Photo by Aditya Chinchure on Unsplash
“Benji! Benji! Benji!,” chanting drifted through the venue to backstage. I double checked the reflection in the mirror. Then wiped sweaty hands on my too tight red pants.
The last time I met with my manager, Monica, she had insisted on hiring a stylist. ‘The female fans love the way you look in them. The pictures of you in those pants get the most hits,’ she had said.
I replied, ‘Yeah, they’re twice my age and want to jump my bones. Then they want to mother me. Those middle-aged women scare me.’
I pulled at the pants until they felt more comfortable. My mouth was dry and I felt like hurling. I miss the days when I only worried about technical difficulties. Now, I have to worry about women grabbing me or a wardrobe malfunction.