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There I was again – in the early ‘80s - wandering around the gay nightclub, ‘Crisco Disco,’ trying to sell some beat drugs. Lidocaine was easy to get in the headshops back then and, like cocaine, would give you that numbing feeling on your lips. A few good tokes on a decent joint, and half a line of real cocaine to potential clients, made my day...

As I was skulking by the dance floor, I bumped into an acquaintance - heavy-set balding dude, in a black, gothic outfit. He resembled a character from the 60s TV show, ‘The Addams Family.’ He was a music scenester, or so club goers told me. Most likely he was just another con artist, but what did I know?

“Huuu-ber-man,” he said. “Loitering with your fake chemicals again, I see.”

I just smiled and nodded. Even in the dim light I could see that his mind was on other details. A young woman with wild hair had passed by. I could see my ‘Uncle Fester’ was taken aback.

“Take a good look Huberman. They say she’s going to be the next big dance music sensation.”

Some weeks later …

30 West 21^st Street. Danceteria’s new location. The nightclub was sizzling with patrons trying to get in. Haoui Montaug, the ‘keeper of the red velvet rope,’ was dressed to the nines, and his door people were picking from the crowd only the most extravagant and excessive people his eyes could pick out.

Of course there were other ways of getting into Danceteria - for instance having an official club pass – which a lot of the regulars had. Still best to always have some outrageous look, I thought. The more bizarre the better.

Haoui saw me, scowled, and nodded his head. I somehow passed through the crowd of unattainables and reached the entrance. There I showed Mr. Montaug my pass. He motioned to me, and in passing, I heard him say to the transgender doorperson, “This Bridge and Tunnel dude is, at least, providing some type of look.”

His companion, who was very attractive, and could’ve passed as a biological woman except for the huskiness of his voice, replied, “Well somebody was impressed by him – he has a house pass.”

My shades made the semi darkness even worse. I traversed the ground floor as if I was floating. The landscape of Danceteria was dreamlike to begin with, and the small amount of weed I had smoked helped add to the surreal atmosphere.

And there I was at that young woman’s gig – the one my gothic acquaintance had said would be the next big deal in music. Apparently I had arrived just as she was getting ready to perform. Haoui Montaug must have given up working the door, because there he was again, introducing her on stage.

As I remember, she only sang two or three songs. Madonna’s gig was alright. I could see why some people loved her, but she just wasn’t for me. I was a hardcore punk rocker at the time. The irony was, I didn’t dress that way.

Time to move on. I went to the third floor – the Hip Hop floor. Really though, it was more like a dance floor. Hip Hop had not yet dominated the music scene yet.

Even with the house pass, entry to the third floor, was granted only to those who had ‘the look.’ During that period – the early ‘80s – I was in my mid-twenties, very slim, and had a huge ‘Billy Preston’-type Afro. Top it off with a skinny mustache and a slight sun tan and I projected this ‘beat’ Jazz musician appearance. Although it was spring at the time – tight black chinos, Pro Keds, and a weird hybrid brown corduroy jacket with dark brown leather pockets, worked for me.

Danceteria was a unique club. So many different cliques would be in the mix. Gay artists, fashionistas, and plenty of Black and Hispanic dance music lovers – even some hardcore punk rockers - were sprinkled in with the crowd. An amazing amount of beautiful, cultured women hung out there – usually dancing up a storm.

I wasn’t anything like a pick up artist, but every once in a while I got lucky. I was just standing there, idly scanning the many different couples and singles dancing the night away. The music might have been Houdini, Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five, Kurtis Blow, mixed in with Duran Duran, Visage, and the Spandau Ballet. Some people wore really outlandish outfits that, at times, reminded me of being in a costume ball.

Then I spotted Madonna casually walking around. As she got closer, I could see her face with mascara running down both cheeks. There was some quality to her face which I found peculiar, but that could’ve been the effect of the ‘Ganga’ I had previously smoked. She had not changed out of what she wore on stage -black jacket, white shirt, dirty blonde hair sticking out of some hat.

She gazed right into my eyes. This shocked me. Then she proceeded to step right into my personal space. I was completely stunned. She mumbled something to me, but the dance music was so loud, I couldn’t quite make out what she said. I could see though, that she was smiling at me.

She spoke some words which I thought I recognized, but still had no idea what she was saying because they were spoken in Spanish. At first, I just looked at her expressionless. But she kept looking at me – hard. Finally, I shook my head “no.” She stared at me surprisingly and gave me a troubled look. And, just like that, she was gone.

I could only think at the time, that she took me for someone of Latin descent, and had probably asked me to dance or something like that. I stayed pretty late that night and didn’t meet anyone. My only interaction that evening was with her. Looking back, I believe I instinctively knew when she found out my nationality was not what she wanted, she would’ve immediately excused herself from my presence. Or maybe not. I was pretty close-minded myself during that phase of my life. That moment in time definitely became a regret - not a big one, mind you, but still a disappointment with myself - especially when 10 years later I became a fan of hers. In fact, right around then, I saw her at Madison Square Garden. Well, you can’t win ‘em all

.

The Controller (HQ somewhere in Sydney Australia)

Walking slowly into the transmission control room, with arthritis pain attacking both his legs, Hermes Boris aka ‘The Controller’ thinks he might be giving a hunchback image to his fellow agents. Four vital missions are going on, but only one, his, is going awry. He’s the Australian mission controller on the Thailand end game. True, the other missions are just beginning – Beirut, Lebanon; Port-Au- Prince, Haiti; and Brussels, Belgium. Under his direction, Pattaya, Thailand, is a huge mess at the moment. Actually, the mission started in South China. The Controller thought all was lost, but his agent in the field was a lot tougher than he realized.

Somehow ‘The Lizard’ had broken out of the Ministry of State security prison in China and traveled to Siam. Now the operative was caught up in the red-light district in Pattaya, Thailand, with two bullets in him. From our night vision cameras, Soi 6 is a chaotic bunch of beer bars, brothels, men’s clubs, and massage parlors. Disorderly would be the word for those streets. The Lizard must have called in a favor. He is stashed away in a ‘Yakuza’ safe house. One of the ‘Gokudo’ gangsters got in touch with the Agency and reported that the Chinese cell there had quietly cordoned off both sides of Soi 6. They’re letting most traffic go in and out, but there’s no way ‘The Lizard’ can camouflage without being spotted. A house-by-house search is being conducted at present for the person of interest. Our Yakuza people will try to hold them off as much as they can, but time is of the essence. The Lizard is expendable but not the mission.

The Lizard

I was worn down and laying on the bed in a fetal position - feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. Shifting just a tiny bit on my bed, I saw through the room mirror a haunting reflection of myself. Well, that was to be expected. I finally realized this Mission probably was my last hurrah. At this point, there weren’t any misgivings on my part. In fact, this might be the perfect answer. I was already given a death sentence in that New York City hospital the Agency had sent me to. “Prostate cancer”, the doctors had said, “metastasized to your bones.” A death sentence to be sure. My medical doctors had wanted to keep me in the hospital and do tests - experimental treatments in nature. But I told them to fuck off. I wasn’t a laboratory rat for them to do their stupid, goofy experiments on. ”Put me back in the field”, I told The Controller. “Give me a do-or-die mission.” Usually, the Agency wouldn’t have done that, but I was one of their best agents. My tolerance to torture was legendary - the Chinese were shocked at my endurance. I seemed to be immune to pain. Their mistake was to put me on the ground floor in that little gray room. Being an S&M enthusiast at a very young age, my mother, a professional slave driver, found out her son was a magnet for pain. With my thick electronic glasses sliding back and forth on the bridge of my nose, I wondered if this old Jew, code name ‘The Croaker’, the Agency was sending to my aid, would actually take me out and finish the mission or carry me over the finish line. That wouldn’t be such a bad ending I thought.

