It was hotter than the hinges on the back door of Hell. The humidity was probably 110%. The temperature outside of Stubbs’ Barbecue was officially 94 degrees that night after sundown. Inside, it was closer to 124 degrees because of the combined body heat of 2500 to 3000 people crammed into the back courtyard in front of the outdoor stage to see TOFOG. It was the second weekend they played there on their 2001 tour, and most of the audience had been there for the previous night’s show as well. It didn’t stop them from crowding together to get as close to the stage as possible - the closer you were, the better the view and hang the possibility of heat stroke.

I was no different.

Russell had studied the audience the night before on the opening of the band’s US tour and quipped, “Man, if we could harness the power of the estrogen in here, we could light Australia for a week!” He wasn’t far wrong. Of course, he had then put a damper on some of the enthusiasm by declaring that there would be no womanizing, just drinking, sweating and good music. He added, “for the good music part, just go down to any of the clubs on Sixth Street.” That got everyone laughing, and he flirted just as much during the show as he had the year before, so the no womanizing part was mostly forgotten.

I was with a couple of friends, but we had gotten separated right after the first couple of TOFOG numbers. I have no idea where they ended up, they could have only been ten feet away but in that sea of sweaty bodies, they just blended in. I was having a good time anyway and knew we’d meet up afterwards. I had two bottles of Shiner Bock and a bottle of water with me. The water was icy cold in comparison to the air, so I sprinkled some of it onto my neck and let it trickle down my throat and chest until it ran down between my breasts. It was cooling and I probably used as much of the bottle doing that as I did drinking it.

There was a short pause while some stubbornly out of tune guitars were worked on. I had the top 4 buttons of my blouse undone and the sleeves rolled up because of the heat, but I couldn’t take the damn thing off because I only had a bra on under it. I had been wishing I’d planned ahead like a lot of the other women there and worn one of those cotton racer back bras that look like a bathing suit top, but I hadn’t, so I was wetting myself down and trying to forget how hot I was. I was laughing, having just overheard a really ribald joke from one of the women standing next to me, and happened to glance up as I poured more water down my neck.

Russell was standing right there onstage not two feet in front of me, grinning down at me.

“Whoops!” I squeaked as my hand jerked and more water than I had planned went flooding down my chest. The front of my white blouse was totally soaked. Now not only was I wet, but you could see right through the thin white cotton, and probably through my bra as well because it was one of those wispy, lacy nothings that don’t cover much anyway. I do have something to cover, though - I’ve always been bosomy, and my 32-D boobs were now on display a lot more than I would have liked. Especially if you happened to be a 5 ft 11” guy standing on a raised platform looking down into a group of women all trying to get your attention in one way or another.

He laughed. I laughed, wondering how much he could see, then I wondered if it was really me he was looking at and glanced over my shoulder. I figured he was looking at one of the cute, young things around me, so I looked around, then back at him and he was still staring a hole through me - looking into my face, not just at my boobs. I figured at that point that I might just as well go on and make a complete fool of myself as not, so I tilted my head to one side, and pointed my water bottle at my chest and mouthed, "Me?" He gave me a slight nod, and grinned again. I grinned back at him and he winked. Shit. No doubt, he was looking right at me in my probably transparent shirt. His grin widened when he caught my expression of dismay and then my shrug. Then I realized shrugging with my bosom in that nothing of a bra was probably a lot more provocative than even the water. I just started laughing harder, and I know I blushed.

He now had a bottle of water passed to him by one of the half dozen roadies on the stage with the band, and he snapped off the cap, poured half the water over his head and drank the rest in one long pull. I watched his throat muscles move as he swallowed and felt a bolt of heat go straight through me from my head to my pussy. Now I was wet from more than just sweat. Shit. The man is just too much. He tossed the empty bottle to Bruno and turned his attention to his guitar for a moment before glancing down at me again with that sweet, innocent smile that was so adorable. I knew there was a lot less innocence behind it than it appeared, but he was just so fucking cute, God. I fanned myself, cooling the evaporating water, and bent down to pick up one of my bottles of Shiner.

