Short Story : Confessions of a gig addict

It scares me sometimes, how involved I get in music. It happens without me even realising: I close my eyes and let myself go and suddenly I can’t tell left from right, up from down.

There’s so much passion involved it’s almost erotic, but we’re not making love, me and the music. Oh no. Making love implies tenderness, a shared affection. What we’re doing is fucking, and we’re fucking hard. Dirty, furious, rough sex, the kind that leaves you with rope burns and bite marks. The kind where you feel totally taken over but, somehow, you still retain control. It’s a violent surrender, a sadistic submission. Total, irrevocable immersion in the music.

My hands knotted in my hair, pulling it down over my face. Arching my neck, tilting my body towards the sound. I belong to it entirely yet, at the same time, it is mine. I own this experience. And no-one can take that away from me.

Words: Hannah Morgan

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