The Croaker

I loved living in Pattaya, Thailand. The kind of life for us elderly foreigners was pleasurable and comfortable. A nice alternative to the horrible ‘old age’ homes back in the USA. Problem was not too many Jews settled here. But the other old expats seem to be a bunch of nice men. I felt no prejudice against me, just some off-color remarks here and there, but nothing counting as antisemitic. Then the Agency called me in. Well, you make a pact with the devil, and this is what you get. My long holiday was over. Time to get back to being who I was. They didn’t explain the situation. They never do. Everything was going by too fast - too fast for me. I didn’t understand the intricate details of the situation. Of course, it was only on a ‘need to know’ basis. This was a strange assignment. Here I am - this elderly American Jew working for an Australian espionage agency – in itself bizarre. What was an agent doing in Soi Six, getting a ‘blow job’ with a young lady? Enough of my own bullshit thoughts. The assignment came first. I was there to locate a fellow agent, The Lizard! Locate him, assess his physical and mental health and give him just enough pain medicine to take care of his injuries. Then report by phone to the organization.

He found his man-purse and off he traveled via motorbike to Soi 6.

The Controller

Now that the Lizard’s location was found, time was of the essence. I believe the Croaker will cut through the Chinese web without further jeopardizing the mission’s outcome. He alone will not be sufficient to finish the assignment. So, we sent in two other agents - one of whom is the decoy to keep the opposition busy, the other is the best professional killer that the Agency trained. Two more oddballs to pursue our goal. No one uses a real name in our Agency. Everyone has a code name. ‘Metalhead’ wasn’t his original nickname, but it is now. He survived an improvised explosive device attack in Libya. Some of our top agents in the organization believed that after the onslaught, our representative received government-type enhancements in our special hospital. But the truth is, just the opposite. Our boys in white had to cut part of his brain away so he couldn’t feel pain anymore. He would have been in agony for the rest of his life if they hadn’t done that procedure. He lost his tongue plus his nose from the explosion - a miracle that his anatomy suffered no bodily harm. Our scientists provided and installed a ‘Porky Pig’ nose taken from an ugly hog named Hogwash. We also gave him an engineered head mask. He’s still mean with that gun of his. Yes, Metalhead is the diversion. Of course, he was eager to sign his life away and finish the mission. Another do-or-die agent. I just hope he doesn’t get carried away with too much collateral damage!

The Lizard

The pain – intense as it is – focuses me on my breathing. Trying to do the diaphragmatic technique but the bullet wounds in my arm and shoulder are getting in the way - controlling my body. I think I hear knocking at the door. Going to take a chance - getting up from the bed now is shockingly hard. I slowly crawl to the door. The pain is unbelievable now. Even my mother’s experiments on me don’t compare. I have a pair of scissors in my good hand for defense but that’s a joke. In seconds they could wrestle that away from me. I slowly open the door. In agony now, ready to faint. At this moment, a huge man is standing in the doorway. Not the Chinese, but a Yakuza gangster. Mole is what he’s called. Then I lose all consciousness - blacking out.

The Croaker

Oh my. He fainted. Did he buy the farm? The big Japanese fellow just looks at The Lizard’s body and says, “Not dead yet. I’ll put him back on the bed. Old man, get him well or kill him! We don’t have much time.” He picked him up like a rag doll and put him on the bed so fast, as if the body weighed nothing. He then said, “Okay I go now.” Turning toward The Croaker, he has one last thought. “Make a decision.” And off he went, closing the door behind him lightly.

Metalhead (in Agency’s secret hospital in Tokyo, Japan)

Horst Witterstein is my real name. I was once code named ‘the horse.’ Now I am known as ‘Metalhead’. I much prefer the alias ‘horse’ and I don’t care for the face mask I am currently wearing. Always so itchy. I was happy today because of the call. The Mission was on a need-to-know basis, but at first the Agency wasn’t sure I understood the details. So, they came to my door and I told them through this artificial voice (created from my voice box tied to my brain waves), that my tongue was gone, not my ears. I heard just fine. I was recovering in a part rehab, part mental institution. Most of the operatives here were still messed up, but not me. I wanted to die for service and country. I recognized I had brain damage, but not enough so that I should want to kill the innocent. Just the bad guys. The people who came to give me my assignment still didn’t understand me. Damn it, they didn’t know sign language. But I was smart enough to write it down so that they would finally understand that I realized the gravity of the mission I was given. I was ready –all six feet of me. I put my all into rehab so my muscles were bulging. I was ready to kill or be killed. This is what I lived for. My bizarre demeanor rattled the people that were escorting me. I could feel the fear of those other agents that were accompanying me to the special Westland Lynch helicopter. They said they would get me to Pattaya, Thailand very fast. Once there, I could get to my mission.

The Controller

Everything was falling into place, or so The Mission looked like to Hermes Boris. Except for the last piece. The quarterback of the mission was on her way. A very tested, ruthless agent. A natural born killer - a ‘Zelig’ who usually goes unnoticed. If this operative gets there in time, the mission stands a chance to be successful. He looked in the mirror in the command post. The reflection showed a very tired and worn-out old man.

“Mirrors should be forbidden in these chambers”, he thought. “I don’t feel well - must be the GIRD returning. I now always expect acid reflux to follow me in these vital missions. Not a good way to test my longevity. Still hoping to pull this off.”

In character he belched and off he went, leaving his workstation behind.

Enter the Chameleon

Very quietly I walked right to the entrance of Soi Six. Almost right away I had identified three of the opposition agents. A lot of young sex workers were going back and forth through the populated streets. The Twilight hour was upon them - the sun slowly exiting. All the artificial luminescence from the many brothels, bars and clubs took over. The streets seemed lit up and teaming more than ever with revelers. Definitely not to my liking. Acceptance of the situation came to me as I went over immediately to a jittery enemy agent.”

”Sir,” I said, “Don’t you want a sweet girl like me to spend the night with you?” He muttered something in Mandarin - probably a good curse word. But before he could finish his sentence, I shot him with a poisoned pellet from my tiny gun. I kissed the expiring agent and moved him during a fake compassionate embrace. To outsiders we looked like lovers. He wasn’t exactly dead yet, but he was getting there. The problem was during the next few seconds. One of the opposition operatives had started to notice something was awry. I felt that he was beyond my reach with my tiny dart gun. Just maybe I could use the almost dead body of the rival foe as a shield to get closer for an opportune kill shot. I had to eliminate this conflicting adversary quietly and efficiently, otherwise the whole operation could be blown.”

The Chameleon was about to make her move when she heard shots ring out.

Metalhead

This could be it! The helicopter was about to land on the rooftop of one of the corner bar hotels right near Soi Six. There was no permission given to the Thai authorities, especially this mission. Doesn’t matter. I know what must be done. The assignment comes first. I’m ready to die. I got out and was directed to where I had to go. Down, down I climbed on the spiral stairways. The place smelled like dog piss. Nevertheless, I got to the street. Not too much daylight was left, but with all the artificial light I could see the situation quite clearly. I recognized my fellow agent right away. We had met once before at an emergency briefing by our organization. Looks can be deceiving. She looked like an innocent young girl, but I could actually feel this fellow agent’s deadly karma. She was no girl, that lady boy was lethal. Now here we were - on a life-threatening mission. I took aim. The Chinese agent went down, liberating The Chameleon to make her next move. But of course, all attention was now on me and sure as hell rapid gunfire was approaching my way. I was wearing the best Kevlar bulletproof armor that the world market could buy or protect from IEDs (improvised explosive devices). The USA naturally produces the best protective gear. Well, those chaps in America are the most violent people in the world, so it makes sense that they would have the best safeguarding body wear as developed prior to The Taliban’s assault. Even if the bullets weren’t going through me, the impact was still very painful but I was ready for the imminent fusillade. I already killed three Chinese agents, freeing up The Chameleon to carry on with our mission. Thank God for the morphine I thought to bring - as artillery just kept barraging my way.

