Breakups are never easy. I'd known Samantha for over eleven years, since my University days, and we'd been dating for nine. We'd even floated the idea of marriage, but I'd never proposed and she never pushed it. There was no need to change what we did. We were happy.
After graduating from University, I worked at a bank's IT development department and specialised in the interconnect between the bank's core system and the London Stock Exchange. Five years ago, I left to become a freelance consultant. Last year, I became mortgage-free and owned my detached four-bedroom house in a picturesque hamlet, just outside the M25, outright. Two weeks ago, I came home early and witnessed my girlfriend engaged in energetic sex on the lounge carpet with our neighbour's eighteen-year-old son.
We both said words that could not be unsaid and my ex-girlfriend packed and left that night. She said I was not a tiger in the bedroom, but I knew that. I am a passive lover who loved to be led. I wanted to try fetishes and kinks my girlfriend did not and I could not dominate and ravish her. That wasn't me. I am no alpha-male but a submissive or a gentle companion.
My sudden change of relationship status allowed me more time with my leisure pursuits. I had three hobbies. I watched my local football team, played computer games, and I ran the official fans' club of a female rock act. Bitches Against were my favourite band, and after attending a concert in a London park seven years ago, I set up the fans club with two fellow men, also entranced by unpredictable rockers.
The band comprising five women, all of a similar age to me, was incredible; their music was intoxicating. A steady mix of original songs combined with punk rock covers of legendary artists. They stuffed every performance with high-energy beats, powerful vocals and incredible guitar solos. We loved them, and I toured the UK to see them play whenever I could.
I combined most of my city breaks with attending a concert by Bitches Against. Samantha hated them and on our most recent holiday, she visited the cinema while I partied with the punk rockers I loved so much. Our fan club, run online, numbered several hundred. Each of the band had their devotees, but for me, it was the lead singer I was most enchanted with.
Natasha was special. Bright neon pink straight hair that reached her shoulders, an innocent face with a smile that could light up Blackpool promenade. She always wore tops with plunging necklines to expose her cleavage and had the most forceful, potent voice that could have demolished skyscrapers. Her energetic vocals left me fired up and excited for hours after every single concert.
She was one in a million. A treasure. And she made me feel amazing. After my breakup, I played their music for days. Every one of their seven albums streamed on repeat. I relived every concert, every performance, every moment of Natasha's incredible voice. I re-imagined the warm clubs, the open air festivals and that freezing night on the banks of Loch Lomond with snow-capped mountains in the distance as they raised money for their Scottish guitarist's home town.
The breakup with my cheating ex also gave me an opportunity. Bitches Against's latest tour was ending with a just a handful of concerts left. I had already seen them on their "From Bags to Bitches" tour four times, and had tickets for their closing date in London in December. However, without Samantha to argue, I bought a ticket for their show in Bristol for that weekend and booked a cheap hotel near the venue.
It was part of the council's Halloween and bonfire night celebrations. In The Downs, part of the city's public open space with panoramic views across the river and the iconic suspension bridge, the council had installed a funfair, an arcade, a pop-up pub tent, and a music stage. Everyone in the park would hear the Bitches Against concert, but only those with tickets would get inside the cordon to see them.
It was mild for the time of year, and the vast bonfire, along with the body heat of 1,000 spectators, warmed the arena. Natasha and the band entered to a raucous reception; they held bottles of beer and the band swept through their first eight songs. I stood at the front, against the stage; it was the closest I had been to the band in years. Their early gigs were in clubs and bars and there was no distance between the musicians and the audience, but as their profile rose, they played at venues which had greater separation and security personnel between the musicians and the fans. This was not the case at Bristol's bonfire celebrations, where I was at touching distance.
I bought another beer at the intermission, and a few minutes later, the band returned. They did another song, and I saw an element of discomfort in Natasha's face as she hit her final lyric. "This is a shout out to Bristol Town Council," she cried. "As they've fucking closed all the fucking Portaloos for us bitches on this side of the park. Where are we supposed to fucking piss?" She asked.
"On stage!" A voice cried, and she laughed. She did another song and another. But the beer had an effect and I could see her squirm as she finished her next incredible musical performance.
"Who wants to get fucking pissed on?" She asked, yelling at the crowd. I was three feet away from her, and I was too excited. Of course, I yelled, putting my hand up and cheering as she raucously guffawed. She was joking, but she clocked my enthusiastic self-nomination with a broad smirk and started her last song of the night. Wake Up by Rage Against the Machine.
The beat of the speakers caused the stage to vibrate. The air trembled at the sound of Paula's aggressive guitar and the ground quaked at the movement of the drums. An emotional overload to finish the set. To draw the performance to a close.
Every hair stood on end as Natasha started the punk rock anti-establishment anthem with incredible intensity. And during the vocal interlude she looked at me. She pointed at me. "Get. On. This. Fucking. Stage."
I froze, overwhelmed. Almost 100 concerts spread over 30,000 miles, and Natasha - the object of my punk rock obsession - had spoken to me for the first time. Five brief words that made an order. I could not resist her, but my feet could barely move. Spellbound, I put my trembling hands on the top of the temporary stage and pulled myself onto the wooden platform, kneeling in front of her.
Her blue eyes gave a menacing welcome. At that moment, I felt like I was her prey and as she held the microphone close to her mouth and sang, "yeah, yeah, back in this," she pulled me by the back of my T-shirt onto my back. I was flat out, looking upwards at the twinkling dots in the night sky.