After the show, I did the groupie thing (Oh, like you didn't already guess!) and I got to meet her. She said "at last we have found each other." Little did I know she was just leading me down a primrose path, strewn with the spangles and sequins from a thousand forgotten gem sweaters. She signed all my crap, including the cd cover, on which she wrote:
Phlegmmy,
mark my beats
we r together at last.
Boosnacks!
She hugged me tight and squished her spandex-encased body all up against me, and it felt like we had a forever thing going on. I looked adoringly at her as I softly said "I'll see you tomorrow night."
Flash forward to Wednesday night at Double-Wide. I was there, I was primped and cute and ready to take my place as a constellation in Leslie's night sky. But alas, it was not meant to be. I heard Leslie tell another woman "it's all about you, baby!" and Leslie called yet another shameless hussy "sugar-lips." I was crestfallen. I felt like a cheap, gullible groupie audience member as all my dreams of a forever future with Leslie were dashed to the gutter like a corny-dog stick at the state fair midway.
Yes, 24 hours have passed, and I'm older and more mature. Wiser? Oh yes. I've grown as a person and can accept that I must share Leslie with the world. I'm kind of okay with that, but some moments it hurts. But Leslie and me? We'll always have last Tuesday night, and we'll always have Rubber Gloves.
Boosnacks!
