[Patreon Exclusive] HIS BIGGEST FAN: Chapter 1 (Patreon)

George is Static Overdrive’s biggest fan. He’s been to all of their shows and he owns all of their records. All that’s left is to meet the band and their singer/guitarist, George’s idol, Rick Aaronson. Unfortunately for George, the only people that get taken backstage are women.

But George is determined, even if that means becoming buying a sexy new wardrobe, learning to do his makeup, and becoming Georgia.

Chapter 1

I was Stellar Overdrive’s biggest fan. I owned every single one of their albums (including the deluxe and re-mastered editions) and I’d been to every single one of their shows within five-hundred miles of my house. I’d spent thousands (let’s face it, tens of thousands) of dollars on Stellar Overdrive merchandise, and I won’t even tell you how much I was paying for signed tour-books off of eBay. It was difficult to go an entire conversation without making it about Stellar Overdrive. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many times I’d watched my friends roll their eyes at me. I just couldn’t help it—the band was just that good. They had no bad songs. They were breaking album sales records for a reason.

My favourite member of the band was Rick Aaronson, the lead singer and guitarist. He was, in my opinion, the most talented person in rock and roll. He wrote all of their music and even acted as the producer on all of their records. There was nothing Rick Aaronson couldn’t do. He was, without question, my all-time idol.

So naturally, I was very disappointed after I waited for hours in a crowd of fans out behind the stadium and the band never came out. I was even more disappointed when one of their roadies came out, picked a half dozen girls from the front of the crowd and took them back to meet the band. Just before the girls were taken back, I heard them talking about one of Stellar Overdrive’s songs, getting the lyrics totally wrong. Filthy casuals. I bet you I could recite every lyric to every Stellar Overdrive song perfectly, but no one was bringing me back to meet the band. It wasn’t fair.

The real fans never got anything good.

And it wasn’t even the first time. Over and over again, I ventured out back for a glimmer of a chance to meet my long-time idol, Rick Aaronson. And every single time, a handful of random girls were taken back to meet him and I was left standing with the rest of the outcasts. It didn’t even seem to matter if the girls were remotely attractive, as long as they were dressed like little hoes, they fit the bill. When was my chance? When would I get to meet the band?

Of course, I knew why they were taking girls back. I could only assume there was some expectation along with being taken back, though I had a hard time believing random girls were being taken back with the expectation of sex. If that were the case, surely the stories would be all over the internet. Surely someone would have come out and said, ‘I was taken backstage to have sex with Stellar Overdrive’. More than likely, like most male musicians in the world, the band members just wanted the company of some skanky ladies to boost their egos. Surely there was no assumptions or expectations attached. They were professionals, after all.

The band’s popularity had exploded since I became an avid fan. It used to cost me less than a hundred bucks to get a signed tour-book off of eBay. Now, I was lucky to get one for less than a grand, and it usually involved days and days of bidding wars. I was honestly starting to regret my attempt to own every one of their tour-books, signed by all the band members. It was making me broke. When I went on eBay to get their latest tour-book, signed, I wasn’t even surprised see that they were going for nearly five grand. Five grand? I didn’t have that kind of money. Not to mention, they were due to go on tour again in just a few months, which probably meant another five grand, if not more by that point.

Those skimpy little girls didn’t know how good they had it. Even if they weren’t interested in getting signed merchandise, surely they were interested in making a few extra thousand dollars.

After listening to me complain for fifteen straight minutes, a friend of mine suggested, “Why don’t you just dress up like a girl and get your autograph?” He was joking, of course, but it wasn’t actually a terrible idea. I’d been to enough Stellar Overdrive concerts to know where to be standing when the roadies came out. I’d been to enough of their concerts to know what type of girls got picked. Hell, you didn’t even need tickets to the show to get a chance. You just had to walk around the venue until you found the tour trucks, and then you had to stand by the door with the rest of the eager fans ready to have their hearts broken.

Not to mention, a couple of girly outfits and a wig would cost less than a hundred bucks. That sure beat the hell out of five-grand. I knew I could do the girl-voice, thanks to years of playing online video games, tricking guys into giving me their best virtual items. The idea really wasn’t so crazy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. It almost seemed stupid not to go through with it.

The more I thought about it, the more curious I became. Could I actually pull it off? At the very worst, if someone realized I wasn’t actually a woman, then what? They would laugh at me, maybe tell me to leave. With enough makeup and maybe a wig with some bangs, no one would ever recognize me, so I didn’t have to worry about my identity being compromised. So what really was there to be worried about?

And there was so much to gain! I could potentially get to meet my idols and I could potentially get my autographs, valued at thousands of dollars. And for once, someone who actually cared about the band would get the privilege of going backstage to meet the band. It would be stupid not to at least give it a try.

So it was decided—I was going to do it. I was going to dress up like a woman and take a stab at getting backstage to meet my long-time idols, Stellar Overdrive.

I went to the mall as soon as it opened, on a Wednesday, when the hallways were only populated by the senior citizens who were getting in their daily mall-walk. It was the perfect time to shop for my feminine attire. I knew none of my friends would be at the mall because I knew none of them would even be awake. It was the best time not to be recognized. And as long as I wasn’t recognized, I could get away with telling the cashier, “It’s a gift for my girlfriend.” They didn’t need to know that I didn’t actually have a girlfriend.

