Cordell just got laid . . . it's a fact.
In Milwaukee. He also ate her box, F.Y.I.
The problem is he won't stop talking about
it, like he invented unsafe sex. We don't
get laid much on this tour; it's pretty
much slim pickins on a DIO tour. Maybe
it's because I don't have a bus on this
tour and chicks don't like vans. I don't
mind it, I like the van, it's okay. I'm
not gonna fuck some girl in it, like a
wart hog or something. One of the DIO crew
guys did some girl in the bushes the other
night; now that takes crass. And a certain
degree of panache.
Anyway, Cordell just got laid. He fucked
her on the top floor of the Rave Bar, buns
up while DIO played "The Last In Line."
Fitting. I believe I was loading his bass
gear at the time. Also fitting.
Girls change as the years go by. Girls that
were goddesses in 1991 are now hogs or
withered speed freaks with boda-bag tits
and a three-pack-a-day voice. I think they
get jealous 'cause the years don't seem to
hit us as hard. I'm speaking for myself,
of course. I'm still skinny and my hair
line is intact, unfortunately, time hasn't
been as kind to some of my colleagues.
It's a good thing you can shave your head
now and still be cool. Fat is still fat,
though, can't get away with that unless
your Bachman Turner Overdrive.
If you're a rock-n-roller, you're not
allowed to be fat. It's a law. No pot
bellies, no love handles, no weird asses,
no stretch jeans, no button-down wanna-be
Hendrix faggy-ass shirts that cover up shit
like a tent.
Cordell is sleeping peacefully while the van
drives, dreaming the dreams of the just-laid.
The rest of us are lugging our blue balls
to Illinois, just me and my enormous plums
making a go of it. Just me and my elephantine
sack pushing the envelope of bad taste.
Sex is like a roulette game out here. Most
of the time, you lose, every once in a while
you win. When I say win, I mean not waking
up with nickel-sized warts on your dick
or your money gone, or finding out the whole
DIO crew gang-banged her the night before.
I'm so scared that I wear a condom at all
times, even when I'm sleeping. Got to
be safe.
Maybe I'll take another AIDS test, just for
the sheer fun of letting some pimple-faced
clerk have the power of life and death
over me. You know what I mean, when they
put you in that little anteroom and your
test result is sitting on that little
table with that flap of paper covering it
and the five dollar-hour yokel is sitting
there with that smug little grin knowing
he's got you absolute attention for the
thirty seconds it takes to pronounce your
sentence. Negative. Then you want to get
out of there as fast as you can before they
find a false-positive anything. Yeah, let's
all pool our money and take another AIDS
test 'cause they're so fun.
So while Cordell's testes are busy manufacturing
more sperm for him to spew, I'll sign off
and wonder if I'll ever get laid again.
If some girl will take me to her hotel and
have candles burning and a full cooler of
beers and little test tube Kamikazes and
clean sheets and laughter and unknown
hands and new things and fun and all the
time in the world and the night will never
end and I'll never have to go, I could stay
here and drink and fuck and always be
young and watch TV and eat chips and
watch her put lipstick on and pose and
dance for me and not be embarrassed, showers
and towels and more laughter and more beer,
the beer never ends until I pass out in
a warm cloud of perfume and lust, time stands
still in a Super-8 motel. KING JIZZO