The Current Situation

The fog lifted from him abruptly. He was back to consciousness but felt no pain. There was an elderly man above him. The old man smiled at him and said, “I see you’re coming out of your clouds, hopefully feeling no pain. Do you think you can move?” The Lizard felt he must be dying because there was no more agony. Usually when that happens the professional instructors in his organization say that means that you are close to dying. This must be death’s narcotic hallucinations having a grip on him. He kept on seeing a beautiful young girl next to the old doctor. The sweet young lady persisted in requesting, “do you have the encoded device?”

He felt some type of self-consciousness. He was coming out of murkiness. The elderly man above him said, “I gave you a shot - just enough narcotics so you would not feel the pain.” After what he felt was a little time passing, he finally recognized the youthful woman. Except she wasn’t a woman at all. The trans assassin! Wow! What a beautiful Chameleon, the most ruthless killer of the Organization. They had met before on a brief mission. That ‘transfemme’ who looked so girlish - was actually a deadly killing machine. The female looking Liquidator repeated the question, ”do you have the implements?” “Yes I have it,” The Lizard replied. “My right eyebrow has recently been cut - under the scab is a micro dot - that’s what you want.” The Croaker calmly said, “yes we can transfer the micro dot onto my special scope. Just give me a minute more to do the procedure. You won’t feel any pain.” He brought out a tiny metallic device and brought it up to The Lizard’s sore eyebrow. A pinch - that’s all The Lizard will feel. “It’s done”, the old man said. “Good”, Chameleon nodded. “Now go. I have to take care of The Lizard.”

The Croaker

The retired old doctor, reluctantly and slowly left the chamber. He wondered – “what now is going to happen to The Lizard and the mission?” But he had got what was needed. He really didn’t want to know the end game for The Lizard anyway. Although they had been on many missions together, he went down the stairs without trepidation. He grabbed a young chunky Thai woman and told her he will pay her 1,000 baht just to escort him down the block out of Soi Six. The fresh-faced country girl looked surprised, but then she just nodded her head yes. As they proceeded down the street, he held on to her like he was very old and sickly - passing the enemy agents like he was the Invisible Man. Traveling another half a block on Beach Road, he gave his escort the money he promised her. He climbed on a motorbike taxi and just like that he was gone.

Metalhead

So far - so good. No fatal shot. But even with the best protective bulletproof vest in the world, he started feeling like a pin cushion. Thank God for the morphine, but the pain killing drug also slowed down his body and his senses. Finally, he got to his objective - the building where The Lizard was staying. Before he arrived there, he noticed the old man- the Croaker leaving with a young woman, that only meant to him the mission was a success. But at the same time what about The Lizard and The Chameleon? And there was one more difficulty he had - the Yakuza safe house cover was blown!

The Chameleon

Chameleon had her deadly weapon out. The small but death dealing gun was pointed at The Lizard. But then something incredible happened. Hesitation came into the situation. Never had The Chameleon killed a fellow agent before. Not protocol. The Lizard yelled at her, “what are you waiting for! Kill me bitch!” Just then the door slammed open. A thin Chinese-looking man with a Silencer Beretta M9A3 aimed and fired point blank range at The Lizard and The Chameleon. Both lay dead within each other’s arms. Before the Chinese agent could turn around something loud had exploded into his ears and within a flash he laid dead too. Metalhead had got there too late!

Metalhead

The mission was over. Metalhead started hearing the wail of the Thai authorities’ sirens. The police were called and arrived. Metalhead was deeply depressed. He was alive – a man who really didn’t want to be breathing anymore. He just didn’t get it. He walked out of the blown Yakuza sanctuary. There was pandemonium on the streets of Soi Six everywhere. There was no sign of the Japanese gangsters. Young women and ladyboys were screaming hysterically everywhere. There were plenty of dead bodies on the streets - blood and guts spilling out of the corpses everywhere - mostly of the Chinese cell that he had killed but unfortunately some innocent sex workers too. He just didn’t give a damn. A green and yellow taxicab pulled over. A heavy-set Thai driver who spoke English said to him, “Sir if you are hurt, I am ordered to take you to a private medical facility to help you with any of your wounds that you might have encountered. Nevertheless, it’s time for your extraction.” Metalhead muttered some words that the cab driver didn’t follow. But he got into the cab with no violence to the driver. He shut the door and off they went.

The Controller

The humming and the electronic noise turned quiet in that particular control room. Hermes Boris was beyond exhaustion. The organization would give him anywhere from 3 to 4 weeks of rest between missions, which is usually what it would take for controllers of vital missions to get the edge back on. He had lost two very good operatives and the Agency would have to throw a cash balloon to the Thai government to keep this Mission under wraps.

He looked at himself in the mirror that was in the chamber. Again, he thought why the placement of a mirror there. He was red in the face. To his credit this Mission would be marked accomplished. But two good agents died under his watch. That meant it would be harder to get field agents to work for him on upcoming missions. This has always been a hazard of being a director in the Agency.

He felt too exhausted to go home. There was a comfortable sofa bed in the room. He just wanted to sleep - the natural opium of the body healing. In the morning, he would gradually leave the building and have breakfast and go to his flat to review what he could have done better for this past mishandled, haphazard mission.

END

It was after we had seen a movie and eaten dinner in a nearby diner, and we were in her Flushing apartment, she told me, “I don’t usually go out to diners, but I made this exception just for you!” I felt special when she said that.

We made out a little - drinking wine on her brown couch, when she said, “You can give me a foot massage but you better be good at it!” Her friends had told her, that I used to attend the Eulenspiegel Society, which is a sadomasochistic organization. “You know one of my goals is to become a dominatrix!” I just nodded my head, concentrating on giving her a good foot massage. And then she began her confession.

“In order to be a good Superior Mistress, you have to experience being submissive. For a while…” She trailed off. “You know, you are good with feet! Do you enjoy my high arches?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said wimpy like.

“Good. Now where was I? Oh yeah. I was with my lover Carlos – He’s from South America. Real good looking guy. How I loved his cock!” She was getting excited, and I was beginning to get real horny too. I was now ready to give her my patented Huberman ‘toe/tongue’ job. I hadn’t gotten the signal from her to get down on her toes, but I felt it was going to happen. I was thinking, “Just hold off for a few minutes,” I said to myself. It was obvious she wanted to finish her tale.

“So Carlos tied me up. He was skilled in all those bondage scenes and I was loving it! He had just finished fucking me anally then said, “Honey, how about I shit in your mouth?” Without hesitation I said, “Yeah Baby. Do it!”

Shocked, I stopped my foot massage. For a few seconds I didn’t say anything, and then I blurted out, ”You ate his waste matter”?

“Yes Huberman, from his ass to my mouth!”

I hastily got up. “I gotta go now,” I said.

“Why is that, Huberman? Because I ate shit? It’s shit, Huberman, not your wimpy waste matter.”

“I know that,” I said. “But that’s not the reason I’m leaving. I don’t care if you ate poop.”

I mean I was pretty shocked that she confided in me.

“But the real reason..” I continued, “is you called me by my last name. Anytime a woman calls me Huberman, I know she won’t sleep with me.”

As I was walking out the door, the Gloria Steinem lookalike bellowed back, “I was offering you erotic enslavement, bondage – the door to your soul - Huberman, but you’re an asshole!”

Now, the second time I had a woman tell me her ‘Fable of Toilet Love’, I was already in my mid-thirties, and I believe the woman was too. She was the personal assistant to a Hollywood movie star during the late Nineties. I still remember the starlet’s name, but for obvious reasons, she will remain nameless. And as for the woman herself, I actually don’t remember her name. Just as well. I don’t want to be sued for money I will never have.

