The first chords were a call from some angel of desire.
This was the start of the wait.
The anticipation itself could spark an internal hum.
The crowd itself began to pulsate. By song number five or so, he could begin to see the glisten.
Bodies writhed to the rhythms.
He would move forward through the writhe. A poker face was part of his arsenal. They couldn’t see his joy, his arousal. They were annoyed, sure, as he pushed past, and through, and around, his own body beginning to perspire.
He would apologize to those who seemed most inconvenienced.
Sometimes he knew he let the poker face shatter and explode into joy as he waded through, toward the front, toward the epicenter, the most ardent fans who danced and wriggled.
Excuse me.
I’m sorry.
But he wasn’t, in the truest sense, sorry.
He needed them.
They thought, they always thought, they must think, that he wanted to get closer to the band.
He wanted the rub, the feel, the smell–in midsummer it could even be a stench– of their perspiration.
He believed there were others like him, but he didn’t not have the strength to ask.
Sammy Tulker is a sweat fetishist.
He thinks music is okay.
He thinks dancing is wonderful.
But only for the moist that it creates.
He has rubbed up against you.
It was erotic for him. He used you. He bathed in you. He did not ask for your consent, only your forgiveness.
He might have said excuse me.
He might have been too orgasmic to speak.
***
Well, that explains a lot
delightfully twisted