The Mystery Tits

The Mystery Tits

Fifteen feet in front of me, Alice Cooper was doing his thing all over an elevated plywood stage. Twenty-five feet behind me, a girl with frosted tri-color bangs was floating through the frenzied blue-jean ocean, a real pro at the art of rock-crowd infiltration: casually and patiently working along concentric radials until a tiny fault appeared in the seemingly impenetrable multitude, riding the eddies forward and slipping aside when the flow reversed. Her apparent target, however, was not flush-front with the other screamies, but the position stage-center where I stood.

She tugged at my shirt and I looked down into hard piercing eyes.

“Can I climb on your shoulders?” she screamed above the din.

“No way,” I shouted and looked back to the stage.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her commandeer the ear of a tall guy to my left, and next thing I knew she was using me as a ladder to climb up on his shoulders.

She studied Alice Cooper with riveting intensity, and her hands played at the rim of her knit pullover, making a roll or two at her waist. As Alice swept the crowd mechanically with his eyes the girl followed his stare until it was a millisecond from her position, then yanked her top up to around her neck and started shaking her naked fucking tits!

Alice couldn’t have missed it, I thought, not the way she was elevated above the rest of the audience, 15 feet in front of him, not the way her lovely bare breasts jutted and jounced But Alice· kept on tracking, neither focusing on the exposed flesh nor changing his expression.

The girl dropped her top back down to her waist, but kept her hands at the “ready” position.

Next time Alice swept the crowd, up went the pullover and up and down went the tits. Again, no reaction. Over and over this act was repeated until my sagging neighbor finally told the girl to descend from his aching shoulders.

Now she was standing beside me, her top in its proper place, I leaned over, shouted in her ear:

“I couldn’t help noticing, your, ah, little act. I was just wondering why you did it.”

“Oh, I’m just trying to bug Alice,” she screamed back. “I follow him all over the country, ya know, and I do that at every show. Then I like disappear, and he can never find out who I am. It really bugs him.”

I told her that was going to a press party after the concert and asked if she would like to come, meet Alice Cooper.

“Oh, no!” she screamed. “He can never meet me. That would ruin everything.”

Then she was gone, worming her way back through the packed crowd.

At the press party I approached Cooper on the subject.

“Hey, Alice,” I said, “I talked to that chick tonight who’s been following you around the country and shaking her tits at all the shows.”

He looked at me, blank. “What chick?” Alice asked. “I’ve never seen her.”