With a pixie-like haircut and a nice tan the way only Irish-Italian women can get, she was a Billy Joel song come to life – an ‘Uptown Girl’ in a skimpy black lace dress and beautiful open-toed Italian shoes. We were skipping and hopping all over the West Village after an AA meeting - making out here and there like a couple of kids, until finally ending up in Washington Square Park. It was an early evening in the month of June – perfect weather. We were curled up together on a park bench ‘getting busy’, when breathlessly she said, “I know you’re a kinkmeister but I have an amazing story to tell you.”

Déjà vu had come over me but I didn’t know why. All I could say back was, “No I’m not kinky. Why did you say that?”

She rolled her hazel eyes at me and said, “Oh come on. You keep looking at my feet. It’s not such a big deal, but puhleeze – you’re not a straight-laced guy. I know men!” She paused and said, “Look, forget about all that. I wanna tell you my story…”

I nodded in expectation and responded, “Yes okay. Confess away.”

Without hesitation she revealed her story. “It was a few years ago with a lover of mine. We were in a Las Vegas hotel whooping it up. We had hash oil, the best champagne. Moet and Chardonnay. We were hardcore fucking then we took a break.” Then she turned to me abandoning her far-away eyes. “David! Will you stop looking at my feet! You men with your foot fetishes!”

I shuddered at the thought of not looking. So I stammered back, “Uhh Okay, okay.” The hard-on is on hold. “Go on with your tale.”

Her face was flush with emotion. “Where was I? Oh yes…So we took a break and started smoking the hash oil again with tobacco. Then my beau said, ‘Let’s play some role playing games.”

“It was amazing! Then after a while my darling asked me to fulfill his wildest request. ‘Honey, I want to take a dump in your mouth!”

Well, there went my woody. It wilted right down to the size of a cashew. I immediately pushed her off me. Her sexy toes no longer attracted me. “Sorry about that.” She hadn’t taken a dive, having caught herself in the nick of time. “This is a little shocking.”

She straightened herself up and said, “Well, you didn’t have to shove me off your lap like that.”

“I’m sorry but these are pretty weird confessions you’re telling me. By the way, his name wasn’t Carlos, was it?”

“Nooooo… You wouldn’t know him. He doesn’t move in your circles.”

“Oh yeah?” I said defiantly.

She continued with her story. “No bondage for this routine, but I am willing to try it! So I got on the floor in one of my Yoga positions, and Mister Anonymous – I won’t say his name – took a dump right into my mouth!”

She took a pregnant pause, as if a ‘mania’ had entered her soul, and began reliving that moment in time. “The smell, Huberman. The most horrible smell I have ever perceived. And the taste – what a horrible, horrible taste! Like nothing I’d ever encountered before. The whole experience liberated me! In a way, it made me the woman I am today…”

I just nodded sheepishly. “Yes. I guess it would at that. Well, I imagine all good things must pass.” “Weep wow” I heard in my head as I started backing away.

“Where are you going?” She called out.

“Somewhere..anywhere..just not here. “I want to be by myself for a while,” I uttered.

And then I hightailed it outta there.

END

Originally published in ‘Sensitive Skin Magazine’ and edited by Chris Caggiano

The first time a woman told me she actually ate feces, we were both in our twenties. She was a Jewish blonde with that sexy Gloria Steinem look and that Jewish American Princess attitude. When we were introduced to each other, she seemed eager to go out on a date with me.

It was after we had seen a movie and eaten dinner in a nearby diner, and we were in her Flushing apartment, she told me, “I don’t usually go out to diners, but I made this exception just for you!” I felt special when she said that.

We made out a little - drinking wine on her brown couch, when she said, “You can give me a foot massage but you better be good at it!” Her friends had told her, that I used to attend the Eulenspiegel Society, which is a sadomasochistic organization. “You know one of my goals is to become a dominatrix!” I just nodded my head, concentrating on giving her a good foot massage. And then she began her confession.

“In order to be a good Superior Mistress, you have to experience being submissive. For a while…” She trailed off. “You know, you are good with feet! Do you enjoy my high arches?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said wimpy like.

“Good. Now where was I? Oh yeah. I was with my lover Carlos – He’s from South America. Real good looking guy. How I loved his cock!” She was getting excited, and I was beginning to get real horny too. I was now ready to give her my patented Huberman ‘toe/tongue’ job. I hadn’t gotten the signal from her to get down on her toes, but I felt it was going to happen. I was thinking, “Just hold off for a few minutes,” I said to myself. It was obvious she wanted to finish her tale.

“So Carlos tied me up. He was skilled in all those bondage scenes and I was loving it! He had just finished fucking me anally then said, “Honey, how about I shit in your mouth?” Without hesitation I said, “Yeah Baby. Do it!”

Shocked, I stopped my foot massage. For a few seconds I didn’t say anything, and then I blurted out, ”You ate his waste matter”?

“Yes Huberman, from his ass to my mouth!”

I hastily got up. “I gotta go now,” I said.

“Why is that, Huberman? Because I ate shit? It’s shit, Huberman, not your wimpy waste matter.”

“I know that,” I said. “But that’s not the reason I’m leaving. I don’t care if you ate poop.”

I mean I was pretty shocked that she confided in me.

“But the real reason..” I continued, “is you called me by my last name. Anytime a woman calls me Huberman, I know she won’t sleep with me.”

As I was walking out the door, the Gloria Steinem lookalike bellowed back, “I was offering you erotic enslavement, bondage – the door to your soul - Huberman, but you’re an asshole!”

Now, the second time I had a woman tell me her ‘Fable of Toilet Love’, I was already in my mid-thirties, and I believe the woman was too. She was the personal assistant to a Hollywood movie star during the late Nineties. I still remember the starlet’s name, but for obvious reasons, she will remain nameless. And as for the woman herself, I actually don’t remember her name. Just as well. I don’t want to be sued for money I will never have.

With a pixie-like haircut and a nice tan the way only Irish-Italian women can get, she was a Billy Joel song come to life – an ‘Uptown Girl’ in a skimpy black lace dress and beautiful open-toed Italian shoes. We were skipping and hopping all over the West Village after an AA meeting - making out here and there like a couple of kids, until finally ending up in Washington Square Park. It was an early evening in the month of June – perfect weather. We were curled up together on a park bench ‘getting busy’, when breathlessly she said, “I know you’re a kinkmeister but I have an amazing story to tell you.”

Déjà vu had come over me but I didn’t know why. All I could say back was, “No I’m not kinky. Why did you say that?”

She rolled her hazel eyes at me and said, “Oh come on. You keep looking at my feet. It’s not such a big deal, but puhleeze – you’re not a straight-laced guy. I know men!” She paused and said, “Look, forget about all that. I wanna tell you my story…”

I nodded in expectation and responded, “Yes okay. Confess away.”

Without hesitation she revealed her story. “It was a few years ago with a lover of mine. We were in a Las Vegas hotel whooping it up. We had hash oil, the best champagne. Moet and Chardonnay. We were hardcore fucking then we took a break.” Then she turned to me abandoning her far-away eyes. “David! Will you stop looking at my feet! You men with your foot fetishes!”

I shuddered at the thought of not looking. So I stammered back, “Uhh Okay, okay.” The hard-on is on hold. “Go on with your tale.”

Her face was flush with emotion. “Where was I? Oh yes…So we took a break and started smoking the hash oil again with tobacco. Then my beau said, ‘Let’s play some role playing games.”

“It was amazing! Then after a while my darling asked me to fulfill his wildest request. ‘Honey, I want to take a dump in your mouth!”

Well, there went my woody. It wilted right down to the size of a cashew. I immediately pushed her off me. Her sexy toes no longer attracted me. “Sorry about that.” She hadn’t taken a dive, having caught herself in the nick of time. “This is a little shocking.”

