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I Feel You

Don't underestimate the power of music...

I’ve always loved fucking to music. I liked dancing, especially while wasted on top of a nightclub speaker, but I loved fucking to music. It wasn’t the primal beat or the sappy, sentimental love song that drew me. Sure, both had their moments. But it was the mutual connection that a partner and I had with a specific song, group, or musician. It was just us and them.

It’s hard to properly describe the experience because it’s more of a feeling than anything else. That emotional connection, usually acknowledged with just a look, actually transcended the lyrics and music. It became a collective consciousness for one specific purpose: heart-pounding, sweat-generating, multiple orgasm-producing, obscenely unapologetic sex.

For me, there was no better group for creating those moments in that environment than Depeche Mode, and no better singer than the moody baritone-voiced, lead singer, Dave Gahan. And in the summer of 1990, there was no better partner than Brandi Bryson.

We met at college. We both were suspiciously single, but I later learned that she had broken up with her then boyfriend to be with me. I was in between relationships, as one coyly says when trying to act less desperate than one actually was.

Remember those embarrassingly unburdened, halcyon days?

We were pure sex. Yes, the love was strong but the lust clouded everything. We fucked every which way, anywhere we could. We took turns, as switch as we could possibly be, to use a more current term. But she loved being on top with me underneath, to paraphrase a popular Depeche Mode sentiment. She’d turn up the music so we couldn’t hear each other sing, and we both did. We sung every fucking word while our bodies moved on and in one another. Dave Gahan came out of her mouth, and his hypnotic voice came out of mine.

Brandi climbed on and I’d fill her, but she never rode me. She slid. She grinded. She danced. But she rarely bounced. Her body swallowed mine and while holding hands and locking eyes, she rocked her hips back and forth while we sang to one another. We didn’t sing loud enough to be heard over the music, but we felt each other’s every exhausted word and breath.

We were connected. It was as simple and yet as complicated as that. Think about it. When was the last time, if ever, you could fuck without speaking, knowing exactly what to do and what the other person was thinking? Knowing exactly what that person needed from you at that moment. It’s a rarity but we had it. If you have that wondrous connection, treasure it because it can disappear without notice. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

Or is it?

Like most young couples, we eventually parted and went our own ways. It was so long ago. Who clearly remembers the reasons why, although I still today feel some guilt about our breakup almost thirty years ago. We’ve not seen or spoken to one another since, but I think about her often. I also wonder if she thinks about me.

Last fall, after waiting for over three decades to see my band live in concert, I finally did. In my home town. It was the last thing of consequence remaining on my bucket list, but I almost missed the concert.

Battling a severe case of existentialism, reeling from a failing and now failed two decades plus long marriage, and not one but two recent, back-to-back messy infidelity breakups, I missed the concert announcement and all the promotional noise. I was looking for love. Looking for life’s meaning but I was living under a rock. I kept my distance from those in my once happy and productive society. But one fortunate day, I saw it. Just like Santa Claus, Depeche Mode was coming to town.

I was fortunate to find a lone ticket. The concert had been sold out for months but someone posted a sole ticket on the promoter’s resale site. I paid way too much but I got my bucket list ticket. My last item. I half-jokingly said that I could die immediately after the concert. Not before. Not during. But after. In some ways, on certain days before the concert, I wished I could.

The weeks and days leading up to the concert were charged with emotion. Memories flooded back. Their music spoke, and still does, to me like no other’s. Depeche Mode’s was like the soundtrack to my life.

Lust. Love. Pain. Depression. Meaning. Death. Life.

Repeat.

I wondered a lot about Brandi during that time too. I thought especially about our seemingly unique connection. My wife and I never shared that kind of connection. We had other connections but they were less intense and had long left our relationship. It took me too many years to realize my failure and own my mistake. But the bitterness ran deep.

