My girlfriend and I have gotten into some pretty freaky stuff lately. In the past, we’ve tried bondage, hair-pulling, and name-calling, but all of that starts to get a little run-of-the-mill after you’ve done it for long enough. That’s why we’re advancing to the level of sado-masochism in which she seems visibly annoyed with me all the time and also has no interest in sex. It’s kind of the ultimate BDSM fantasy, if you think about it.
For example, last night I got home from work already juiced up for our role play when she hit me with a: “Get away from me, you fat fuck.”
“That’s literally so hot, babe,” I said.
That’s just the way we talk to each other now — it started happening after we took a long trip together and she got a chance to see how I live when I’m alone, which, according to her, “really changed her view of me.” It felt so awful and demeaning, almost like the real thing!
After divulging our new adventures in the bedroom to a few of my friends, it’s come to my attention that to some less sexually evolved folks this three-month-long role play might seem like a relationship on the rocks. What these people don’t understand is there is a very fine line between a struggling relationship and an extremely realistic sado-masochistic enactment, and I am all for pushing that line as far as it can go. For instance, last week when we were role-playing on the long car ride, my girlfriend made me pull over just to tell me she “needs a break” and “is thinking of going back to grad school.”
That’s right, give it to me. There is nothing kinkier than the sting of someone growing up and moving on from you.
What’s our safe word?
We haven’t actually talked about this part yet. I think we’re both so wrapped up in the danger and excitement of it all that we can forget to take care of each other’s feelings. Right, babe? I’m sure she’ll agree, just as soon as she finishes packing her suitcase for whatever fun vacation she’s planning for us!
Ian Mackaye looked so cool jamming the headstock of his SG into his Marshall stack like a samurai disemboweling a foe. And you’ve spent many years trying to mimic this move. But even Ian Mackaye downgraded his stack for a tube combo so he could play libraries in his quieter projects. But you aren’t Ian Mackaye. You’re downgrading your amp because you’ve thrown your back out twice in the past two years lugging your gear down a set of less than four stairs, which cost you a collective two week’s worth of PTO from your day job. Worth it for the glory of playing to the same five friends at a sad dive on a Tuesday night? Sit with that one for a bit.
You’ve hit the age where you can finally admit to yourself that Led Zeppelin has some pretty killer tunes. Especially the sad droning twelve-string ballads like “That’s the Way” and “Tangerine.” So you put on your Groucho Marx outfit and picked up a twelve-string from Guitar Center. You convinced your reluctant band to let you bust that bad boy out at a show for a cover of “Unsatisfied” by The Replacements. But the temperature fluctuation in the venue, plus the handful of whiskey sodas you had earlier, got you lost in the choppy seas of retuning, your tuner pedal was unable to keep up. It’s a moment you and the band no longer speak of. So the twelve-string collects dust, except for those pure nights where you serenade your cat with sloppy renditions of your favorite Big Star and Zeppelin tunes. He gets you.
The bassists in the other local bands on the bill have stopped replying to your plea to borrow their rig for your set a long time ago. Because you’ve never once returned the favor. In fact, your cab sits at home, serving as a table for your collection of vintage sci-fi action figures you purchase on Ebay, and flip at an inflated price. You’ve made more money (and friends) doing this than you’ve made playing live music in your twenty years of gigging. So you took a little action figure money, bought a Sans Amp pedal, and never looked back, baby.
You always respected Steve Albini, the king of post-hardcore nerd rage, for his uncompromising vision, but one thing you could never quite get behind was his waist harness guitar strap. It was all just a little too, “kick my ass please,” for your tastes. But lately, your guitar strap has been applying too much pressure on the nerves by your neck and it’s been fucking with your shoulders and arms. Your doctor told you to switch things up, or face permanent nerve damage. So you swallowed your pride, strapped one on, and cried a little when you looked in the mirror. Your pride is hurt, but your shoulders and arms feel much better. Is it all worth it though? Probably not.
When emo revival blossomed in the 2010s, you were stoked. Finally, you could openly finger tap, play in nominally weird time signatures, and cry/sing about your childhood dog, all while romanticizing your attachment issues. But things with your band, How Long Without, just aren’t the same. Between parenting duties, AA meetings, and losing a handful of bassists to sexual assault allegations, it doesn’t seem worth it to put as much energy into the band anymore. But you find solace now, going into your basement after work, and transforming yourself into Vlargus, The King of Eternal Sorrows. You utilize your 10-watt Marshall practice amp, B.C. Rich guitar, thrift shop casio, and Tascam four-track, to record unlistenable static homages to self-destruction and solitude. And you can rest assured, nobody will listen to this mess, so you won’t have to worry about loading out for this one.
You just weren’t thinking when you planted yourself four feet back from center stage before Twenty Minute Commitment’s set. Seconds into their first tune, a moderately intense pit broke out. But this time you didn’t scuttle off to the side. Shit at the office was pretty tense. Might feel good to let off some steam. Ope! Nope! You immediately lost your balance, fell on your side, and spilled your drink all over the floor like a total asshole. Luckily, a couple of youths scooped your sorry old ass off the floor, and you shuffled to the back. You popped a couple Ibuprofen, drove home, and replied to some work emails before bed. Never again.
“Fuuuuuck. Your set totally killed. And man, your vocal delivery is on point. You have a real presence, and you ride the wave of making the crowd feel like you might completely annihilate them, while also making sure everyone is taken care of and ultimately safe. That’s a hard balance to maintain, and you do it brilliantly. And listen, I get what you’re saying about your dad. He sounds like a real dick. But man, I am sure he’s just trying his best. The reason he’s coming down on you so hard is all rooted in fear of the realization that he can’t keep you safe in this brutal, uncaring world, and he doesn’t want to lose the person he loves more than anything else on this earth. Go fuck myself? Yeah, totally. Great set. Sorry.”
Opening a local show used to feel like such a burn. Nobody would see the set you and your buds worked so hard to perfect. But as you’ve gotten older, you’ve realized that half of the time, the opening bands get just as much of an audience as the closers do, and sometimes the closers get even less of an audience. So, you’ve quit fucking around. Now you and your band volunteer, every time, to open up the show. You look like selfless heroes, but the real reason you’re doing this is so you can sneak out the back of the venue after your play, get home before ten o’clock, enjoy a cup of Sleepy Time Tea, and hit the hay at a reasonable hour so you can show up to work bright eyed and ready to impress the boss.