One Hour Later
Excuse me. I had to take a mOment to…revel. Where were we? Oh yes, I’d like to maintain the illusion of intimacy, but I wasn’t the only bottom there that night. In fact, there were a good five hundred feet and a few thousand other shrieking, tambourine-rattling, pot-smoking fans between us. No matter, though, because thanks to the mega-screen, his cum-face was on display for even the cheapest voyeur.
Lindsey Buckingham may ooze sex appeal, even at sixty-years-old, but the passion in discussion surged during his solo performance of “Big Love.” Previously, this song wasn't on my set list of personal favorites, but I’ve never witnessed such a raw, urgent musical display of emotion. His aggressive thrusting aside, it was the honesty that penetrated me so thoroughly. Thank Gawd sitting was an option, because the instrumental climax left me breathless, panting (internally) as heavily as if this greatest hit were a private revelation, whispered in my ear as we fell limp amongst the dampness of our mingled sweat.
“So this is what everyone is talking about,” may not have replaced “I just want to go and eat chips,” as the follow up to any of my sexual experiences; but it is definitely an accurate summation of Fleetwood Mac’s Los Angeles stop on their 2009 UNLEASHED tour. And they still had several more songs and two, TWO encores to go.
Stevie Nicks continued the night of firsts as she strutted back on stage to the opening beats of her solo smash, “Stand Back.” Lindsey may have knocked me off my feet, but Stevie’s danciest had all of us bouncing back up and down and all around, or at least as far as we could without jostling our neighbors too aggressively. I can’t believe I’ve lived my first twenty-three years sans this aural treasure, but I couldn’t ask for a more appropriate post-coital revelry.
In typical Stevie Nicks form, she was sheathed in white tights and flowing folds of black cloth, alternating between shimmering gold and scarlet shawls. Only one hand and her face offered a glimpse of exposed skin. Her dancing can barely be deemed as such, at least outside of an outdoor music festival. Besides that glorious mane of butt-length blonde hair, she’s not even that attractive, at least by today’s standards for female artists. Yet, despite all of this, sensuality swirls around Stevie, even when all that fabric hangs still. She is the Bette Midler of hippie gays.
With no effort at research, I can say with confidence that I don’t believe Stevie or her former paramour has gone under the knife. Maybe they’ve had a few paralyzing needle pricks to the face, but what keeps these legends relevant is their undeniable talent. For Gawd’s sake, Fleetwood Mac has broken up and reunited in varying forms more times than even the most dysfunctional of couples; but they just can’t repress their passion to perform. “The Mac is back!” Hard as it might have been to pay attention to anything else but Mick Fleetwood’s pointy red ankle boots and German(?)/Swedish(?) short pants-vest combo, those four parting words were all I needed to hear.