The Music Festival

The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon, wrapped in plain brown paper, no return address. Sarah brought it to the pub the following evening, sliding into the booth across from Laura and Carrie with a grin that could only mean trouble.

"Ladies," she said, setting the box on the table. "It's here."

Laura's fingers itched to open it. "Well? Don't keep us waiting."

Sarah peeled back the tape, lifted the lid, and revealed ninety little rectangles of black cardstock, each one embossed with silver lettering that caught the dim pub light.

**PHONE A FUCK**

*For a free good time, text this number.*

A burner phone number beneath, different for each of them. Laura picked one up, running her thumb over the embossed text. It felt illicit. It felt powerful. It felt like the beginning of something she couldn't quite name yet.

"They're perfect," Carrie said, her voice soft with wonder.

"I know," Sarah replied.

The three of them had been planning this for weeks, ever since Sarah had pitched the idea over wine and takeaway. Glastonbury Festival. Worthy Farm. Four days of mud, music, and complete, utter debauchery. The plan was simple: three women, three burner phones, ninety cards. They'd hand them out to anyone who caught their eye, roadies, crew members, sound techs, random festival-goers with the right look. The men would text and they'd arrange a meet.

No strings. No names. No consequences.

Laura had designed the cards herself, spending hours perfecting the layout. Black background, silver text, minimalist and mysterious. Classy enough to pass for a business card, filthy enough to leave no doubt about the intent. Sarah had sourced the burner phones from a shop , paying cash, no questions asked. Three cheap Nokia phones, untraceable, each with a SIM card that had never been registered. Carrie had handled the logistics, tickets, camping passes, a VIP wristband that guaranteed private showers and actual toilets. She'd grumbled about the camping at first, but Sarah had won her over with the promise of hot water and a proper mattress in the VIP section.

And now, with the cards in hand, it was real.

Laura slid her stack into her leather jacket, feeling the weight of them against her ribs. Thirty cards. Thirty chances. At least thirty men who would soon be texting a number that led nowhere, asking for a woman who didn't exist.

"I've booked us a minibus," Sarah said, pulling a printout from her bag. "Picks us up from mine at three on Wednesday afternoon. Drops us at the gate. We'll have the tent up before way before dark, and potentially time for a quickie or three."

"Tents," Carrie corrected. "Plural. I'm not sharing."

"Fine, tents. We'll be in the VIP field, close to the showers and the backstage entrance. I've already scouted the layout online."

Laura leaned back, sipping her wine. "And the Pleasure Gardens?"

"Accessible through a staff-only gate. I've got a contact who's hooking us up with passes."

"A contact?" Carrie raised an eyebrow. "You've had this planned for a while."

Sarah's grin didn't waver. "I like to be thorough."

The pub hummed around them, oblivious to the conspiracy unfolding in the corner booth. A group of lads laughed at the bar. A couple argued softly by the window. Life went on, mundane and ordinary. But for Laura, Carrie, and Sarah, something extraordinary was about to begin.

The minibus arrived at three on the dot, a battered white Transit van with a driver who didn't ask questions. They loaded their gear—tents, sleeping bags, coolers, and a duffel bag filled with outfits that ranged from "festival chic" to "downright pornographic.". Laura had packed her leather jacket, a collection of crop tops, and a pair of denim shorts so short they were practically underwear. She'd also brought a sheer black dress that left nothing to the imagination, saved for the right moment. Carrie had gone for a more bohemian look—flowy skirts, loose blouses, and a surprising number of items that could be easily removed.

Sarah had brought her signature style: dark, edgy, and practical. Ripped jeans, band tees. She'd also packed the cards, divided into three stacks and wrapped in rubber bands. The drive took three hours, winding through the English countryside as the sun sank low and golden. They passed rolling hills, sleepy villages, and fields full of sheep. The radio played old rock songs, and they sang along, windows down, wind in their hair. By the time they reached Worthy Farm, the sky was purple and the festival was alive. Lights twinkled across the sprawling grounds. Music pulsed from a dozen stages. The air smelled of grass, woodsmoke, and the electric hum of thousands of people converging for four days of chaos.

They found their campsite in the VIP field, a relatively flat patch of grass near a grove of trees. They set up their tents with practiced efficiency, stringing fairy lights between the poles and staking their claim with a flag bearing the image of a cartoon devil. By ten o'clock, they were settled. The tents were up, the booze was cold, and the cards were burning a hole in Laura's pocket.

"Ladies," Sarah said, standing at the edge of their campsite, her silhouette framed against the glowing festival. "The night is young. The cocks are plentiful. And we have ninety cards to distribute."

Laura stood, brushing the grass from her shorts. "Where do we start?"

Sarah pointed toward the main stage, where the bass was thrumming and the crowd was thick. "Backstage. The crew entrance. That's where the real action is."

Carrie emerged from her tent, adjusting her top. "Lead the way."

They walked through the festival, weaving between groups of drunk students, hippies with dreadlocks, and families with children in fairy wings. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the promise of something wild. They reached the backstage entrance, a metal gate guarded by a man with a clipboard and a bored expression. Sarah flashed him a smile and a glimpse of her wristband, and he waved them through without a second glance. Behind the main stage, the world changed. The crowds thinned, replaced by a different kind of energy—focused, professional, and utterly filthy. Roadies hauled equipment, sound techs fiddled with cables, and band members lounged in clusters.

Laura's heart raced. This was it.

She spotted a group of roadies near the soundboard, their shirts off, their bodies glistening with sweat. They were built exactly as Sarah had promised, strong, dirty, the kind of men who spent all day lifting heavy things and didn't give a fuck about anything else. Laura reached into her pocket, pulling out a card. She walked toward them, her hips swaying, her confidence blazing.

"Evening, boys," she said, holding out the card. "If you're looking for a good time, text this number."

The lead roadie, a bearded giant with tattoos covering his arms, took the card. He read it, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Phone a Fuck," he said, testing the words. "I like it."

"Then use it," Laura replied, and walked away. Behind her, she heard his laughter, low and appreciative. She found Sarah and Carrie a few minutes later, leaning against a stack of speaker cases. Sarah was holding an empty hand.

"Three down," Sarah said. "You?"

"One." Laura held up her card. "But it's a start."

Carrie smiled, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. "Two. A guitarist and a sound tech. Both fit. Both interested."

"Perfect." Sarah pulled out her burner phone, checking for messages. "Nothing yet. But the night's young."

They stood together, three women in the heart of the festival, surrounded by music and sweat and possibility. The cards were in their pockets. The numbers were live. And somewhere in the crowd, men were already reaching for their phones.

"Phone a Fuck," Laura said, tasting the words.

"Phone a Fuck," Sarah echoed.

Carrie laughed, shaking her head. "What have we done?"

"Something we'll never forget," Laura said.

And the night was just beginning.