I saw a couple coming out of the station today, stumbling as they were walking entangled in each other—they kissed like there was no tomorrow and of course they were young enough that for them, there isn’t. It’s the moment that counts and tomorrow doesn’t exist.
I felt a stab of keen jealousy, remembered a gig I went to years ago when I ended up coming out of the same station in very much the same euphoric mood.
It was Aerosmith in London, I flashed my boobs at Joe Perry, showed him the Aerosmith wings drawn on my stomach by the boyfriend who was an artist.
I was drunk on cider and forgot my usual scorn for groupies that day—those ridiculous girls who will blow the roadies to get backstage—and was ready to be one of them. Not that I was going to give the roadies head, fuck them, but I was more than willing to show Joe a trick or two and never mind the fact his gorgeous wife was standing by the side of the stage.
I don’t remember much from the gig except Joe was magnificent and I was fascinated by his fingers on the guitar, imagining what else they could do. My toxic twin from Boston, I saw you live again a few times after that but that day was the first and therefore very special.
When it was over the crowd took forever getting out of Wembley Stadium and I was high on that guitar and my rock god with his shirt opened to the bloody navel, revealing so much skin it was an actual sin. Gosh, how I laugh at men who do that usually, rockstar or no rockstar but Joe could drown kittens with a smile on his face and I wouldn’t object — okay, I would, but you get the idea, and anyway why did I mention Joe’s smile when the man never does. Smile.
The crowd was so dense we went for more drinks so as to escape the first rush to the station and the packed trains. We had all the time in the world, nothing but the moment mattered-nothing at all, which is why we ended up in the women toilet and I gave the boyfriend a blowjob he talked about for weeks afterwards. The girls queuing up when we came out of the stall gave us looks that were not amused, I’m pretty sure one of them looked disgusted but who cared? Not us.
We eventually got a train, still packed, made friends with other people who had been at the gig: “OMG wasn’t it amazing, and Joe is quite something and I almost died when they played Toys in the Attic…etc”
There is always this weird camaraderie with people who have just shared the same intense moment as you—we all get it and we bond…for an hour.
We finally made it home and we came out of the station very much like the couple I saw today. Bumped into my friend who asked where we’d been, hence the lengthy explanations and more “Omg it was great” and I told him—stupidly, because of the alcohol coursing through my veins—what happened in the toilets and he laughed and boyfriend was standing there slightly uneasy but trying not to show it because my friend is gay and I’m talking dicks with him and BF doesn’t know where to look. I tell him to relax, nobody is about to reach inside his jeans and of course there is an idiot standing next to us listening to this convo, grinning while giving me the eye and I respond with a look that says: fuck off, I’m very selective who I’m slutty with, now do one.
What time was it when we got back to our place? No idea. We were sweaty and grimy and my makeup had smudged and left stains all over my face and we hadn’t had any food for a whole day but we got home and fucked for hours anyway because there was no tomorrow. Or none that mattered. We would go to work or we would not, call in sick maybe, eat greasy bacon sandwiches with barely a hangover and there was no need to care about anything beyond today.
I miss those days, if I could just get a taste here and then…that’s all I ask for, just a little taste to sustain my memories.
Of course I still go to gigs and still get drunk and still do stupid things. I make a “blink and miss it” appearance in a Nickelback DVD looking thoroughly whore-ish and that was filmed not that long ago. My friends take the piss out of me no end, laugh at my awful musical taste because of it and I tell them I don’t care, there are still times I wanna be a rockstar. I don’t give a flying fuck Nickelback aren’t credible in any circles.
So, clearly I haven’t grown up—not sufficiently—but the days of not caring about tomorrow are pretty much gone. Now the hangover after a drunken concert is real and lasts for a full day. Now I worry about the resulting bags under my eyes because I probably have an appointment with my accountant or something. And the fact I have an accountant is enough to make me want to roll into a ball and cry.
I miss that insouciance, it’s gone forever and why didn’t I know it was ephemeral and bottle up those moments? Which is of course a fucking stupid thing to say because there was no tomorrow then. None that mattered. Those were the days.