Originally published in July 2016.
If there's anyone in this godforsaken place who can get away with staring at my ass, it's my drummer. Actually, that's his job. I pay him to observe every drop, lock, twist, twerk, clench, accent, bounce, circle, roll, shimmy, vibration, jiggle, wiggle and wobble that it's capable of doing, and to create a corresponding sound for each movement.
Doom; tak; traaaaaaK!;
dr-r-r-r-r-r…; dishhh. This is called
translation, and it's what draws attention to my moves. So
basically, he's my butt's translator. Or spokesman.
Don't laugh. It's a serious job (and
a much coveted one in the land of sexual frustration). But it isn't easy. You
see, my behind is a complicated thing. It has a mind of its own, and it moves
in ways that even I don't fully comprehend. Somehow though, my drummer
understands it. I want to say it's because we've been working together almost
every single night for the past five years, but that's not the reason. Tamer
understood my teeze from day one.*
