It was the nature of the beast.  Missy knew that as a female in this industry, she’d have to work smarter, rock harder, and be tougher than all her peers, even those in the same band.  Respect wouldn’t be given to her, and it wasn’t going to be easy to earn.  She did what she had to do for the success of the band.  Even though she’d spent years in the background as the brains and bass of the band, she accepted the truth that “sex sells” and let the label tweak her image to that of a frontwoman to make her (and the band) more “marketable.”  She played into the “Queen of Sleaze” title that they’d manufactured for her and injected into online spaces.  She took her objectification with a grain of salt, knowing that at the end of the day, she was still the brains behind the band.  If she had to lean on her looks to get her talent recognized, it was a sacrifice she was willing to make for her dreams to come true.

Her sacrifice was not in vain.  Sex did indeed sell, especially when the tits were backed up by heavy riffs and brutal beats.  With proper promotion, Clit Leech’s self-titled debut shot up to the top of the rock charts, landing the coveted spot right under Dethklok’s still-reigning “Dethwater.”  A tour was in order to bank on the success of their first record.  While Missy had hoped that this meant they would headline their own show, the label had other plans.  After Crystal Mountain Records saw the potential dollar signs of putting the two biggest acts in metal on the same billing, they found themselves sharing a stage with the legendary Dethklok.

It was a lot of pressure, especially for a first tour.  Dethklok fans were a notoriously ruthless bunch.  They had been known for acts of violence and even terrorism when not pleased.  Missy was afraid her and her boys would get eaten alive, perhaps literally.  However, the music spoke for itself and it was not being on stage that ended up being the problem…  It was backstage.

Without her corpse paint and audacious, revealing wardrobe that she typically wore during public appearances, Missy was just another woman.  That night of the very first show, many of the men backstage considered her a groupie and treated her as such.  When she walked around in her street clothes, with her hair tied up and light makeup, she got catcalled, propositioned, or flat out ignored.  Security even tried to escort her out until her bandmate stepped in for her.  It was ridiculous, but she managed to keep a level head.  Between pre-show jitters and irritation, it took a few shots of vodka to calm her nerves enough to take the stage.

Playing proved to be the easy part.  The Portland crowd was lively, engaged, and most of all, welcoming.  She was amazed to see a decent amount of people in the crowd sporting her band’s merch and singing along with the raunchy lyrics to the songs that she had once thought would never see the light of day.  The roar of a crowd that size was a high she’d never experienced before, and it had her forgetting all her woes.  That forty-five-minute set felt like both an eternity and an instant, but she walked off the stage satisfied.

The tune was changed backstage, and as she walked towards the green room, dripping sweat and grinning ear to ear while people complimented her and pat her on the back, she actually felt like a star.  She was in no rush to take off her makeup, hoping to ride that high for as long as she could.  She went to pour herself another shot, this one celebratory rather than self-medicating.

As Missy went to knock back the next shot of vodka, she felt a hand collide with her leather-clad ass.  She choked on her drink, shooting some of it out of her nose as she spun around.  Pumped full of adrenaline from her set, her hand darted up, ready to bitch-slap the offender.  She froze when her eyes locked onto the man.  It wasn’t any normal jackoff behind her.  It was one of the members of Dethklok- the infamous Pickles the drummer. 

Missy’s jaw fell open.  She was a little starstruck, to be honest.  Despite being on the same tour, the other band was so high-profile and highly secured, she hadn’t yet had a chance to meet them.  She reminded herself to play it cool, wanting to maintain her image and not come across as a huge fangirl.

Pickles’s smirk disappeared when he got a look at her face and saw her hand raised, even as she lowered it.

“Oh!  Shit, sorry…  Though you were, uh…  Never mind…”  His voice trailed off, sounding almost embarrassed.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said in response, frankly still stunned.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”  He stuck his hand out.  “Pickles.”

She stared at his hand for a moment, the same hand that had her ass cheek still stinging.  She accepted it and gave it a shake.

“Missy.”

“Missy,” he repeated.  “You’re that… bassist chick.  From th’, uh… other band…”

“… Clit Leech?”

“Yeah!  Clit Leech!  How could I fuckin’ forget!”  He took a swig from his beer, then threw an arm over her shoulder.  “Dude, you guys kicked sooo much ass out there.”

“… Really?”

“Dude, yeah!  It was totally brutal!”

“Aw… Thank you.”

Her cheeks flushed bright red, from both the compliment and the proximity.  It was weird seeing one of her idols in person.  Like every other metalhead on the planet, she adored Dethklok.  Pickles was a little taller than she imagined, which had to mean the others in Dethklok were giants.  And he smelled… decent.  Sure, he reeked of liquor and weed, but there was a hint of a nice cologne too.  In terms of attractiveness, she never really paid him much attention.  She always considered Nathan Explosion the undisputed hottie.  The dreaded skullet never did him any favors in pictures, but up close like this…  Being able to look into those eyes, with the bloodshot whites of his eyes making the green pupils pop… Damn.  She was getting a little flustered.

“Y’know… Me an’ you,” he said, lowering his voice.  “We got somethin’ in common…”

“Yeah…?” she asked.  “What’s that?”

Pickles leaned in closer.  His breath was hot and boozy.  “We’re both clit leeches…  If y’ know what I mean…”  He seemingly intended this as a whisper, but was so plastered that he couldn’t keep his volume down.  Missy blushed harder and chuckled along, causing him to laugh and squeeze her.  “N’yaaa… Just kiddin’!  Great name, though.  Figure there’s a story behind that one.  Hey, can I tell you somethin’?”

Missy raised her brow. 

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You’re kinda hot.  Like, really hot for someone who can play that heavy.  Bassists usually look like dogs, no offense,” he said. 

“None taken."

He looked down, then smirked.  “Has anyone ever told you you got nice tits?”

“Uh… Once or twice.”

“Are they real?”

“Yes, they’re real.”

“Can I squeeze ‘em?  I mean, not that I don’t believe you,” he said with a wink.  “I’m just, uh…  Ya know… A hands-on guy.”

The alcohol was starting to hit Missy now too.  Between that, the show, and his advances, she felt like embracing the sleazy persona crafted for her.

“You know what?” she said with a giggle.  “Sure.  Go for it.”

He didn’t have to be told twice.  The hand that was slung over her shoulder, reached down to palm her left boob.  She bit her lip, secretly enjoying the attention.  This kind of behavior from any other guy wouldn’t have been entertained, but coming from him?  It was another high… or maybe it was secondhand smoke.

“Verdict?” she asked.

“Mm… Yeah.  Real, alright,” he confirmed.  He leaned in again, once again dropping his voice to a kinda whisper.  “So, what are you doing after the show?”

A sly grin crossed her face as she considered that she didn’t have to be the only one here getting objectified.  She reached down, giving him a squeeze, then a wink as she said, “You?”

This was apparently the correct response.  Pickles beamed.

“Ahh!” he exclaimed.  “I like your answer!  Me an’ you, I think we’re gonna get along just fine, Missy.”