She straightened herself up and said, “Well, you didn’t have to shove me off your lap like that.”

“I’m sorry but these are pretty weird confessions you’re telling me. By the way, his name wasn’t Carlos, was it?”

“Nooooo… You wouldn’t know him. He doesn’t move in your circles.”

“Oh yeah?” I said defiantly.

She continued with her story. “No bondage for this routine, but I am willing to try it! So I got on the floor in one of my Yoga positions, and Mister Anonymous – I won’t say his name – took a dump right into my mouth!”

She took a pregnant pause, as if a ‘mania’ had entered her soul, and began reliving that moment in time. “The smell, Huberman. The most horrible smell I have ever perceived. And the taste – what a horrible, horrible taste! Like nothing I’d ever encountered before. The whole experience liberated me! In a way, it made me the woman I am today…”

I just nodded sheepishly. “Yes. I guess it would at that. Well, I imagine all good things must pass.” “Weep wow” I heard in my head as I started backing away.

“Where are you going?” She called out.

“Somewhere..anywhere..just not here. “I want to be by myself for a while,” I uttered.

And then I hightailed it outta there.

END

Originally published in ‘Sensitive Skin Magazine’ and edited by Chris Caggiano

“Japanese?” I ask.

“No” she says, “they are farangs near Russia.”

“Oh. Eastern Europeans or Slavic people,” I replied.

She looks up at me - it is obvious she has a crush on me. She smiles. “Yes I think so.....but there is something else about them. It makes them different from the other farangs. Oh I don’t know. Cannot describe it in English to you.”

For a moment she gets very quiet and you can see she is working something out. Then she says, “When they first came to me - these people - they would only buy at night from me - just when I am leaving. All of them were very pale looking under the lamp lights of Pattaya City, but now they show off magnificent suntans and buy from me in the morning. They look very handsome. The men and the women are very beautiful.”

Then she stopped talking and again went into heavy thought.

“Oh my. You are brooding my sweet flower!”

She comes out of her trance quickly. “No just thinking about them, sorry my friend.”

She playfully taps me on my shoulder and continues with the conversation.

“Only there is something very old and cruel about them - especially around their eyes and mouths. Oh some mystery surrounds them, yes?”

“Wow seems as if you are afraid of them.”

“Not really,” she says. “They are good customers and I feel they would not harm me. They all say the same talk to me - that my product, the black Garlic, has changed their lives. That it is wonderful! A good English word, ‘Wonderful’ is.”

“Well then, alls well that ends well. You are making good money and you now have an additional clientele. Just some weird people right?” She gives me her seductive look, grabs me and whispers in my ear, “I remember now what they told me. They came from big castles on huge mountains in the East with much fog. Their city is called Transylvania.” She then kissed me on my neck and left a trace of her red lipstick on me.

END

Edited by Don Fuchs

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Schlock-Webzine-19-Issue-12-ebook/dp/B0GCTBSN87/ref=sr_1_2?crid=BUHTKL8X2IZ1&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.PNi-NUKBf8IWwoSD7c2Vw-kqwN3v4uXQfxacWVlC1TaQBlGiF5eisifQOY9x_yL3MHAn-JGsXknpIX6jdjAC28AOTgJARsnvpDfVjt4bhF95nAhOtIHazDmj_bRm7WUKAV2ehR1-XBwy0rDuVXmolVtLs8QOq4GGzDcx1RPF-YTHCPrLMpNvU4aVwV5i2-yAHUq-Itho_5DLqC-OhXskLYKdO1LRDoxjelaYIURpH5I.Zzq6t66eAaRukHUyAgRGt7fH08q2MwdTtYVtPuXHEMk&dib_tag=se&keywords=schlock+webzine&qid=1769700864&sprefix=schlock+%2Caps%2C205&sr=8-2

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The night hung thick over the waterfront like dark grey octopus ink. Flying above, even Nosferatu could not penetrate the gloom with his x-ray optics, swooping downwards through the heavens, penetrating the oceanic air.

His high, not relative, but absolute pitched hearing, unique to his kind, detected prey below. Descending almost to the murky saltwater surface, he lashed out lightning quick, and the quarry was caught. The Beast did not struggle. Sometimes the shock alone did them in as a swooping falcon would on his dive bomb run.

The first bite was always the best. Sinking his teeth into his game, he was shocked to taste so much salt in the blood. What was this being? Was it true what they said? Had homo sapiens gotten so much heavier due to their bad eating habits?

Never had the night been as shadowy as it was this evening. Witnessing the longest lunar eclipse in a millennium, his curiosity had piqued beyond belief. Flaming like a red-orange meteorite, he landed on a nearby dirty white lighthouse still grasping his kill. The lights revolved to reveal a large amount of violet blood!

Before he could react, a powerful force had punched him almost through the roof. As the pale alabaster vampire’s pallid yellow eyes took one last look at the living entity that he had caught, his victim had come back to life. Somehow it appeared familiar, somewhere between a humanoid and a giant green lizard.

So it was - the Creature from the Black Lagoon plunged them both back under the deep blue sea.

Edited by Don Fuchs

end

However, hitting the road in this way is dangerous – more for the drivers than the passengers – as a good portion of operators themselves do not wear head protectors. Usually, not always, do they provide the patrons some form of adequate, safety gear. Could it be some type of national masculine pride? I use the word ‘masculine’ because there are very few female motorbike taxi drivers. So machismo it is – with usually no oversight from their taxi and limousine commission!

It is very hard for me to describe the trepidation I felt since my own accident. I am overcome with anxiety these days whenever I get back on a motorbike taxi. The fear and dread are profound. Still, it is what I have to do to get where I need to go. The ten baht buses don’t even travel to my neighborhood and tuk tuks can be very, very slow.

Of course, there are some operators who are simply insane. I usually patronize two middle aged men who have won my trust, however, there are times I cannot book them. That’s when the trouble begins. I had one go-getter take off like a rocket ship with us as his unwilling ‘crew.’ Whatever few traffic laws Thailand has, this driver broke them. Weaving in and out of traffic at top speeds, with me on the seat behind him, he actually drove on the sidewalk at times. Going between cars is normal here, however high velocity handling amid heavy traffic congestion is quite another story. All it takes is an off reflex, wrong move, bad decision, or another oncoming lead foot, to bring on the end – that is, maimed – or worse – dead. And my captain-in-charge completed a twenty five minute journey in five minutes flat!

Most of my Thai acquaintances believe that when Buddha calls, their time is up, and there is nothing they can do about it. Unfortunately, this underlying belief extends to their driving on Thailand’s roads. In other words, why should they drive safely? It makes no difference.

Late at night, when I can’t sleep, I sometimes vividly recall the steel-on-flesh moment from my accident, when we collided with another scooter and I flew onto the concrete. The panic would then roll in, as I relive the traumatic incident over and over again, like a horrible rerun that never stops.

One of the worst aspects of my unfortunate mishap – and I swear this is true – maybe five minutes before my crash, I could feel disaster approaching. I knew it would happen. Perhaps thousands if not millions of people have these trepidations as I have, just before a horrendous calamity. The ESP kicks in. Not too sure if I want this super power though! Some genius auteur should chronicle these speed demons as a documentary.

In April, Thailand’s hottest month of the year, temperatures reach a high of 95 degrees Fahrenheit, to a low of 86 degrees Fahrenheit. “Baking hot” is how most people would describe the weather here in ‘The Land of Smiles.’ The Songkran – aka Water Celebration – is Thailand’s national holiday celebrating the Thai New Year. It is designated, as the UNESCO listed ‘Intangible Cultural Heritage Holiday.’ During this celebration, Thailand is flooded with visitors from around the world.

