At one festival on stage during Dylan’s set, a nubile young woman in booty shorts and heels was lost sexily inside the music and gyrating on the speakers just left of Dylan’s head. My girlfriend poked at her brusquely, made a tilting definitive gesture in my direction and said, “Dj’s wife. Leave.”

The booty-shorted interrupted female blinked. Her gaze was vague and vacant. Then, in a muted sort of delayed reaction huff, she left. “Gotta protect what’s yours,” my girlfriend said in a rigid voice strict with instruction. I grinned. I didn’t need to arch my eyebrows because I draw them in like that every day, arched and at the ready.

My girlfriends seem to think that since Dylan is a dj, I should with hectic jealousness guard him 24-7, armed at all times with weapons like a taser, tear gas and a battering ram. They seem to think a legion of starstruck dj groupies all hopped up on booze and hormones will with throbbing suddenness at any time appear and sexually offer themselves to Dylan wholesale. Even if that were to happen, I’d hardly have married someone who’d take up such offers without any kind of pause or hesitation. Some might find the mere prospect of such things to be irresistible and exciting, but I think Dylan has a little more self-discipline, focus, and control, than all that. Also, if I didn’t trust and love Dylan at this most basic level, I’d be hard-pressed to define what the success of our relationship is based upon, or what our union means. I also like to think I’m worth all possible cases and causes that require denial, resistance, thoughtfulness and effort. After all, who are we if we don’t have trust and confidence in ourselves and in each other; what is love without confidence and trust that is both sustained and sustaining. In all happy lasting relationships, trust and confidence are keys.

Dylan was playing another show and that time I brought out some of my ladies. During Dylan’s set, Leslie jumped on stage and began to dance provocatively. I squinted at her up there, smiled, kept dancing and let the mammoth bouncers know they needn’t remove Leslie immediately. Leslie meanwhile danced with increasing seduction and sensuality. I took note of her provocative progress only peripherally and rather blindly. Leslie is a great and beautiful friend so I had no issue with her titillating show. As she became increasingly steamier and more suggestive grinding nearer to Dylan though, I privately marveled and took confused note. I had no idea Leslie was so turned on by Dylan’s music. After a time, I turned to Sarah to make an amused remark. But it wasn’t Sarah standing next to me, it was Leslie! Meaning the strumpet on stage wasn’t Leslie but just some girl! Dylan flashed me his “dude what the fuck” face. I made a subtle gesture toward the bouncers that conveyed the message, “Remove the floozy.” As the dubious damsel was hauled away, she looked at Dylan and squalled, “But your music! It makes me feel… so sexy!”

I know right. Shit is endearing. I really shouldn’t forget to wear my contacts out to shows.

Another time during another one of Dylan’s sets, a profoundly inebriated girl was dancing with a kind of lilting lurid lewdness up on the stage. Her extreme drunkenness greatly eclipsed her sense of basic balance and noticeably affected as well her skills in areas like elegance of public display and clarity in thinking. With wonderful woozy wobbliness, she swayed closer and closer to Dylan till his flitting eyes communicated to me that I should intercept and prevent this girl from proceeding past her state of being incoherently entertaining to becoming an actual liability. I moved casually nearer to her as she leaned into Dylan in an apparent attempt to whisper in his ear. Murmuring and slurred, she said, “I wanna be your Pretty Lady.” Then she fell over.

I know right. Shit is endearing.

“You’re like an alien goddess,” the girl divulged as I helped her up. Her limbs were a loose and jumbled mess. She scrutinized me with eyes as dim and lusterless as they were impenetrable. “An alien goddess,” she repeated.

“Thanks,” I said. “I try.”

“Don’t try,” drunken hippie girl breathed. “Be.” I bowed my head slightly to convey a holy receiver’s attitude of gratitude, with hopes to cut the conversation short.

“Do you know him?” asked the girl, gripping my hand and bringing things back to Dylan.

“Vaguely,” I said.

He’s amazing,” she said.

I said, “He’ll do.”