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Little Black Tank Top	By : ThisIsGreenDay Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Green Day Views: 2638 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Green Day. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Mike/OFC
Author’s notes: Was originally posted on GSB, and now it's here, uncut.
*Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day, no matter how much I wish I did.

*******

More often than naught, people get the most strongest sexual urges in the most inappropriate places. To name a few; school, church, in an art museum. Then of course there'd be the obvious places like a bar or club or the Museum of Sex in New York City. Either way, it's human nature to be horny, to wanna find that someone to satisfy the craving for at least a little while.

What made Mike Dirnt so different? Nothing.

The concert in Atlantic City was pretty hype. The fans were energetic, which helped the guys feed off of in order to put more of their own energy back out there. And the fans, they were awesome. Jumping and singing along to each song they performed as if they had been the ones who'd written them. It got Mike more pumped, making his chest swell as he bounced in one stop, driving his bass line forward.

And they were only into their second number, the nine-minute five-part 'Jesus of Suburbia.' During one of the parts, 'Dearly Beloved,' Mike took his bass and walked further to his left to reach the fans closer to the stage as he casually played away. And in an instant, from the vibration of his bass being plucked like a Thanksgiving turkey, Mike became aroused. It tended to happen a lot. The crowd's energy, the music resounding and reverberating around and through him from the stage and from his instrument, and...well, just from being a guy. But it's not like he had to worry about everyone seeing his hard on because the bass blocked that.

But when a good-looking girl in the audience calls your name and you make eye contact with her during the lulled point in the song, it becomes a bit of a distraction, forcing an erection to throb almost painfully.

Mike gave her a slight wink and she smiled, jumping along to the next part of the song that was more upbeat. He glanced over, watching the fullness of her breasts bounce up and down with her from under the black tank top she wore, the way that -- despite how much everyone seemed to already be sweating -- her straight brown hair kept its dry, fluffiness.

As the show continued on, Mike would occasionally throw his glance back over to her direction, finding her crunched between so many others when a faster song was being played. At one point she looked as if she'd pass out like a few of the other that had. At one point when a girl who'd passed out was carried over the barrier by security, Mike looked past it to find the girl with the black tank top on looking over in mild concern, only to look back toward the stage and lock eyes with him.

And his hard on was still there.

Slowly but surely, the concert came to an end. The lights went down and the spotlight on the runway came on for Billie Joe as the confetti continued to pour down from the 'We Are The Champions' finale as he began to sing 'Time Of Your Life.' Mike and Tre had gone backstage, grabbing a handful of drumsticks and picks only to run back out onstage amidst the darkness and hand the items over to security to pass out to some of the fans in the pit.

Finally backstage, the guys gathered in their dressing room, had a beer and chilled a bit before heading upstairs to their separate hotel rooms in the Trump Taj Mahal. Mike wasn't reeling from his hard on as much as he had been earlier, but that didn't stop him from grabbing a hold of himself in the shower and giving himself some sort of sexual release, even if he was simply flying solo.

In order to accomplish the task at hand, no pun intended, he needed someone to visualize. Occasionally he thought of someone with a gargantuan rack like Pam Anderson or Carmen Electra. Sometimes he even thought about his ex-wife Anastacia or even Billie Joe's wife, Adrienne. After all, it was just a fantasy. But tonight, Mike was taking a different route; thinking of the girl in the black tank top. As he ran his hand up and down his shaft, feeling the warmth of the water pelting him soothingly, he pictured her on top with him buried deep inside her as she rode him like a frickin' race horse in the Kentucky Derby. He imagined her breasts and how they bounced so happily.

Feeling his balls tighten, Mike reached out his left arm to brace himself against the tiled wall of the shower as he hunched forward and whimpered as he climaxed, the wave of his orgasm making him feel like he'd just been pulled under the surface of the Atlantic Ocean and drowned the most heavenly way possible.

Taking his time to wash his hair and the rest of his body, Mike stepped out of the shower and grabbed a fluffy hotel towel to wrap around his narrow waist while he took his hand and wiped the foggy mirror so he could see his reflection. His platinum-dyed hair clung to his head from its wetness.

He felt satisfied, for the most part. As nice as masturbating was to him, nothing could ever truly compare to actually getting laid. No comparison at all.

Drying off and getting dressed into a pair of black pants, minus the usual red stripe up the leg like the ones he wore during the concert, and a black button-up shirt. His hair was left unstyled and just naturally kinda floppy. Closing his hotel room door behind him, he met up with the guys and they headed downstairs to the casino for a bit of drinking and gambling.

Why not? It was Atlantic City after all. The poor man's Vegas. And, like Vegas...what happened here, stayed here.
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