Heather and head home.

I was distracted the whole time, unable to get the incident in the Music Room out of my head. Nor the poor boy who looked like he’d been living in a dumpster. He was clearly in need of help, and it would only be right to offer what I could.

“How was class?” I asked Heather.

“It was good, but the Baldwin boys kept teasing the girls nonstop,” she shook her head in annoyance, “little boys can be the worst.”

“Speaking of that,” I said, “I saw someone in the Music Room today, it was the strangest thing.”

I told her about the incident, leaving out how much it had affected me. Heather tilted her head, looking out the window with a frown, thinking.

“That sounds like Dillon,” she said, “they used to call him ‘pig pen’ cause he always smelled and was covered in dirt.”

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“Yea,” she said with a nod, “but that was when we were young. I haven’t thought about him in years. I don’t know him well. He’s was a freshman when I was a senior, and he was always quiet.”

“I’d like to speak with his mom,” I said, coming to a decision, “he has a real talent for the guitar.”

“He doesn’t have a mom,” Heather said, “she passed when he was a kid. His dad is a long-haul truck driver or something.”

“That’s so sad,” I said, pulling into our driveway and shutting off the car, reaching out, I grabbed my daughters’ hand before she could get out, causing her to look at me in annoyance. “He needs my help.”

“Why do you care?” She asked.

The snotty tone in her voice made me incandescent with anger, and she saw it, immediately flinching back.

“You might not have grown up rich, but we’ve always had food in the fridge, power for heat, and hot running water,” Heather blushed and nodded, “What we have in plenty, we should offer to those who are in need. And that young man is in need.”

“I can probably find out his address or number if you really want it.”

“Thank you,” I said, mollified slightly and stepping out of the car and into the garage with her.

“Jesus, Mom,” Heather said with a sly smile before she slipped inside, “It’s almost like you have a crush on him.”

“Quiet you,” I said with a frown.

Inside, I shied away from the thought, occupying myself instead with household chores. Putting on my favorite Poison album, I dug out the cleaning supplies and got a few rags and started cleaning the house. I was in the middle of organizing the pantry when Heather found me.

“Dillon lives out on Lowe Rd,” she said, handing me a slip of paper with an address on it, “I couldn’t get his number from anyone. Can you believe this? I talked to one of my old teammates on the volleyball team, and she said he doesn’t even have a smartphone.”

“I didn’t even think that was possible in this day and age,” I said, pulling off my apron and putting away the cleaning supplies.

“I know,” Heather looked at me, curiously, “are you going over there right now?”

“No time like the present,” I said, heading back to my room to change, “Do you want to come?”

“I have to drive back to school,” she called from her room, “Tell me how it goes, though!”

I usually cooked a large Sunday meal for the two of us, packing the leftovers for her to take to school. I loved our Sunday dinners together and would miss saying goodbye to her when she left, but I couldn’t get the young man and his music out of my head. The whole time I’d been cleaning, snatches of his song would worm their way into my brain no matter how loud I blasted my music.

Slipping free of my clothes, I dug through my closet, pulling out my red dress with sequins and putting it on. Standing before the mirror, I frowned at the slight softness around my middle and the sag to my breasts. The dress was low cut and shorter than most skirts, with a plunging back that was covered by only a few beaded strings of material.

I look like a trollop! I thought to myself in shock, and removing the dress I pulled on a heavy white bra, plain white shirt, and blue jeans. Stepping out of the closet, I checked myself out and nodded approvingly.

As I grabbed up my keys and purse shouting goodbye to Heather, I hopped in my car and plugged the address into my phone's GPS. Pulling out of the garage, I wondered what the hell I was doing. Butterflies were dancing in my stomach as I drove across town, and as I neared downtown, I realized why. Turning off my route, I wound through to a small pawnshop.

The man behind the counter licked his lips when I stepped in, his eyes trailing up and down my body made me feel gross, but I saw what I was after immediately. I could tell he wanted to barter with me and keep me around for a while to flirt, but I had no desire to talk to the burly bearded man a moment longer than I had to.

“If you need lessons or a teacher,” he said, as he trailed after me to the door, “I know how to play. Was in a band as a kid. We would have made it too, but you know how those record execs are.”

“Yea,” I said, trying to hurry out with my bulky package, “I think I’m ok. It’s not for me.”

“You’re daughter?” He asked with a hopeful smile, and I wanted to spit on his disgusting face, but instead, I just frowned until his smile melted, and he wilted, slinking away to the back of his shop.​