Of course, he saw me, I knew that the second I put the bottle to my mouth to drink and caught him watching me over the edge of the bottle. He had his own bottle and lifted it to his mouth to drink just as I finished. There was the throat action again. God damn him. Did he know what he was doing to me? He saluted me with his bottle, so I returned the favor. He laughed and drank a bit more.

He set the bottle on top of one of the amps and lifted his shirt away from his chest by the open neck, shaking it as if to let air down it. I could see the edge of his Grunts basketball jersey underneath and wondered why he didn’t just take the damn denim shirt off. Even with the big fans blowing from both sides of the stage, it had to be hotter up there because of the lights. He lifted one eyebrow. I must have had an odd look on my face as I thought about how hot he had to be. I mimicked unbuttoning his shirt and taking it off, and he gave a slight shake of his head. Instead, he took his half-empty beer and poured it down his chest, letting it soak both his shirt and, presumably, the jersey beneath it. When he saw my gape of surprise, he laughed uproariously and shook his head, turning his attention to Dean, who was obviously trolling for babes off the other side of the stage and had walked over to tell Russell something. Both guys laughed even more when Dean finished talking in Russell’s ear and I wondered which little cutie had prompted that.

At that point, the guitars were finally tuned, and Russell said something to Dean, after which they both turned and looked straight at me. My nipples got hard. They do that from more than just cold or sexual turn-on, they do it when I’m really embarrassed or really shy - just adding to my discomfort if I’m trying to be businesslike with someone at work. It’s a curse I’ve had ever since puberty. Not that someone on a stage several feet away could see that, but I could feel it, and hoped I didn’t look as glazed with lust as I worried I did. It didn’t help that my pussy twinged right then, either. Dammit.

Russell gave me a long, slow, lascivious wink.

Several women within the vicinity of where I was standing thought it was directed at them and set up a shrieking clamor for more attention, jumping around like bugs on a hot rock. I just stood stock still, with a little smile on my face, and winked back. He saw me and laughed, shaking his head, and then they launched into “What’s Her Name?” How very appropriate!

With the lights that had been shining on us dimmed, I felt a bit less conspicuous, although I doubted anyone but me had noticed the little gestures and facial expressions of what I’d experienced as a kind of dream encounter. It was something I would treasure, I told myself, my little brush with Russell, albeit a distant one.

As for Russell, he was all over the stage. He paced back and forth, whipping the cable from his guitar around like a lash, practically tying himself up in it a couple of times, and tripping both Garth and Dave Wilkins when he spent some time over by them kidding around. When he galumphed back to center stage doing a mock line dance, he grabbed a fresh bottle of icy water thrown to him by Tommy, and snapped the cap loose. “Ahhh, almost better than the fuckin’ beer,” he quipped and drank off half of it.

“Now,” he said when he had swallowed that, “where was I?” He launched into a hilarious story about trying out new songs by singing to his cows. “I figured if they could present me with all their shit, I could make them listen to mine,” he finished to loud laughter. “So anyway, here’s one of them.” He played a chord and added, “the cows really liked this one.” They sang a song called “The Full Length of the River” that I’d heard on the TEXAS DVD that I’d bought the week before. This was the first time they sang it in concert, however, and it was just great. I could see why the cows liked it. The mental image of him trying out his songs on a group of musically inclined Angus cows was just too funny.

