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A SEQUEL TO
LOVE'S PAST, LOVE'S FUTURE
by T.L. Davison
Wembley Stadium, London, Late Spring
THROBBING EXCITEMENT VIBRATED THROUGH the crowd in the packed stadium, then the place erupted into a thunderous roar of applause, whistles and screams of delight as the young rockstar strutted out on to the stage. Provocative, clad completely in black; skin-tight leather pants and a black pirate-styled silk shirt opened only enough to reveal a healthily tanned chest, no one would have ever guessed that in a little over a month he would be turning thirty-five. He looked twenty-three at the most. Thanks to the skill of a master plastic surgeon he was simply beautiful. Standing at five feet and six inches, his rather diminutive stature and boundless energy simply added to his aura of eternal youth. Spiked platinum blond hair and rivetting, sensual aquamarine eyes and lips that millions of women would sell their souls to kiss just once. Three times a week working out with a personal trainer, had produced a perfectly toned athletic body.
Along with the scent of threatening rain in the clouds gathering over head, the pungent aroma of high-grade marijuana---and he had been quite the connoisseur at one time---rose from the packed stadium and travelled on the air. He often wondered how he was able to stay in this business and remain sober and drug free. The answer was simple. He was a lot stronger and liked himself more now, together with twice monthly attendance at AA meetings along with his AA sponsor who often travelled as part of his entourage.
"Mike, Mike, Mike." The crowd chanted his name like a mantra, oblivious of the threatening skies above. Young groupies threw scarves, hankies, flowers and bits of paper with phone numbers written on themon to the stage, along with the odd piece of underwear or two.
Yes, they loved him, they adored him, they couldn't get enough of him. Jeeesus! This was even better than the first time around! He was their newest, twenty something rock icon, arisen out of nowhere to become a star almost overnight; A poor cockney boy with as much driving ambition as boundless talent. The critics compared him to the likes of Bowie and Stewart and his guitar playing talent to that of Eric Clapton. But they invariably came to the conclusion that he was in a class by himself with a genuine talent that the music critics lauded. They used adjectives like electrifying and sensational to describe his group's performances. And Dark Angel certainly packed the crowds in. However, it was becoming more evident that he was the main attraction. The latest reviews in the trades had all been smashing, and he had made the covers of Rolling Stone and People this month, along with appearing on the Tonight Show. Kenn may not have cared very much for the press, but the smart businessman in him understood its necessity in the public area of his life. He had learned to play it like his favourite guitar, and most of the time had it eating out of his hands. A mesmerizing stage and public persona and a megawatt smile that could melt the toughest of resolves, also contributed greatly to his immense popularity.
Good lord, if they only knew the truth! He mused as he proceeded to
deliver what they had come for; His raunchy strut around the stage with
moves that not even Mick Jagger had thought of as yet. He was accompanied
by a state-of-the-art laser light show and an all female backup band clad
in black leather and lace, as he belted out many of his chart toppers while
his fans clamoured for him, shouted his name and continued to throw flowers
and personal articles up to the stage. Yes, he had them at his feet. He
had everything. The proverbial overnight success story, and as incredibly
attractive as he was a gifted musician, who
He looked at the screaming, clamouring audience for a few moments with a somewhat jaundiced eye, thinking;
Here I am, and there they are, they scream and swoon at my feet and clamour for what I have to offer. They adore me but they don't know me. All they see is an image; A fantasy that transports them away from their mundane lives for a couple hours. I can have anyone of them in the palm of my hand with a mere snap of my fingers, if I choose. But none of them move me the way she does. No one ever will. They think I've got it made. Lord, if they only knew the truth.
They would never know or see into the deepest part of his heart where she lived and walked in the soft haunting ballads he sang, or the classical sonatas he played in solitude, softly loving him, wanting him. But that was only in his own dreams. She was blissfully happy, married to another man, but if she ever needed someone, he would be there beside her in a flash. He had never stopped loving her.
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