Hook up with horny girls

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It’s a case of collective wishful thinking, shared by the fans, their detractors, and the musicians themselves, that casual sex is a crucial and inextricable fringe benefit of being a musician.

My married friends accost me with salacious and knowing winks, our female fans eye each other at the merch table like hungry cats around a wounded bird, girlfriends past and present peremptorily accuse me of everything short of sex-slavery and will not be assuaged, and interviewers leer and blatantly solicit for details— all while the unglamorous truth flops around like a beached carp.

The fact is that most musicians are sensitive people almost by definition—certainly most singers are, otherwise what the hell are they whining about?

And sensitive whiners are perhaps the least suited people in the world to be having casual sex with worshipful strangers.

Unfortunately most touring bands have a lot of really unglamorous work to do after the show, and after a few tours it isn't easy to get a "pass" from the other guys to ditch out on the heavy lifting every time some drunk girl asks you to sign her boob.

The image of the bearskin rug and the strawberries slowly fades once the girl sits on the curb for half an hour watching her love-interest and his band mates, drenched in sweat, heaving their ripped up amps into the back of their dented, ten-year old van before making the trip to the Super 8 out on the interstate.

It's very confusing to be treated like such a special person for an hour a night, and doubly so to be stared at unblinkingly by your excited fans after the show.

Likewise, musicians are often quite receptive to the idea of receiving adoration in sexual form.You become superstitious, even paranoid, waiting for the beautiful and fascinating fan who singled you out at the bar to suddenly reveal that she “knew you were a Virgo by your antennae,” or that you “remind her of all of her dead boyfriends.” Once your band starts doing well you might go through a second phase where you start playing like a high-roller.It’s part of everyone’s rock star fantasy to stroll into a nice hotel at two in the morning with a foxy girl giggling on your arm and say to the desk clerk, “I’ll take a room, my good man, with a King-sized bed.” You feel like a real killer.I once had a more seasoned rock star laugh ruefully at me when I returned from an ill-fated encounter.He took one look at my dejected and disheveled slouch and said, “I knew she was bad news, she had high-maintenance hair.” After awhile there are almost no circumstances that will lure you away from the comfort of your band mates and your routine.

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