After that, they did “Afraid” - one of my favorites - followed in quick succession by “Wendy” - one I’d never liked - and “What You Want Me to Forget”. Then they took a 15 minute break. As they trailed offstage, all but Russell going off stage left, he walked over to the area I where I stood on the right, just next to the right side balcony stairs. He looked down into the crowd, much to their delight. There was a flurry of waving arms, some tossing little stuffed animals and other small gifts onto the stage, and he gave this big mock scowl because he’d already announced earlier, and during the two prior concerts, that we needed to stop giving him presents because he earned a “good wage from the day job” and didn’t need us to spend our hard-earned money on him. “If you fuckin’ have to give me something,” he’d said earlier tonight, “donate a few bucks to a charity and send me a note in the mail that you did it in my name or somethin’, that’s a better gift than a stuffed gator or koala, okay guys?”

I made a mental note to donate to the World Wildlife Fund in his name when I got home. I might even send him a note care of his Sydney agents, Bedford and Pearce - their address was available online in dozens of places. While I was planning this, I noticed drops of water hitting me. Was it raining? I glanced up and heard a loud guffaw. That’s when I realized it was coming from the balcony overhead and when I craned my neck, I caught a glimpse of his mischievous face ducking back out of sight. Nobody else seemed to notice him up there, but I sure did. And he was sprinkling me with water! While I absorbed that, more water came down, a much larger splatter this time, and I looked up again straight into a big grin. I shook my fist at him and he laughed louder.

I mimicked shooting him and he put on a big fake wince, hands over his heart, falling back out of sight. What a tease! God, I thought, I’d love to spend an hour just talking and joking around with the guy, he had to be a hoot. Who was I kidding? I’d love to spend time with him doing whatever the hell he wanted - I wasn’t picky. In fact, I had once told my ex-husband that, given the opportunity, I’d fuck Russell Crowe anytime, any day, anywhere, married or not, which I had been at the time. That was probably the attitude that ended that marriage, but it was DOA almost from the get-go anyway.

I took advantage of a passing waiter selling iced bottles of water and bought two more. I didn’t want any more beer - I had to drive home later and didn’t want to drive off the road or something. I lived way out in the boonies outside of Austin and there were plenty of deep ditches to drive off into that I’d just as soon avoid. Having to have my Jeep towed at two in the morning was not a fun thing. The band came back out just as I put away my change from the water. I stuck one bottle in the pocket of my shorts temporarily and the other one down on the ground between my ankles with the now empty beer bottles. I opened the fresh water and drank some. Paradise! Water never tasted this good unless you were half dehydrated, I thought. I dribbled some on my neck and chest again just in time to meet those incredible aqua eyes as I looked up. He grinned, looking very naughty, and unbuttoned two more buttons on his denim shirt. This was a fresh shirt; he’d presumably changed backstage. This one was dark blue instead of black, but he still wore the U of Texas basketball jersey underneath it. I have to confess I would have liked to see him in it. I remembered the jerseys from the prior summer.

I remembered lots of things from the prior summer. Nick Penn and the balloons out his nose - awk. The celebrity “guests” who made so much noise talking amongst themselves that Russell finally shouted at them all to shut the fuck up or leave. The sheer thrill of seeing my favorite movie star in person doing something totally different than acting. Getting his autograph out behind Stubbs the second night when his minders actually relaxed enough to let him sign people’s things and exchange handshakes. I hadn’t gotten a handshake per se, but our fingers had touched when I handed him the liner from my Gaslight CD to sign.

“Oh, bought this online, luv?” he had asked, obviously pleased.

“Yes - it’s my favorite so far,” I told him. I had their mini-CD’s, but Gaslight was a real album, with a lot of songs, many of them live. It was great. “I bought a second one actually - I was afraid I’d play the songs right off this one.”

He looked up from signing his name and laughed, “I don’t think they do that, luv, but ya never know. How did you spell your name again?”

Looking into those blue-green eyes, I’d almost forgotten, but I blinked and giggled nervously, spelling out, “R-e-a-g-a-n, Reagan - like the former president.”

He’d giggled right back at me before asking, “No relation, I take it?”

