Mindela Ruby

G-Force and G-Spot At Last

The curtain parts on a punkabaloo fivesome. Me and Emmie, my new 12-Step pal, join the mob rushing the stage. Not that this band is bad-ass. It’s more that, in our Tequila Sunrise urgency, me and Emmie are hell-bent on getting lost in the rollick. Sex addict energy has to get channeled some place.

I bust out some moves to the band’s hucklefuck licks to keep my toes, crammed into the hot-girl shoes on loan from Emmie from getting trampled. When the thrash escalates, responsibility for my mosh pit newbie chum spurs me to yell, “You should steer clear of this brute force!”

But over the banjo power chords and herky-jerky screeching no one can hear squat. Emmie doesn’t seem to mind the elbows bayoneting her.

A hardcore song gets a phalanx of young toughs boiling. Jampacted in front of the stage, I smell skunky BO and taste salt seeping from people’s pores. That my feet are bloody crush in sling-backs almost slips my mind. Emmie propulses to ground zero of the melee as a friend from back in the day, Spaceman Steve, crashes toward me. “Space!” I scream, grabbing his shoulder.

We grin like monkeys across a fruit basket. Steve drums for The Beam-Me-Ups and feels like he’s all bone and cotton. A hand I hope is his gropes my chest, a turn-on I’m digging, ‘til recovery-group Emmie slam-dances back, her presence reminding me: Cheap erotic kicks not allowed. I hop clear of Steve’s reach.

“Is she your friend?” he booms, staring at Miss Push-And-Shove-With-Glee. Who would have guessed my covergirl escort would have so much punk cheek in her? She might be pent up from too much psychotherapy and wedding plans and secrets kept from the future groom. Without warning or permission Steve clamps Emmie’s hips and hoists her into the air. Other hands grab her Victoria Secret body, and she’s off and crowd-surfing whether she likes it or not, windmilling her arms and whooping like a thunderstruck bird. Standing on tiptoes, I watch her being handed along overhead.

Being levitated and touched at the mercy of strangers, while disorienting at first, can, I know from experience, be the ride of a lifetime. G-force and G-spot together at last. Yielding to a gusto that’s bigger than your throbbing little self. If Emmie wanted to forget her issues and have a classic punk lark, this is it. The thrills of the mosh pit!

And the chills. Getting your pubes probed, your clothes ripped, your hair yanked, your skin gouged, your wallet stolen, your shoes lost, your rotator cuffs wrenched, your eyes poked and spine disjointed—all of which have happened to me--as you tack a sea of heads and shoulders in the name of good, clean escapism.

Raised hands by the dozens relay Emmie toward a runty punkette who’s holding her ground at the fringe of the slammers. This girl must not want some groovy chick’s decorative ass landing on her, because--and this happens almost too fast to see, let alone prevent--instead of bearing Emmie aloft, like a cooperative mosher, this purple polyester jellyfish steps out of rank and lets my homegirl plummet. And that’s the suckiest part of crowd-surfing: going down.

I battle my way to the crash site, where Emmie’s prone on the floor, the mob avoiding her. One positive sign of crisis averted is her leg drawn compactly to her chest instead of hanging limp, like an unconscious person’s limb.

I push past a spike-necklace skinhead standing between me and my friend. Instead of making way, the brickhouse gink shoves me so hard I hit the deck right near Emmie and end up sprawled, legs akimbo, in the clearing of bodies. I don’t believe this is even slightly symbolic. Yet the only thing it appears I’ve busted is the strap of one spike-heel sling-back. “Are you alright?” I say.

“My knee feels funky,” Emmie answers, then laughs it off.

I can’t help but smile. Another half hour survived with neither of us acting out. We’re only slightly scathed to show for it.

“And ooooh,” my pal groans in a foreboding minor key. “I might have broken my neck.”

Mindela Ruby has been a motel maid, punk radio DJ and SAT tutor; she currently works as a college writing instructor. Her recent fiction has appeared online, in print and in audio format. She has written a novel, "Mosh It Up."