On the whole, I really enjoy going to concerts. A good gig, whether by a band I know well or one I’m seeing for the first time, can make me feel alive. Unless something ruins it. Or, more specifically, two things, coming together in slimy congress.
When I’m at a show, I’m there to watch bands play. Sure, I’ll drink and socialize, but really, I want to watch the band because, well, that’s the whole reason I’m there. So imagine my dismay—or rather my sheer, abject horror—the other night while I was at the Studio at Webster Hall watching Foxing when I noticed (as if there were any way not to notice) the couple right in front of me, making out like a pair of giddy teenagers who’d fucked for the very first time just minutes before. Maybe they had—I didn’t ask—but they both looked like they were in their 30s and should have known better.
“Wait. Are you straight or gay?” I asked.
“I’m not gay. It’s just a British thing.” He licked my ear and moaned. “I went to boarding school. This is just how we say hello in Britain.” My penis told me to let him lick me; my brain told me Super Market was entering some dark turf. I pulled away from the redhead and sprinted out the club.
I bypassed the drunk white girls asking me if their accents sounded posh and found the redhead’s friend sitting against a burrito joint’s wall. He waved at me. “Did the redhead lick you?” he asked. I nodded. “He’s the biggest closet case in all of Oxford. He just went to a boarding school in the south. It’s not a British thing at all.”
Except it was.