Look, I’m not one of those rabid anti-Britney people, at least not for the purposes of this exposition, where I am attempting to establish the credibility and objectivity of my narrative.
Hey! What’s that behind you?
Ahem. Now that my credentials are fully established, let me further say that I think the jury is still out on whether or not Ms. Spears is a genuine artist, simply because in this era of marketing, Photoshop, pitch-rectifying soundboards, and post-Milli-Vanilli cynicism, we have yet to see anything of the young lady’s true talents.
Still, I’d do her, especially when she’s in that big-boobie marketing cycle. It really shows off her smile.
I’d do Britney because she’s old enough in the eyes of the law. But what I saw tonight was not. I would like to blame the Metro, but to be honest I think the mistake was my–no, Britney’s–fault.
See, I was coming back from the bar, minding my own business. These days I have to pass under the Playground of the Damned and change to the Blue line at Rosslyn in order to return to my new home, the Belfry. There were delays. Not uncommon, I thought, so I sat down and read a book for a while.
Then, this train finally came. Something forced me to squeeeeze my way aboard.
That something was a train packed like a can of sardines with young nubiles, in halter tops and tied-off tee-shirts and little butts the size of a paperback on end, back from a Britney Spears concert in DC. Sweaty young girls, brimming over with the chatter of barely suppressed sexuality. And–I’m not making this up–I clearly read “BLUE LINE” on the train’s signs. I really did. Or I really thought I did.
It wasn’t until I got aboard when I realized that, while I was indeed attracted to the contents of the train, those contents were clearly off limits to me. I was a man among a sea of learner’s permits and the occasional preoccupied milf, and those chaperons were clocking me like a South Carolina highway cop at the end of the month.
“Are you a Britney Spears fan?” asked one girl who I would have happily bounced on my knee five years ago. In another three years I’d have her bouncing again, all right.
“No, I’m more of a Burning Spear fan.” That made no sense to the nymphette, and she went back to conversing with her extraordinarily well-developed friends about Britney’s incredible nacho diet that the star of the evening apparently enjoys.
At some point, I took the time to glance out the window. And you know what? I was right back where I started, at Ballston, on the Orange line. I exited with a hundred princesses, yet to be defiled by my penis, and I directed some of them to the taxi stand I was heading for myself.
I took a cab home–alone–and it cost me ten bucks I really didn’t want to spend. The cab driver got pissed at me when I told him the trains were all fucked up and little girls were going to be lost all over town.
I’ll bet he was pissed at me because he was just like me. Hands pressed against the glass at the candy store. I never realized I was such a sick bastard, or that other, seemingly normal guys like my cab driver are as well. Once he understood what I was saying, it was eighty all the way home, and I was out ten bucks. Maybe he was just chasing the money, but I doubt that was the whole story.
Anyway, there’s no point to this vaguely incriminating narrative, except to say that I’m sorry I want to screw your little Britney fan. I promise I won’t do it. And Britney, I still think you owe me ten bucks. But maybe we can discuss it over a plate of nachos sometime.
