It’s the way his forearm looks when he strums the guitar – highlighted beautifully with tattoos and framed by a tight t-shirt. Or perhaps it’s the thump of the bassline in my crotch or the scent of sweaty people throwing down in the mosh pit. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in what feels like a lifetime I am dancing like I don’t care how to dance. Either way I know that when the music starts to play, I’ll be thinking that I wanna fuck the band.

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