Like a million fools before me, and a million more to come as sure as night follows day, I leave my virgin emotions unspoken, expecting osmosis to be a go-between.
In that final hour, I felt compelled to dance. I’ve never been a dancer, nor have I ever truly felt the inclination, but suddenly, I felt the desperate need to stand up and flail around my bedroom like a madman.
I couldn't escape the crush (in both senses of the word) the first time I heard it. I was dumped, pulled under and dragged disoriented across the sandy sediment of my adolescent existence. See My Baby Jive was excoriating.
If this music was represented in colour, the canopies of the African jungle would be peeled back, revealing the beauty of the sweaty noise.
We’re on a bare mattress on the floor. The living room is strewn with sleeping bodies, toppled bottles, and sauce-smeared paper plates. I can’t look at him. I can hardly move or breathe. I’m still, concentrating on the TV.