was 23. She was 35. In those days of yore, climbing aboard a woman 12 years older
than me was a conquest not unlike scaling Everest - not that it would give me
apoxia or frostbite - but it would be something to tell the grandkids on those
long summer evenings when the wolfsbane is in bloom and the internet is down.
She wasn't the best-looking piece of trailer trash in this New Zealand venue but,
like Everest, she was there.
was halfway to humping her at the bar when my presence was unceremoniously called
for around the back of the venue, where our Bassist was spending some quality
time on all fours vomiting into the gutter
always seemed to be regarded as the person to call for dumbass occurrences like
this. I cannot guess why. Maybe it was because I was the youngest member in the
band and the least prone to heart failure at an inopportune moment; whatever the
case, I recall other inebriated instances of my saving graces, through my barely-conscious
that beleaguered Victorian tour, when the band relied on
me alone to convince four chicks into coming back to our
hotel. Now, as insensible as this may sound, the circumstances
behind it were even more laughable. The band was "Purple,"
a Deep Purple cover band, with fully-funded agency backing
and a salary which prompted us to complain only part
of the time. When we rolled into this Melbourne town and
found that NO prior advertising had been done at this venue,
it was not surprising that only ELEVEN people attended this
300-capacity room. There were only four women in the "crowd."
the band had all of them. (Despite 80s hair-band hedonism, how many groups can
claim to fucking literally ALL of the chicks in the crowd?)
don't remember the venue name. I don't remember the unmemorable sex. But I do
remember the band manhandling me into a car with these four chicks, commissioning
me to close the deal on bedding the band in toto. Wha-? I didn't even know
where our hotel was, as this flesh-laden caravan (with me crammed betwixt perfumed
bosom and ungloved thigh) took off for parts unknown (to score drugs, tampons,
who-knows-what?), envisioning that the band's next contact with me would be bailing
me naked out of a Melbourne prison, cum-stains on my cock AND my anus
lo: Dunmore, sweet silver-tongue badass, delivers all four girls unto the band,
the leggy blond for myself. The kicker was that the Bassist fell in love with
his chunky big-chested beast and brought her to the next gig, whispering sweet-potato
nothings in her ear -
that time in New Zealand when band, crew and tour staff all piled into the tour
bus, everyone so drunk that they volunteered ME to drive that ten-gear stick.
Keeping in mind that at that stage of my life, I was such an alcoholic that the
band had to hide the drink rider from me before each show, I am presuming that
the only reason I was chosen to pilot this vehicle was because I was voted Most
Likely To Get Us Into A Painless Fatal Head-On Collision. Which, if you'd been
witness to how much alcohol was consumed that night, seemed like a good idea at
an indication of the level of inebriation experienced by the bulk of our party,
the Drummer got out and started pissing into the bay. And pissing. And pissing.
We started timing him after 30 seconds. The Bassist was standing next to him,
serving a dual purpose in corroborating his urination time (by intently watching
his cock) and also ensuring that should our contentedly-swaying Drummer fall into
the bay, well
the Bassist would too
We clocked him at 5 minutes exactly.
That's gotta be some kind of record for Western civilization.
along New Zealand streets at 3 a.m., the engine screeching and cog-burning blue
smoke from being unwillingly in second gear, I drove whilst taking verbal lessons
from some crank-head next to me shouting over the laughing, something about this
thing called a clutch.... Over the cries of, "Get it out of second gear,
you tosspot!" one of the crew righteously shushed everyone with the drunken
assertion, "Quiet! Let 'im drive - no one's ever died in second gear!"
And somehow, through the grace of jesus and the apostles, we made it safely and
thankfully - to another all-night boozer.
So here I am laughing at the Bassist on his knees, spillage down his shiny stage
vest, considering how to effectively fulcrum his weight into the tour bus without
him drooling on my chest, when my elderly groupie turns up and offers to take
me to her place. Hmm, a choice between vomit on my shirt and pussy on my face
NEXT DAY: Back at the band hotel, eating my post-noon breakfast with a beer&bush
hangover, my boastful tale of banging this geriatric wench while her son - good
god! he was near MY age - slept in the next room, was overshadowed by the band
telling me that they had it on good authority that Miss Everest was rank with
disease and that, upon entering Australia through Customs, I would have to declare
that I had slept with a woman of questionable persuasion and be ushered to the
"Special Window" for medical disposition. (Of course, in my youthful
gullibility, I did not even question that a term as ambiguous as "Special
Window" was any cause for suspicion. Not from my loving bandmates, no!)
THE CUSTOMS WINDOW, in that manner that one adopts when purchasing pubic-wart
lotion at a busy pharmacy, I sheepishly repeated that moniker, asking to be pointed
in that direction. The Customs Officer matter-of-factly told me that this was
the only access into Australia and that no other window, Special or otherwise,
was available. So I loaded my voice with import and innuendo, "No, you don't
understand - I need to go to The "SPECIAL" Window - you know, the SPECIAL
!" He looked at me queerly and asked why I was so insistent
and I cracked and sang like a canary, eyes downcast, confessionally, "I think
I have a Sexually-Transmitted Disease, sir, which I caught from a woman who, er-"
Like every humorless Customs Officer, he simply repeated his denial like he was
talking to a retard
that's when I realized that behind me in the queue,
four asshole bandguys were pissing their pants trying to stultify eye-watering
face might have been red, but thankfully - my dick wasn't.