Years ago and in some non-commercial provinces, Songkran was a mellow experience – a family Buddhist tradition of Spring cleansing - with just a little water thrown around people in the communities for purification. But in Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Phuket and Pattaya, this celebration drew its own cult following even before UNESCO put them on the map. Turns out this Thai holiday has transformed these cities into a gigantic battleground for water fights.

All those sweet polite people who the ex-pats and tourists depend on completely, let themselves go. Out come the high powered water cannons, buckets, fire hoses and even specially designed squirt shooters that propel like those Tommy Guns of yesteryear! And the farangs who pour into Thailand for this special occasion are even worse, savoring the water gun battles ahead.

“What’s the big deal?” you ask. “Just put on your bathing suit – so what if you get soaked. If April is the hottest month out of the year, the resident citizens are doing you a favor – keeping you cool amid hot, humid weather conditions,” you’re thinking.

What the unknowing public forgets though, is that all of these water guns and buckets have been filled with unfiltered water sources. So, it stands to reason, being doused with icy, polluted water will result in epidemics of colds and flu. Also, COVID -19 is still alive and well in Thailand. Although that in itself is not what truly worries me – it is the highways and their roads that I am concerned with.

The dark side of Songkran Festival has a nickname – the ‘Seven Days of Danger.’ Every hour during the celebration, it is estimated that two to three people die and a staggering 130 are injured. This is where the motorbike taxi drivers show their moxie – as they speed their clients around town while being shot with ice cold water from the fire hoses aboard family Thai trucks – with complete disregard for the treacherous road conditions or water health threats.

As drivers and their passengers are soaked with freezing, tainted waters, these good fellows become daredevils, and we, the general public, feel like we have just lived through the next Mad Max movie.

In Thailand, a total of 1,917 road accidents were recorded during 2024, resulting in 1,869 injuries and 278 lives lost. Hello Death Race 3000 – don’t just get me there fast –get me there alive!

Edited by Don Fuchs

END

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And there he was - sitting just opposite of me - the icon of American Punk Rock, Johnny Thunders himself. He was dressed in a 1960’s era - mod style outfit. Very slim black leather jacket, wrapped around a dark shirt and, of course, black styled sunglasses. Pink skinny tie. Yep. No doubt about it, Johnny Thunders! This speakeasy crowd was definitely not a rock and roll fan club. I could tell that. Nobody recognized him except for me. But I was wrong. There was one other guy sitting next to Johnny who did. He most certainly was with this lost New York Doll. This fellow looked like he was from Staten Island or maybe even Connecticut - a bridge and tunnel beaut. Nevertheless, he was very stoned. Mr. Thunders could see I recognized him. It was obvious at this point. He was smiling at me with that fake, phony smile of his. Something was up. Some type of ‘Junky Business.’ I looked deep - didn’t grin, didn’t frown - into his Inky shades that resembled the rest of his fiendish face. Sitting next to him was his prey. Thunders joined that group of mutant humans that needed junk, water and food and in that order. The imp’s mindset - the depraved addict took over. Johnny became part of the natural order of life - and addicts always need more! I should know. Like any predator he was acting on pure animal instinct. The whole act of being a petty criminal was so natural to him. He put his arm around the dude’s shoulders - his mark - as if they were best friends. His quarom seemed happy and content. Slowly, with nimble fingers, he entered the white, ‘Colin’ shirt’s upper pocket and, one at a time, he eased out a small heroin baggie. The first three endeavors went fine. He continuously transferred the dope bags openly with that right hand of his to some hidden area above his crotch. That he was able to pull that off three separate times, was simply amazing, without his dupe or the horde in the small den noticing. But the ‘greed factor’ entered the picture. It always does sooner or later. Desperation calling! He seized three bags instead of one. Big mistake. He dropped two out of the three bags. They quietly hit the floor with nobody noticing except me. I immediately put my foot down and dragged the glassine baggies to where I was seated and picked them up without breaking a sweat. Johnny Thunders just looked on - smiling - and gave me a small shrug. I beamed back at him with the leer of the damned and gave up my seat. I found Wacky Jackie at the bar. She was not successful in picking up a man. I said, “no dude huh?” She just licked her lips and said, “What’s the matter with men these days? Did they all turn totally gay? Let’s get out of this claptrap.” “Yeah”, I said “let’s go.”

END

The man spots the authorities and, like that pop song from long ago, he ‘watches the detectives.’ They seem to be very low-profile in this district, but then that’s probably what they want criminals to think. Show yourself in a bar or a café, get spotted by one of their undercover agents and before you know it, like a predatory hawk that swoops down on a little mouse, you could be seized within its claws. That, he couldn’t afford, not now or ever. He had heard from a corrupt ex-Interpol agent that Scotland Yard and the other international law enforcement agencies had put his case-file on the back burner because of his age. He would be one-hundred and two years old, and whoever heard of a century-old man killing people? Yet wherever there were horrible murders, there lurked someone who looked a lot like Lawrence Talbot, and occasionally he would spot his old wanted poster being put back up again.

Unfortunately, he has no time to dwell on the authorities. “Go on with your plan, stay calm—and above all—don’t panic,” he told himself. Just then, a group of men went by him; they were heading to patronize the ‘window’ girls. He emerged from the fog and joined their group. They took no notice of him. Their minds seemed to be on otherworldly problems. In less than two minutes, he found what he wanted. It wasn’t the young woman that drew him in—rather it was her public compartment. Handcuffs!

Her place looked like a mini-medieval torture den. Larry pivots quickly just to make sure nobody is watching him as he enters. Before he could bring himself to speak, the young temptress looks him in the eye and says, “Fifteen minutes, you know - standard. One Hundred gilders.” His wild greasy hair barely covered the map of wrinkles that etched his face, his red swollen eyes betray the fact that he hasn’t slept for a long time. With his broad shoulders and dirty torn overcoat, he slumped on her stool.

He gives her a weary smile, then says gruffly, “All I can think of is time. You don’t have to remind me. I’ll give you three hundred British pounds—that’s equal to six-hundred dollars in American money and about twelve-hundred gilders give or take. All I want you to do is handcuff me in the shackles over there, gag me, and then leave. You don’t return until morning. You tell no one I’m here. My pounds are buying your silence, that’s my deal. Just say yes. Ya get me?”

With her Mediterranean features and hard body, she eyed him intensely. “I don’t do freaks.” He wondered if she was Indonesian with her dark looks and coal-black hair. Maybe she’s Arabic or gypsy, now that would be interesting. “No kinky stuff. This is Marlene’s equipment; she works the day shift.”

“She doesn’t seem to understand!” he thinks to himself, but somehow, he must make her realize the stakes. “Look, if it’s the money I’ll double it! But we must hurry.” Slightly under his breath he continues, “for soon it’ll be dark and then I change into…” He pauses and then speaks loudly while his hands are covering his face, “Oh, it’s so horrible!” He is close to breaking down.

Reluctantly she chants. “Even he who is pure of heart and says his prayers by night can become a wolf when the wolf bane blooms and the autumn moon is bright.”

Stunned silence follows.

“How did you…?” Confusion trails his voice.

My great-grandmother recited the poem to me when I was just a child. Maleva was her name. Dead a long time now, my gypsy clan honored her; said she had fought against the supernatural, but some great horror had befallen her in Vasaria. I am a nomad at heart – the gypsy blood raging inside of me. Funny. Seeing you sitting there, reminded me of her. I hardly think of her anymore, and as for the poem, well I’m as surprised as you that I remembered it. Who..are you?”

Larry nods his head back and forth. “It’s unbelievable, simply unbelievable. I’ve come full circle. How?” He trails off in disbelief then says, “Bela the gypsy was your grandfather! Then you must have heard of the curse, but it wasn’t Maleva, rather her son upon whom the horror preyed.”