“Not hardly!” My family and I were all staunch Democrats - the Reagan came from way back in my mom’s family and had always been a woman’s first name, never a surname. I didn’t go into that much detail with Russell though, there wasn’t time for one thing. And his minders shoved him on down the row of waiting autograph seekers for another thing. In fact, that was when I saw him lose his temper - only not with any of us, with one of the big bodyguards who insisted he get into the car waiting at the curb to take him to wherever he was staying.

“I’ll go when I’m fuckin’ ready,” he had snapped at the man. We all froze. The minder, though, apparently didn’t know enough to back off because he repeated himself a minute later. This time Russell finished signing the pictures a young girl about ten had brought for him, said goodbye to her with a nice smile, and stalked away from the line, grabbing the guard by one arm as he passed him. He walked him over to the back wall of Stubbs and proceeded to read him the riot act, only it was in such a low voice none of us standing there taking it all in could hear what he actually said. It was the bristling stance and the emphatic hand gestures that relayed his meaning pretty clearly. I would never, EVER, want to be on the receiving end of that kind of talking-to from him.

The August 2000 shows had been the scene of the now infamous crotch stroke too. I had been front and center for it - okay, so I’m lucky - and I’d never forget it. He was singing “Somebody Else’s Princess” and when he got to the chorus where he sang, “She keeps me high, keeps me pumped,” he’d deliberately dragged his right hand down the front of his thigh and back up again, leaving no doubt in anybody’s mind what that bulge in the right side of his jeans was. So the man dresses right, I’d thought, and holy crap, he has something fine in there. Those of us who saw this move screamed all at the same time, yelling and applauding and laughing. It wasn’t dirty at all - it was a laugh, and he knew it was a laugh, while at the same time it was a blatantly sexy move that I doubted I’d ever forget. I’d never seen a guy be that way before; never have since.

A year later, though, and he wasn’t doing any strokes, wasn’t even taking off his long sleeved shirt. What a difference a year’s worth of tabloid crap, press over-coverage and out-and-out creating gossip out of nothing can make. I had no idea how he stood it. But, as he’d said on a radio interview that week, when the level of bullshit got to be too much, he’d just quit and go home to his farm in Australia. For now, he could still deal with it. I hoped he’d continue to deal with it for a long time to come.

My wandering attention was dragged back to the band when Russell poured beer in Stewie’s shirt pockets while he was playing a trumpet solo. Stewart never missed a note, but I wondered what revenge he might exact at a later date. Then Russell started calling for requests from the audience for bits of songs to see how large Stewart’s repertoire was. “Anything,” he yelled out, “any requests?”

Somebody yelled out, “The Jetsons,” and Stewart played the opening notes of that TV show theme. Then he got requests for several other programs - Bonanza, Mister Ed and the like - all of which he played. Then someone shouted, “The Lonely Bull!” and Russell claimed that was Stewart’s theme song. “He never gets a sheila,” Russell teased him, “he’ll still be here playin’ that at four a.m. tryin’ to attract one.” Stewart made faces behind Russell’s back, prompting loud laughter. “Is he mockin’ me?” Russell asked us.

When we all shouted, “Yes!” Russell turned slowly and shook his finger at Stewart, who just shrugged and looked angelic. When Russell turned back to face us, Stewie put his hands up on either side of his head and waggled his fingers comically. “That better not be what I think it is,” Russell commented, but he didn’t bother turning to look, he just laughed to himself. Apparently this sort of teasing went on all the time. It was refreshing to see the ease they all had with one another.

“Okay, now it’s time for one last song,” Russell began to a loud wail of disappointment from the entire audience. He blinked and widened his eyes, “Now, now - a bloke’s gotta get his beauty sleep.” When that didn’t work, he claimed it was a school night and he had to get to bed early. Another failure. We were all clapping by then, chanting, “More, more, more!” so he shook his head and relented, “Okay, two more last songs,” and promptly launched into “David”. As a last or second to last song, it’s a humdinger because they just keep going with it endlessly, and it’s a real toe-tapper. I loved it. I was clapping and dancing in place along with everyone else, and he glanced down a couple of times, winking at me as he played his guitar for all he was worth.

