Of Wasted Summers from Yon Past )Part II(
After a couple of ciders, three shots of vodka and ginger ale, followed by two tequila shooters, all in quick succession — and the inevitable chorus of “oh yeahs” and the falsetto howling — the mosh-pit doesn’t look as intimidating as previously thought of. Instead, the distant humming in the back of the head numbs your taste in music and the weirdly bobbing and swaying motions of equally or exceedingly inebriated strangers invites you to spit out your distaste for ruefully inconsiderate invaders of the comfort zone, and just “let’s just dance, man”.
And so he followed, uncertainty slipping away from his grip with every tap from another summered-out girl and her sun-burned skin exposing every bit of the coquettish harlequin carefully wrapped up in deadlines, schedules and shifts before. Bangs were whipping everywhere, sweat pouring freely and colourful shoes that were going to be searched for in a maddeningly confusing state of recovery in the days that were to follow.
They stopped somewhere on the edge of the core of the mosh-pit. She leaned her back on him, guiding his hands towards her navel, and closed her eyes as she rested the back of her head on his general facial area. The music began to gain tempo again, and people around them were getting restless, as if instructed by some intrinsic sound wave to pick their pace and gyrate their bodies accordingly: to release their budding energy of being young, to celebrate the unbecoming of.
She was tall — only about an inch or so shorter than him — so it was impossible to see what was going on in front of him without leaning his head. The band was now playing at a fevered pitch, possessed by the urgency of trying to establish themselves as legitimately in-touch with what they just used to be. Her body started to move in waves of calm and restlessness, every movement punctuated by the vibe of the air around her.
He stroked the side of her legs, admiring the supple crease of her jeans, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“How are we doing today?” she whispered. Her knotted bun now came undone and the intoxicating smell of sweat and shampoo briefly enveloped his face.
“I think we’re doing good. Are we doing good?” he asked rhetorically.
“You’re awesome, you know that?” she replied non sequitur. Somehow the fact that her alcoholically tainted comment had no bearing whatsoever on her actual feelings cracked him up and he chuckled. She grinned and proceeded to writhe her shoulder and spine slowly: brushing and tempting.
The sun had now settled at a comfortable angle, the elongated shadows of the band members mesmerized the young hedonists on the side of the stage. A particularly boozed up person wearing a black t-shirt imprinted with white lightning and the letters “AC/DC” managed to scramble up the stage and attempted to test the buoyancy prowess of the crowd before him. Unfortunately for him — and fortunately for the people on the ground, for he was a rather heavy-set person with drops of what appeared to be beer dripping from his morass of a goatee — the security team quickly descended on him and escorted him away amid scattered shouts of derision and applause.
It was now nearly three hours since they’d first met at the grounds and delved into a progressively downward spiral of youthful debauchery. He let his hands feel the curve of her back, her firm belly, the soft mounds and the delicate neck. She continued to move contently, glowing in the unabashed appreciation of those around them. He didn’t mind. Let them gawk, he thought.
Yesterday, he mused, I was wallowing on weed and pils. Today, I feel like a fucking rock star.
elzilcho
