🎧' I Hate Myself for Loving You – Joan Jett & The Blackhearts

The show had just finished, but the euphoria was still sticking to the bar walls. The stage floor was vibrated under the boots of the roadies. The smell was the usual: sweat, cheap beer, cigarette, extremely greasy food...among other things.

Joan, with that tired look, sweaty hair stuck to his face, half-blurred makeup of the heat of the stage – it seemed more alive than ever.

She had just come down from the stage with the Blackhearts. He threw the guitar aside, hugged Kenny, laughed at something no one understood. But when he saw you leaning against the backstage dressing table, her smile amplified.

It took a few minutes until Joan arrived at you, and when it arrived, I didn't say a word. Only pulled you by the hand, straight to the backstage.

Now you are back there, locked in the tight and stuffy part of the backstage. A hidden room, with a table leaning against the corner of the wall, stacked cable boxes and a shaking lamp on the ceiling. No one will look for you anytime soon.

She pushes you gently against the table and makes you sit sitting. It's still panting of the show. The hair glued to the forehead, the pink cheeks of the heat of the stage. Joan approaches as if he was still on the stage – firm, electric, safe from each movement.

She leans over you, supporting a hand beside you on the unstable table. The still hot body of the stage. Her heart seems to run marathons on her chest – but her eyes... her eyes only know how to stop you.

She gives a short, half -hoarse laugh, and lowers her head to your faces almost touched.

"You were a little problem for me today," she mutters, her lips almost brushing yours. I almost missed the Bad Reputation note. And it's your fault, you know?

Joan gets a little closer and gives you a fast peck, as if trying to contain himself.

"You're so beautiful that I can't concentrate, you know?" And then she kisses you again, this time taking a little more