For a final number, they played “Folsom Prison Blues”, my other favorite - well, okay, I have a lot of favorites, so sue me. They could have gone on all night, but that wouldn’t have been feasible. Still, I would have stayed. I would have loved them singing nursery rhymes if it came down to it. When they had exited the stage and it stayed dark, everyone finally accepted that it was over and began swarming out. Since I was right up front, it took me awhile to work my way through the crowd. Just as I got to the exit, though, a hand came down on my shoulder and I started in surprise. “I didn’t do it!” I exclaimed - always the joker, that’s me.

“I should hope not,” came a decidedly Aussie voice, and I looked behind me to see one of Russell’s minders - the one he’s always with - Mark. “Hiya,” he greeted me when I realized I recognized him.

“Hiya,” I said right back. What did he want with me? I wondered. Then it hit me and I almost began hyperventilating. Russell, I thought - somehow, he’d sent Mark after me. Oh, fucking shit, now what was I going to do about that?

“Friend of mine wants to meet ya, will you come backstage?” he was asking me politely as I was going through my mental fit of nerves.

More coolly than I would have thought possible, I asked, “Just a ‘friend’? No name?” Shit, I’d just realized it could be Dean or Stewart, or, with my luck, one of the roadies. “I don’t think so,” I said.

At the same instant, he said, “You really do want to come backstage with me,” with a very meaningful expression on his face.

Shit, shit, shit. Not a roadie then. I considered for a while - ten seconds, tops. “Okay,” I said, “but if this is some kind of ploy to get another body for your backstage orgy, this woman is outa here!”

For some reason, he thought that was particularly funny. He was still laughing when he took my hand and led me back up front and around the back of the big stage. I looked around a bit wildly for my friends, then shrugged. They were grown ups, they’d come in their own car, they could go home in their own car. They’d have to figure I just got tangled up in the crowd and had left on my own. I was sure I’d hear about it tomorrow or the next day, but them’s the breaks, right? Right. We walked through the artists’ entrance door and into a long narrow corridor painted a kind of oatmeal beige with institutional green linoleum on the floor and fluorescent light fixtures flickering on and off haphazardly from the ceiling. “Eww,” I commented, “not very nice.”

“It ain’t Carnegie Hall,” my guide agreed. He walked up to the fourth door in and knocked. When a voice on the other side asked, “Who the fuck is it?” Mark answered, “It’s me, you wanker, open the bloody door.” He glanced at me with a grin, “Typical shit.”

The door opened before I could ask whose typical shit it was and all was explained. There stood Russell himself, still dressed in the jeans that had to be wringing wet by then, with a towel draped across his shoulders and no shirt on. Oh, and he was barefoot. I think my feet became glued to the floor for a moment right then. I know I couldn’t feel anything below my thighs. I just stood there in the corridor and stared. I probably looked like a trout that had just been hooked on a line, all big eyes and stupid empty expression. “Er, hi,” I heard myself say. God, I’m such a fucking brilliant conversationalist!

“Thanks, mate,” Russell said to Mark, who gave my hand a little tug so I either had to walk forward or fall flat on my face into the room. “Hi,” he said to me, rubbing his wet hair with a smaller towel. “Ya wanna come in, maybe have something to drink with me?”

“Um, er, yes, thank you,” I said and the door shut behind me. I swear it echoed like one of those big castle doors in the films when the heroine is cast into the lair of the bad guy and he shuts her up in a room and tells her she’s never leaving. That kind of echo. I jumped, then had to laugh at myself because I was being ridiculous. All I had to do was turn, take two steps to the door, open it, and walk out if I wanted to leave. Thing was, I didn’t want to.

Russell was looking at me expectantly and I realized he must have either asked me something or said something that required an answer. “Beg pardon?” I asked him.