Fear had spread upon her young face, yet she did not try to leave, exclaiming, “Bela’s son Herman was my father! At the time of Bela’s murder, no one in his clan had any knowledge that he was a young parent. Herman always said his father was killed by a rich Englishman. The murderer’s name was Lawrence Talbot. Now I’ll ask you again. Tell me who you are!” she demanded.

With that question hanging from her lips, Larry got up from the stool, quietly approached her, and said gently, “I’m Lawrence Talbot. I was that fine British gentleman who killed your grandfather,” He fully expected her to scream or to make a run for it, but she did neither.

Softly, she said, “Our meeting is of divine providence foretold by my Gypsy ancestors. I want to hear everything.”

Larry looked ahead of her, apprehension on his face. “Time is running out for words, I tell ya, but I’ll say this. Since the day of your grandfather’s death, I have been a fugitive, always on the run, scattering slaughtered men, women and even children in my wake. But Bela I killed, I did not murder! Do ya hear me child? I did this awful deed to defend myself when the mark of the beast was upon him and with his death, I inherited your grandfather’s curse. Never to die - to live in eternal damnation — and every full moon to butcher another innocent human being! Good old Maleva. Stood by her son and then later me. Only, she glimpsed into our hell and understood what it must have been like for us. And now the curse has come full circle, to deliver me to you, of all people, the great-granddaughter of the man who gave me the blasted curse of the Werewolf!”

With those last words screaming upon his lips, Larry crumpled up and fell to his knees, moaning, crying, shrieking the words “Why me God, why me?” His listener came to him with compassion on her face, lightly stroking his unkempt hair. It was as if he was a small child and she the Earth Mother, the goddess, the all-knowing spiritual teacher. As she caressed him, Larry grabbed her hand and saw there scarred in the middle of her palm the sign of the pentagram. This was a certain sign of his next victim! With utter shock he jumped up. “Too late!” he cried out.

Through the cheap curtains, as moonlight flooded the room, he instantly felt the changes coursing through his body. Gobs of drool dripped from his mouth; his teeth enlarged, bigger and sharper, and became fangs that grew down to his chin. Each body hair stood up, growing at a super-accelerated rate, transforming him from human to beast. Larry’s last memory was of a wolf howling at the moon, then of attacking, ripping, tearing, biting—trapped in a total bloodlust until darkness is ushered in by the sunrise.

He woke with a start, the sunlight dancing before him. The birds were singing, but not to him. He threw himself from the bed, naked, in a panic, exactly like a hundred times before. The small room was in disarray, cold cream on the floor, the shackles torn down—handcuffs torn into pieces of useless metal. As he moved, he felt pain across his body. There in front of the smashed mirror, he examined his naked torso. To his great astonishment, there were huge welts and scratches all over his body. The poor girl, she must have put up an awful fight, he thought, but where is her body? Within his horror of finding his hideous handiwork, he examined the room for her torn-up corpse. Nobody! Not even small amounts of blood! Impossible, could she have escaped me? No, it can’t be! Once I see the symbol of the pentagram, my victims are as good as dead. No one has ever escaped my attack. No one!

Then came a knock on the door. A bewildered Larry stood transfixed as he heard her husky voice. “Oh Larry, it’s me. I’m coming in. I have coffee. I didn’t know how you like it so I got…” The gypsy girl casually walked in.

Seeing her, Larry stared and said in total amazement and the thought of his tormenting ‘hallucinations.’ “But...but…you’re alive?!” She walked over to him slowly, put the coffee down on the broken dresser, and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. He jumped away from her in fear. He was startled, nearly out of his mind.

She looked at him seductively and said, “Lawrence, you didn’t kill anybody last night. Sit down, Larry, we have to talk.”

He was dumbfounded. “What happened last night?” he asked. Was it possible that for the first time he had not killed a victim chosen for him by the vision of the pentagram? “Shocking, simply shocking,” he mused, as the thought hit him like a sledgehammer.

She woke him from this daydream. “Mating, that’s your answer. That’s what will stop the needless killing. It can be quite as violent as murdering someone, lovemaking at its most furious and primitive! It’s our solution, Larry. Yours and mine together.” Confused by her remarks, he was at a loss for words.

“Oh Lawrence,” she said, her voice as shy as a little girl. “I turn just like you do. Did you think only men bear the curse of the wolf? I know very well the feeling of waking in a sticky, bloody pool of an evening’s unlucky prey.” She stopped speaking. There was no further need of words. They looked at each other, as two fierce animals, wildly sniffing a compatible creature’s scent. “Your clothes are on the chair, over there where you hung from the shackles last night. That is before you tore them down.” Wordlessly, he dressed as fast as possible. He was numb with this new awareness. Had he found the solution at last? Finally he was ready to leave.

As he departed, her last words were reflected in her piercing gypsy eyes. “Lawrence, my love, stay hidden, but don’t go too far. Come back to me before the next full moon. Remember Larry, mating. It’s our way now, our beautiful way. You will not only keep yourself free of the killing, but myself as well.”

* * *

The guys looked like male models, the type I fantasized about being on expensive yachts. These men were all dressed in tailored white and black outfits, while the women were tall dirty blondes with gorgeous tanned legs that went on for miles. Their hair was done up in the way all the ‘Beautiful People’ had it done in the 80s.

In contrast, 1982 was not a good year for me. I was doing plenty of angel dust and copping spit-backs from the methadone addicts that year. With my unkempt hair and torn dirty jacket, I was lucky the bouncers had even let me into the club. I had looked like a Jewish version of ‘Ratso Rizzo’ from the classic 1969 movie Midnight Cowboy.

I sat closer to the elegant crowd. They were affable British gents with obnoxiously happy faces. Then right there in the back of the club - the crème de la crème pack started doing lines of blow. They offered me some and of course I was happy to oblige. Bluish lines of very good cocaine were going right up my nose!

I started getting a little nervous that the club bouncers might notice but nobody bothered us. True, the alluring women were practically blocking the view of the action. Nevertheless, the nightclubs had decent video cameras even back then. Still, not a single security person came by.

I was pretty amazed that they were turning me on. Meanwhile A Flock of Seagulls was playing their last song - an encore dedicated to the band Duran Duran.

“Wow,” I said out loud to myself. “I wonder why they’re honoring Duran Duran?”

“Oh,” one of them replied, “that’s because it’s us!”

I looked up at them and shockingly realized my newfound friends were the band Duran Duran! And there they were with their stunning girlfriends. What an elegant party they were! It dawned on me at that moment that they had to be really high to have accepted my company.

A Flock of Seagulls had finished their gig and the music crowd was getting restless. One of Duran’s band members - the whole band looked alike to me with their fashionable thin white and black jackets - asked me if I was a native New Yorker and I replied, “Yes I am.” Then another gentleman from that elegant circle asked me if I liked “punk music”.

At this point I felt like a Morlock being asked for directions by some Eloi from that old movie The Time Machine. That’s how bad I felt about myself hanging with them. However, they seemed not to notice my shabbiness. I answered them, “Yes, I’m a big fan.”

“Great.” they said. “Do you know where Max’s Kansas City is? We want to see those chaps Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers.”

I smiled at that and replied, “Look, if you guys would wait for me outside for just a few minutes I’ll walk you over to Max’s. I know for a fact that Johnny and the Heartbreakers are not going on until at least midnight with their habits and such.”

Even with my untidy appearance, I still took mixed up pride in my grooming. Sometimes a little confidence can go a long way. I immediately went inside the Peppermint Lounge bathroom and put on a dash of cheap men’s cologne I probably picked up at the thieves’ market in Alphabet City. The little plastic bottle that contained the pretty gold liquid was probably a sample of some budget-friendly scent. In spite of that, I remember that I smelled good, even if I did not feel at the top of my game.

