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Summary
You know exactly what he is, of course. You know it because the two of you have met. Six years back, when you’d spent a couple of months following the band around, and looked a lot different. You crossed paths in the Bay Area, at a club after a show at Berkeley—or, more accurately, he took a liking to you from afar, and had one of his goons fetch you and bring you over to him. Fast-forward to 1975. You did not go out tonight expecting to find Jimmy Page in Studio One of all places. Not because you don’t know he’s a flamer—let’s be clear about that—just because Zeppelin’s supposed to be playing shows in the Midwest right now. But here he is, smack dab in the middle of a gay club, pretending to neither be who he is, nor to know where he is. He glances at you again; oh, he definitely thinks you’re cute. Knowing him, though, there’s no way he’s going to approach you in a million years.
What do you have to lose? Not your dignity—that’s his thing. Repugnant as he is, he sure is pretty. You straighten up, smooth your hair back, and start making your way across the room while he furiously reverts his gaze to his beer bottle and picks at the label.