He giggled. I’d heard the laugh on interview tapes, heard it from a distance up on stage, heard it or a variation of it in several of his films, but the effect of being within a foot of the man when he actually laughs that laugh is unreal. I wanted to throw myself on him and beg to be allowed to eat him with a spoon.

“I asked if you wanted beer or a soft drink or more water, luv - calm down, I don’t bite.” He was smiling a nice smile and I relaxed fractionally. Then he added, “Unless ya want me to, that is,” and winked that same wink I’d been the target of from the stage earlier.

“Beer is fine,” I said hurriedly. I needed to sit down. Being this close to the object of many a lascivious fantasy was almost more than my overstrained nerves could take.

He gestured me over to a sofa that was against one wall, moved a stack of newspapers and magazines off it onto the floor and moved a guitar case out of the way. “Sorry about the mess, and sorry I’m not showered yet - I got hung up on the phone.” He reached into one of several coolers and handed me an ice cold bottle of Aussie beer - Victoria Bitter. “Courtesy of some fans, luv - ever tried it?”

I had to admit I hadn’t but had been dying to. It was part of the lore that surrounded this man, and I was going to absorb as much of it as I could in whatever short time I was going to get to spend with him. I drank some and it was great, so I smiled, nodded and told him I liked it. “Good - now you just sit right here, cos I’ve got to go shower before I drive myself right out of this room, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, smiling at him, finally feeling a bit less nervous. I didn’t care if he stank like a goat - which he surely didn’t - but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

He hunted around amongst the magazines and put several Aussie mags on top of the stack. “Maybe you’d enjoy looking at these? I don’t want you to leave out of boredom, okay?” He had his head tipped slightly as he asked, and I realized he really did think I might just bolt out the door the second he left the room.

”Great,” I said truthfully, and took the top one, an Australian edition of Rolling Stone. “Oh, cool!” I opened it as he excused himself and exited through what was apparently the bathroom door. Sure enough, I shortly heard the sounds of a shower running, and then, to my delight, he began singing at the top of his lungs. I covered my mouth with both hands to keep from laughing too loudly - he was singing “Amazing Grace” - on key, and he knew all the words. When he finished that, he launched into some songs that I realized must be Aussie pub songs because they were filthy beyond belief and also hilariously funny. And they rhymed. I wish I had carried a tape recorder, but when the tickets said, “No cameras, no tape recorders” I believed them. The shower stopped and I realized I would shortly be joined by my host.

I had probably two minutes, tops, to decide if I was going to stay or make a run for my car and go home. I went over all my options in my mind, telling myself to be sensible, that this was probably just his way of making sure he got laid and I was handy, and nothing would or could come of it, and then the bathroom door opened and he came out in baggy Levi’s 501’s buttonflys with the top button undone, and a red tee shirt tucked into them that had the logo of some Aussie candy company on it. I think it said “Cherry Ripe” in white letters and had candy bar wrappers screenprinted on it. His hair was wet but combed and he looked delicious, if still slightly damp.

“Now, I need a beer myself,” he said and grabbed one before flopping down next to me on the sofa. “By the way,” he commented as he took a drink, “I’m Russell. My friends call me Russ, Rusty or Russell - you can call me whatever the hell you want, luv, but I just need to know one thing from you.”

“W-what?” I asked - what the hell?

“What the fuck is your name, girl? You haven’t told me yet.”

“OH!” I exclaimed and started laughing. “God, I’m such a ditz. It’s Reagan
- R-E-A-G-A-N - Reagan Wesley.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed, suddenly studying my face. “I remember you from last year - out back, I teased you about being related to Ronald Reagan.” And he began laughing, slapping himself on the forehead and shaking his head. “You’re not the only ditz, luv - I’ve been wondering all night where I’d seen you before, Jesus, what a looney I am.”

No way I was leaving after that.

Click on the rose button right here to go to Part Two: