Part THREE in a Series of THREE (or So) in conjunction with my new book, IF YOU LIKE METALLICA….
6.66 Some Head’s Not Gonna Roll
McBeardo loves all comers. Make no mistake.
But allow me to declare with neither pride nor shame, but as mere fact that, for all my libertine free-swingin’—including those periods before, during, and after my hard stint in the crotch-rock battalion Gays in the Military—that I just don’t gaze upon the simple form of another man, naked or otherwise, and think, “Yeeeeaahhhh… stubble and pectorals and teste-sweat… that’s for ME!”
That stated, much of my life has been spent in raging envy over the instantaneous and/or anonymous orgasm exchange opportunities availed to those penis bearers whose primary motivation is acquiring more bare penis.
Lo, the Urban Homosexual, Genus: Male.
Come July 1993, I wasn’t lacking for opposite sex fluid-exchangers.
The magic potion for being able to approach females proved to be served by the pitcher at Downtown Beirut and, more and more often for me, peddled in plastic packets from behind the pinball machine at the Full Moon Saloon on Eighth Avenue.
Still, I couldn’t just walk into a bar laden with ladies, drop trou, and leave spermily satiated several sucktastic moments later.
Such easy access remained the sole domain of The GAY and, psycho-emotive biology be damned, I wanted in on those boys’ never-ending free blowjob party.
If it was dark enough—how would my wang even know? And if I was drunk enough—why would my wang even care? That’s what I (and my wang) figured.
Thus the momentous occasion arrived when, fortifying myself with a succession of 40-ounce Colt 45’s, I set out one evening to finally make that leap, loin-first. Past midnight on a Saturday, I walked toward Manhattan’s hilariously and then-accurately named Meat-Packing
The Vault, a bondage club I could get into for free with my fancy Screw magazine writer credentials, was in the area, and I knew those dark, tranny-hooker-lined streets housed countless rawhide nelly arenas behind mammoth steel doors that would give Leatherface the whim-whams.
Blaring from my Walkman for this journey: Judas Priest.
Patrolling those dark 11th Avenue sidewalks in headphones, a Priest mix rang in my ears with thematic song-by-song specificity:
Most pointedly, the playlist concluded with 1977’s “Here Come the Tears.”
And so, Judas Priest ablaze on cassette, I guzzled the rest of my malt liquor, steeled myself and approached one door into and out of which spilled prospective nameless orifi.
And then I froze. The door was closed. I couldn’t bear to open it.
So I just stood for a moment.
Then enough to have to rewind the Judas Pries tape.
Finally, just as I lurched forward, the door burst open, wide, and it hit me.
The MUSK of MAN.
My nervous system had been assaulted infinite times by jackhammer wafts of men in sexual frenzy at Live Nude Girl peeps shows, but here there were no girls—live, nude, or otherwise—to offset the olfactory affront.
This MUSK was man, ALL Man, NUDE Man, AROUSED Nude Man, and nothing but—b-u-t-t—Aroused Nude Man.
The frying-pan-to-the-proboscis effect was rippling… musclebound… RECTAL…. and testorized to the point that I swear I felt the fumage pry openmy very nostrils and, already all lubed up, slide deeper than anything else every had up inside my sinus cavities.
My sniffer, alas, seemed to be directly connected to my nether regions and a total systemic disconnect overrode the operation.
I withered in the fumy bath of Man Musk and sauntered off, forced to accept that not even the might of Judas Priest could overpower my addiction to my own carnal wiring.
And, there, came the tears.
HAIL BENT FOR LEATHER!
The shindig went down at Salon Tress.
In addition to stupefyingly great readings by the other participants Rachel McPadden, Katie Rife, Nithin Kalvakota,Dan Gleason, Gregory Jacobsen, Bob Goblin—as well as high metal air guitar virtuosity by Nordic Thunder and Cannonball Mavin—I read the preceding composition.
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