Tobas circa 1997.
(anyone notice how all my cool stories generally occur between 1995-1999? theres a good reason for that, which I am sure the smart ones can gather from pretty much everything else I write on here. Interestingly enough, I do have some very good stories that occur after this period of time, however, it does not seem wise to relate them as of yet.)
So, the story begins in New York City. As with most of my more outrageous/ridiculous tales, at the time, I was managing the New York Tribe. Although this involved quite a bit of work, it also involved a ridiculous and completely irresponsible and somewhat reprehensible cast of characters.
It was september, and I had been furiously working all month to prepare for our huge NYC broadcast. I was sending ad proofs to our televison people, I was negotiating with our pretentious “talent”, and I was fighting NYC parks and recreation to cut down some branches for us. I also was butting heads with the head of the pushcart vendor union. (this, as I later discovered was a huge mistake. they are a ruthless and bloodthirsty bunch, and if I had carried through with my threat of using outside vendors, I would have had a very unpleasant surprise coming my way).
So, basically, the last three days of preparation left me with no sleep, none. for three days I slept in 1-2 hours clips. this was also before we had the benefit of energy drinks, and my stomach was even more sensitive to coffee than it is now, so I had to rely on my youth and stamina, which I had plenty of. regardless, by day three I was an absolute wreck, and I knew in order to be ready and awake for the big day, I would need to be there. so, I dangerously decided to sleep on a park bench in east river park. when I think back on it, it’s really amazing I was never mugged or killed. I habitually slept on benches. I slept very little, even though I was guarded under the watchful eye of the “d-man”. he was a homeless dope dealer who I talked to a few times while getting the site ready for our show. he was quite well spoken, and he had a very sad and compelling story, and for some reason, I trusted him.
the trucks started coming at 7am. metal police barricades, vendors, tv trucks, sponsor vehicles, you name it. I wont go into the entire day, but suffice it to say that it was long, and by the time it was over, I had run out of words.
literally. I sat down on the bench, and just stopped talking.
This lasted for all of maybe an hour or so, as I gradually grew tired of shrugging and pointing, and attempted speech. A funny thing happened then. The words got stuck. At least that is what it felt like. So, I could not speak, no matter how hard I tried. I was frustrated, but I quickly grabbed a pencil and notepad, and started having the best two days of my life.
I learned quickly to point out my inability to speak right away. People were more attentive, and I rarely had to try and get a point across for more than a minute.
Anyway, the show after party was at some place on 8th street. It was some club, I cannot even remember the name. But it’s not really important anyway.
A few months before, an old high school buddy of Joe Fiorello and I, a guy named Pat, came into the city to have beer with us at the bowery bar. He brought two girlfriends in with him. One, was a brown-haired somewhat mousey girl with large breasts. The other was a beautiful tall blonde with a shy smile. It turns out she wore braces, which made her insecure, and me, horny. I had to have her. She was definitely flirty with me, and at some point described me as “so beautiful”, that set the stage for some metal on flesh action, or so I thought. Turns out, she was gun shy, and she ended up taking the train home with her cock-blocker of a friend. I was dejected.
Ah, but fate intervened, and as I sat down at the club, exhausted and delirious, sipping an amaretto sour, I felt a tap tap on my shoulder.
I turned around, and she wasted no time in plopping herself on a cushion next to me. She smiled widely, mouth closed of course, and started talking to me. I quickly did the hand across the throat gesture, which seemed to puzzle her at first. I thought fast and found a pen at a bar, and grabbed a stack of napkins. I scribbled, “I lost my voice, sorry”. If she liked me before, well now, she absolutely loved me. The conversation went slowly from there, but it was mightly productive, and my written perversions were clever and effective. By the time we left, I was drunk, she was drunk, and even her cock-blocker was ripped and raring for some action. I was fortunate to be in the company of the mighty Joe Fiorello, aka, the mighty condor, who played wingman extraordinnaire, and macked it quite effectively to mousey big boobs.
Also, Joe had a dorm room, a close by dorm room. So, we stumbled out into the night, drunk, and in search of malt liquor which we quickly found. Four cans of colt 45 later, we found ourselves in Joe’s room.
Now, a problem of logistics people. There is a bed, there is a floor mattress, there is a need for discretion. So, we ended up on the floor under blankets, and they ended up on the bed under blankets. Of course, she wanted to have sex, however, in order not to appear overly eager, she gave the whole, “I dont want to be slut” speech. And this is where my lack of a voice worked brilliantly. See fellas, the thing about that speech is this, if you just let them keep talking, they will eventually come full circle again and just get it over with and fuck you. However, if you should happen to open your mouth, chances are you will say something to trigger their insecurity and end up pulling your own chicken. I, of course, said nothing.
Instead, I crept downwards, slowly kissing along the way, eventually reaching the “on” button. Three minutes later, she was fumbling for a condom and thrusting it at me. We did our dirty, and she left a bruise on my neck that was so large, some people thought I had been in a terrible accident, or that I had survived a vicious choking.
I vaguely remember doing it again, being seated on a toilet this time. After all this, we slept for a short while, and then the girls had to get up and take a train home. She turned to me, and said, “well, what now?” I shrugged, once again grateful for a lack of speech. She was relentless, and would not give up. So, I slowly wrote down on a piece of paper,
“Um, you make me breakfast?”
written, or spoken, that was clearly the wrong response.
She left that morning, and I never saw her again.
It was fantastic.
Live it, Love it, (but dont tell it to make you breakfast)