She too bares much responsibility, but still fails to acknowledge it. I’m embarrassed as much as I am angry and frustrated. I feel I was mislead. No one who claims to love someone would abandon them the way she abandoned me. It just doesn’t fucking happen. I should have left years ago but I’m trapped. In fact, I was less than twelve hours away from leaving her to be with someone else, but that didn’t happen either. Some days, I both regret and not regret that decision, and may repeatedly do so the rest of my remaining days. But sadly, it was the right decision to not go at that time.

The night of the concert was magical. So many years I had waited. I’d sung every song. I knew what the playlist was because I followed their tour online. I made certain I could sing along with the crowd.

If you know of Dave’s double arm swing during the singing of, Never Let Me Down Again, that was oddly the thing I looked forward to the most. To be connected in that manner with over sixteen thousand people was beyond my comprehension, but I tried my best to imagine it. It wouldn’t be the same connection as being fucked while being sung to by Brandi, but I had to accept that.

I arrived early, telling my family before I left that I’d be home late. How late, who knew? I didn’t care. The way I felt when the door closed behind me, never was fine too.

As the arena slowly filled, the air increasingly became more electric. The excitement built and the nervous chatter began. Everyone’s. I didn’t want to miss a second of my evening. I could tell from the conversations around me that so many others felt the same way.

And then, there she was.

I saw Brandi walking down the stairs towards me. I panicked. As she got closer, my heart pounded. I felt flushed. It had been so long. I saw her checking her ticket and when she got to my row, our row, she saw me. The tears came fast as she rushed to embrace me. I don’t think I cried that much since my dogs died. We held each other for several moments until we both started laughing. We weren’t kids anymore. That was for certain.

The extra ticket. It was hers. Almost three years after her divorce, she finally began dating again. The guy she had intended to bring was not Mr. Right 2.0. He wasn’t even Mr. Right Now or Mr. Right Tonight. She dumped him and decided to go alone. She said she’d feel a stronger connection with a crowd of strangers that were fans, than some random, unappreciative date. She also joked that she might even get lucky at the concert. Funny. I had the same silly thought when I wondered who I’d be standing next to during the concert.

Thirty years.

Thirty fucking years.

Except for a little more here and there on both of us, and she laughed that I still had most of my hair with the temples now starting to whiten, we were essentially the same love and lust struck kids from college. Our eyes said all that we needed to hear. We were the only ones for each other for this concert. Whatever the reasons were, they were a life time ago. Tonight, with us being together, was now all that mattered.

Before we knew it, after our expedited catch-up, the house lights dimmed, the opening act came, played, and went, and our band took the stage. With the first note on Martin Gore’s Gibson guitar, Brandi and I embraced one another. The music caused our tears to flow again, and then we kissed.

No words.

No hesitation.

No guilt.

We kissed and it felt like home.

For the remainder of the concert, we sang our asses off, smiling like those kids from that time gone by, and one way or another, stayed physically connected for the entire show. We held hands or bounced hips or I’d stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her ample bosom. She never flinched. She placed her hands over mine and we swayed together to the music. Our music. I nestled my nose in her hair, which no longer rigidly reached for the sky like it did in the eighties. But she smelled the exact same way. She smelled like mine.

With our ears still ringing and our voices hoarse, after almost two hours of upright cuddling, we filtered out of the arena with the rest of the giddy patrons, eventually finding our way to the street. That dreaded time had arrived. It was time to say goodbye and return to our separate lives; lives separated by living three decades apart, but brought together by our love of the same music for one splendid evening.

Again, we found that spoken words were inconsequential. We knew what we needed to do. Before we changed our minds, we hurried to the Four Seasons two blocks away. I turned off the suite's lights and in the shadows we nervously kissed while we undressed one another. It didn’t take us long to again find our groove.

Brandi grabbed me and led me to the bed. She pushed me back and spread me out until I was splayed across the bedspread. She briefly took me in her warm mouth before mounting me like the younger versions of our selves. Once inside her woman’s body, she playfully swung her large breasts across my face before pressing play. We then interlocked our fingers and she slowly rocked her hips against mine to the rhythmic and melancholic sounds of our band.

We then continued where we had left off so many fond memories ago.

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