Buying the wig was a bit more tricky. No one buys a wig for their girlfriend, do they? “It’s for my girlfriend,” I said, and the cashier gave me a weird look. “She has cancer,” I said, and then that weird look vanished quickly.

I have to admit, I felt pretty stupid with the pile of clothes in front of me when I got home. I was so desperate to meet Static Overdrive that I’d deluded myself into thinking I could actually become a convincing woman. Who was I kidding? I sure wasn’t kidding myself. I’d just spent over a hundred bucks on clothes that I would never wear unless my silly plan actually worked, which was beginning to seem less and less likely the more I thought about it. I mean, have you ever seen a convincing cross-dresser? There’s always something off with them—you can always tell when there’s a guy under those clothes and under that makeup. Or can you? Maybe I’d walked past cross-dressers every single day and never known the difference. Maybe I was basing that assumption on the worst of the worst.

There was one major downside to my shopping trip. I couldn’t actually try the clothes I bought on until I got home. I had to just assume they would fit my body and that they would actually look good. I ended up buying a variety of different items, to give myself some options in case anything I bought looked ridiculous. And it was a good thing I bought options, because the very first top I tried on when I got home looked totally ridiculous.

It was a crop top that went all the way up to my throat. I’d seen Selena Gomez wearing a similar top, so I assumed it would look half-decent. On me, it looked like the bib they give you at Red Lobster so you don’t get lobster juice all over yourself. It turns out, not everything looks good on everyone. I guess that’s why there are so many options. I tried on another shirt I bought, a sleeveless lace top, but it was very unflattering. I was starting to doubt my little plan. Maybe I’d overestimated my ability to disguise myself as a woman. Maybe I just didn’t have the body type for it. Which seemed strange, because I actually thought I looked pretty good in just the A-cup sized black bra I bought, especially once I stuffed a sock into each cup.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, I had a thought: maybe the problem wasn’t the clothing. Maybe it was the fact I was still looking at myself, with my short brown hair and my makeup-less face. Maybe I needed to have a little makeover before I continued trying on different outfits.

So I put on my wig, which needed a good brushing. It didn’t look quite right, as if it was missing something. All of the girls that stood out back at every Stellar Overdrive concert always had their hair straightened as straight as straight could be. So I snuck into my mom’s bathroom and lifted her straightener. I also grabbed some makeup while I was there—some lipstick, some blush, and some eyeliner. I didn’t get much sleep that night as I stayed up and watched makeup tutorials on YouTube. I found one really good tutorial on how to do your makeup for a music festival.

It was around three in the morning when I finally stepped back and took a good look at myself, in my wig, in my makeup, and in my black bra. And shit, I actually looked pretty good. There was still work to be done, like shaving my arms and my legs and my armpits and so on. I was even able to create the illusion of cleavage thanks to a YouTube tutorial on different ways to use contouring makeup.

I had a few different options for bottoms. I had a little skirt, which I thought was too risky, seeing as the panties I bought didn’t do much to hide my bulge. If someone got a look up the skirt, that would be the end of my charade. It was too bad, too, because the skirt actually made me look pretty cute, and it seemed like a shame to cover up my legs, which actually looked quite nice all shaved and smooth. I had a pair of jeans, but they were too boyish and baggy. I found a good middle ground with a pair of tight leather pants, kind of like the ones Olivia Newton-John wore in Grease, except not quite as suffocating.

The little heels I bought were far from comfortable, but they made the look. The moment I stood up in those little black shoes, everything came together. My butt perked up, my back straightened, and my chest came out. It’s amazing what a pair of heels can do for a girl (I suddenly understood why girls tortured themselves with the things).

I looked in the mirror again. I was hot. There was no way anyone would think I was a man. My confidence was suddenly through the roof. I didn’t want to wait a week to put my guise to the test behind the stadium. I was so eager to show off my body. Unfortunately, it was late. Even if I wanted to go out to a club, I couldn’t. Nothing was open. Everyone, but me, was asleep. I should have been asleep, but I couldn’t peel myself away from the mirror. I couldn’t bring myself to wash off the makeup or take off the clothes. I liked what I saw too much. In a weird way, it was starting to seem like a shame that I wasn’t actually a woman.

I started to get an erection. I couldn’t help it, I just looked that good. I watched myself adjusting my bra in the mirror and it looked so realistic, like I was actually watching a woman cupping her soft tits in her hands. Hell, had it not been for the hardening rod between my legs, I might have actually believed I was looking at a woman through a window instead of myself through the mirror. I reached down to cover my expanding bulge, so to not spoil the beautiful image before me. And then I couldn’t help myself, I started to rub my cock through my leather pants. I gently squeezed one of my breasts with my other hand. God, I looked hot. It actually kind of looked like I was reaching down and rubbing my clit. I was rock-hard in seconds.

I looked myself in the eyes and then I bit my lip. I really was sexy. There was no way they wouldn’t take me backstage to meet the band. I would have those boys drooling over my lap in no time—as long as I kept my bulge at bay, not like it was now, fully erect, throbbing ferociously. I reached into my pants, took my cock in my hand, and pulled it out, freeing it from its hot, leather prison. I started to beat myself off with intensity.

“Come for me baby,” I said in my girl voice. “Come for me. I want your come all over me.” Suffice to say, I came and I came hard, all over the bathroom mirror and counter. Hot, sticky cum cascaded down my fist. And then I looked myself in the mirror again. My God, I thought. This crazy idea was actually going to work.