There were boobies everywhere. Boobies up above, boobies down below, boobies ahoy – in fact, from our cherished vantage point, Justin had concluded, ‘Boobies are the currency of success.’
Polka dots and puppy fat, crimson-faced damsels, brides of enlightenment (with sex on the brain) and rockaholics in fishnet who’d been around the block several times already and fancied another go. They all had boobies. And apparently, most of them had twats also – if we’d care to have a rummage and find out for ourselves. They say that gravity is irresistible, and for a while we all knew how that felt. Eventually, though, even making apples fall downward from a tree can get a bit wearing.
Some of them would just stand there staring, eyes on stalks, milking the moment for all it was worth, momentarily stunned by Justin’s flaming crotch tattoo. They reminded me of Sissy Spacek’s character in Carrie. Looking back, I suppose it was simply a case of one bewildered person meeting another.
Most of them were satisfied with the standard signature or autograph on a concert ticket stub, magazine, sweatband or thong. But the real enthusiasts wanted a ‘boobograph’: ‘Could you sign my tits, please?’ Tiny pause. ‘OK!’* The boobograph hunter would then gladly get them out, like she couldn’t quite believe her luck. Which was an amazing coincidence, as we couldn’t quite believe ours either.
Some of them were truly boobtastic. I mean, you wouldn’t plonk your family trinkets under a pawnbroker’s nose if you didn’t think they were worth perusing, now would you? I can’t prove it, of course, but I’m fairly certain they enjoyed it as much as we did. A good technique was to start the name at the top of the cleavage, feigning decency. My ‘Frankie’ would then veer dramatically southwards, stopping just in time for a dainty ‘x’ on the nipple itself. Bass players get used to starting and stopping in the right place.
Now I remember all those lovely tits and appreciate very much the acts of generosity. Just like charity fucks, it’s better to give than to receive. I’d like to be able to offer a similar act of giving. I’ve decided that one day I’ll go to a Nelly Furtado concert, sneak in backstage and ask her to autograph my balls.
* I’ve witnessed many mega-musicians refuse young autograph seekers, but why make them suffer?