Nothing Else Matters

As my previous post said, I went to see Metallica on Monday night. I went with some of my guy friends because none of my girlfriends seem to like Metallica. We got stuck in traffic for an hour, so we missed the opening acts of The Sword and Machinehead, unfortunately. We got to our seats and I couldn't sit still. I looked around at the crowd and was glad to see that there was a relatively diverse audience. When one thinks of Metallica fans, I doubt they think diversity. Admittedly, my first thought is a Union worker in his early to late 30s that listens to them on the drive home from work in his truck to unwind.

As I looked around, there were some girls there, of all ages surprisingly. The oldest lady I saw there was probably around 60 years old and looked like she had a damn good time, too. There were mostly guys, some with long hair, some with strict buzz cuts who were wearing nice jeans and a pretty nice shirt and polished shoes. There were Mexicans, whites, and a few black people there. It was fun to look around during some songs and see different kinds of people pumping their fist in the air.

On to the music. I was blown away by Metallica's show. Maybe it was because it was my first time seeing them live, but I truly was entertained for almost 3 hours. I was sweating by the second song, feeling the heat from the pyrotechnics and constantly moving as they rocked out.

We had pretty good seats in the upper level, but it wasn't like we were that far away from the stage. The way the venue was set up was a pit level for people who bought floor seats, than a level that was away from the center of the arena (think hockey rink) and then the upper levels. We were in the first upper level, not the furthest level. As Metallica walked on stage in complete darkness with only a green laser light squiggling light onto the stage, I got goosebumps.

When they played their first song, I could have probably cried because it was so awesome already. The spotlight flashed to James, wearing a black t-shirt, tight jeans, and a faux-hawk, which was surprisingly super hot on him. I don't know if I've ever wanted to fuck a man more than in that moment when I saw James on stage. Wait, that's not true. I never wanted to fuck a man more than when James did his signature grunt in "Enter Sandman." I was getting wet over some guy singing on a stage. Weird? Perhaps. It happened nonetheless, and I had a great dream about fucking James the night after the show, so it worked out well for my fantasies.

I never sat down during the entire concert and part of me wished that I would have gotten floor seats so that I could be right by the stage, but I was afraid that I would get beat the fuck up in a mosh-pit, so I bought the real seat tickets. Next time, I'll buy floor seats for sure. Rocker, who also had tickets that night and the following night, was in the pit and I periodically scanned for him in a sea of anonymous faces to see if I could recognize him. Of course I didn't, it was probably statistically impossible for me to do so, but I just felt the need to do it.

When they played "Nothing Else Matters" I got a huge smile on my face and my cousin, who went with us, asked me if that was my favorite song or something. "No, it's not my favorite. The boy I'm talking to has played it for me on his guitar, so I guess I'm just thinking of him." I thought about Rocker during the entire song and was wondering if he was thinking of me, too. I wanted to be with him in that moment, to share it together and to know that it meant something for both of us.

Speaking of Rocker, we still haven't met. I'm getting sick of saying that, but whatever. It'll happen when it happens I suppose. Last Wednesday, I went out to a bar with a my friend and we met up with my cousin and some of his friends. Because I'm broke and so is the friend I went with, we shared a bottle of rum before we left to the bar, chugging as much as we could and chasing it with the can of Sierra Mist I had in my fridge. The bottle emptied and I saw my red reflection in the mirror, thanks to my Irish heritage, I get red in the face whenever I drink liquor quickly.

By the time we got dropped off by my friend's fiance, we were drunk. I was texting Rocker, nothing terrible or risque. He was bartending, so he couldn't talk much, but he sure responded more after I sent him a picture of my outfit. He clearly liked it, and I took the opportunity to flirt with him via texting when I was in between mingling. I told him that I wanted him and he told me that he felt the same, but that he doesn't take advantage of girls that are drunk. I can respect that and I really should stop texting when I'm drunk because it could be interpreted as being a tease. After having two long island iced teas, I was well on my way to being trashed. I was being suprisingly tame with Rocker, only hinting at how much I wanted him and not even saying anything truly dirty. I wondered if he was having dirty thoughts about me as he was working. I liked thinking of him thinking of me. When I got back to my room, he called me and told me goodnight and that he really liked me, but that was the end of it. No phone sex, no nothing. I didn't know if I was disappointed or not, but it is what it is.

Saturday I went to a ball-yes, a real ball all Cinderella-ish-at my school. It's an annual black tie fundraising event that many rich people in the county and surrounding areas attend to donate money to my lovely school. During the day, Rocker knew that I had to go get my hair and make-up down for the ball, so he texted me throughout the day. He was at his friend's house jamming and learning some of the new band's songs. I asked him if his friend was teaching him any new finger techniques and he replied, "Yeah. For you." Ahh, he got my little innuendo. I told him that I'll have to let his friend know how they worked out and if I approve. Rocker didn't take the bait really, he just told me that he liked me and that I was funny. Ugh. Yes, I'm funny. But, come on, talk dirty to me or something. Take the bait that I'm so easily laying out for you. I know you like me and you know I like you, so what the fuck is the problem here? Ask me out on a date, ask me if I want to go to one of your shows, ask me something that involves us meeting for Christ sake.

I really don't like being frustrated like this, but for now at least I can look forward to James Hetfield pounding me in my dreams.