And let’s face it, I was lucky. My stylish newfound crew was waiting for me outside. Straight away I said, “No need for a cab, we are only five or six blocks away” — the Peppermint Lounge was at 100 Fifth Avenue and Max’s Kansas City was at 18^th Street and Park. (Even with my poor sense of direction, I knew that part of town like the back of my hand.) We started on our way, and I made sure to navigate around Union Square Park, which in the early 80s was a very dangerous place - full of junkies and desperate street criminals.

My brand-new friends were so delighted with me. While we were walking, I was surrounded much as a tour guide would, that they would stop every once in a while to ask questions about the neighborhood and give me a snort or two! Meanwhile their gorgeous women friends were playing with my long curly dark hair. I don’t think they had ever experienced meeting a young hip Jew before.

The truth of the matter was they were all very fine chaps, not stuck-up rock stars with their ‘arm candy.’ Well, their hot girlfriends may have been models, but they weren’t arrogant assholes. It wasn’t like that at all – like what I had saw or felt from MTV and TRL (total request live)!

Finally, after a few slight streetwise maneuvers, I had gotten them to Max’s. The huge white bouncer, who was a daunting, towering torpedo, looked at me with troubling eyes. I couldn’t blame him for giving me that look. A few weeks prior he had to drag me away from harassing Andy Warhol, whom I’d met outside Max’s waiting for Allen Ginsberg, the famous NYC poet. Stay tuned for this sequel.

Unfortunately, at that time I was experiencing the effects of an angel dust wipeout, so I wasn’t the most popular person to be around at Max’s Kansas City Nightclub that night, or any other night!

But now I was on my game, and I am sure the stars and constellations were in my favor. I talked fast and loudly. “Hi, these friends of mine from England are the famous MTV band Duran Duran. They are here to see Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers.”

The sky-high sentry looked stunned! Before he could say anything, the owner, Tommy Dean, appeared right behind him. And right on cue he said, “Yes, of course. Come with me, guys. I’ll escort you and your group right upstairs,” smiling with delight with his fifties-style hairdo and his little moustache. I could see it in his face - the photo ops and publicity he was dreaming up with this fantastic opportunity.

Before my guided tour of rock stars left me, I said very quietly to them, “Wow, you beautiful Brits are the best. I’m sure Johnny is going to have an amazing show tonight with you great musicians in the audience. I’ll see you guys later. I have a few things I have to tend to.”

As I was about to shuffle away, one of those Duran Duran dudes — like I said they all looked alike to me—gave me an envelope. After I nudged my way outside, I opened it up. There was quite a nice amount of bluish cocaine. What a great night!

END

With my tie dyed Grateful Dead tee shirt and my Free Angela Davis button in tow, I had journeyed from Rego Park, Queens to Manhattan’s Central Park looking for the Great Lawn, where the huge ‘event’ and march would take place. I’d never realized Central Park was so vast, and I kept on asking people where the march was taking place. Nobody seemed to know or care – most didn’t even respond to my pleas. I was just wandering around.

I didn’t have a dollar to my name – only a boxed lunch I carried in a brown paper bag. I was starting to get hungry for that kosher baloney sandwich on rye with brown mustard, but held off. My only other culinary possessions were an apple and four bags of Andy Capp potato sticks for when I got the munchies later on. For transportation – I had a 20₵ subway token in the back pocket of my blue jeans so I could get back home to Rego Park. My beverage for the day with which I would drink the food down would be supplied by the legendary Central Park water fountains. The ‘freaks’ seemed to be everywhere - long-haired dudes with hair down to their buttocks, John Lennon lookalikes, beautiful hippy girls wearing purple rainbow multicolored dresses with fringe jackets on. I just didn’t know which direction to take.

I tried asking directions a few more times, but most of the Flower Children seemed to be in the same predicament as I was. Finally, one disheveled, bearded, beatnik answered, “Don’t worry, man. You’ll get there when you get there!” After this reply, I just picked a direction, and started walking where most of the bohemians were heading.

As I marched around for about 10 minutes, the smell of dope was all around me. It permeated my space, but still nobody was offering. Finally, I took a break and leaned against a tree. There was a couple sitting on the ground a few feet away from me and they were lighting up a storm. Their reefer smelled real good, and sweetness was in the air. They must have had some good shit!

All of a sudden the dude, wearing a colorful Mexican poncho, yelled out to me, “Hey kid, come smoke some Mother Earth with us!”

Wow, an invitation! I immediately sat down with them. Right off I noticed this cat looked familiar, and the woman did also. She was very quiet – just giving me the Chelsea smile.

“Hey kid, you look a little lost, are you alright…?”

“Well,” I said. “I’m looking for the Big Smoke In and march.”

“Aren’t we all!” said the very familiar face. “Don’t sweat it, kid. What’s your name, by the way?”

“David,” I replied sheepishly.

“Do you mind if I call you Dave?” the man in the blue-gray Capote asked.

“No. I don’t mind at all…”

“Well my name is Elliott and my girlfriend there is Jennifer, and this is Panama Red!”

What Mr. Elliott held in his hand looked more like a giant cigar than a joint. He then produced a large glassine bag containing green and reddish brown buds of what my old mother would call Mary Jane.

“Wowee!” I cried out. I had hit the jackpot!

We passed the huge spliff around quite a few times. We were a stoned and quiet threesome. Finally, I got the nerve and asked my benefactor, “Where do I think I know you from?”

“Kid. I mean Dave. Do you go to the movies?”

“Sure,” I said, startled for a moment. “Wait just a minute…You’re the guy in the film, The Long Goodbye! You’re Philip Marlowe!”

My patron just smiled.

“Elliott Gould – that’s your full name. You’re a great Philip Marlowe. I liked you better than Bogey or Dick Powell!”

He turned to his paramour. “I like this kid, Jen. He’s a fan of Raymond Chandler.” He then turned to me and said, “You do know who Raymond Chandler is, right?”

I smiled. “Testing me are you? I’ve read everything by him – all seven novels of his, in fact.”

“What actor played the worst Philip Marlowe?” Mr. Gould wanted to know.

“Why that’s easy,” I said. “George Montgomery in The Brasher Doubloon put out by 20^th Century Fox pictures in 1947.

Shocked, Elliott Gould turned once again to his companion. “Jen, I could’ve used this young man when Altman gave me the part!” Then he turned back to me and said, “You’re something else! I’m delighted that I turned you on to my dope!”

Subsequently, I turned my attention to Mr. Gould’s lady friend and said, “You look familiar too. Are you an actress?” She just smiled, looking like she was on Cloud Nine. “Mr. Streisand” – what my mother always used to call him – answered for her.

“That, my friend, is Jennifer O’Neal. Did you see the movie, Summer of ’42?”

I nodded my head. “Oh yeah, I saw it a few years ago. Fun film!”

We smoked a little more. Jennifer O’Neal never said a word. And then, as zonked as I was, I got the feeling that this Hollywood couple wanted to be alone – and intimate! I got up, heavily stoned out and said, “Thank you so much! I’m still going to try to find the Smoke In!” ‘Marlowe’ just waived me goodbye.

About a block away, I gobbled up my kosher Baloney sandwich and jumped back on the subway to Queens.

We had journeyed together in the after-hours club circuit like ‘lounge lizards’ to The Nursery, Zombies, Page Six, Brownies, et cetera. Now both of us were hanging out at the notorious Hellfire Club located on 8^th avenue in the Meat Packing District - a BDSM establishment where patrons worked out their kinks while partaking in heavy amount of chemicals.

“Tony’s here! He’s waiting to meet us. He’s in the back in one of the compartments where they have private scenes.”

I looked Mary squarely in the face. Irish charm exuded from her countenance. A natural beauty with bright red hair. No makeup or high heels. Instead, always baggy clothes over her athletic frame, with white tennis shoes. You would think she went out of her way to be undesirable. Thus, our relationship was platonic – we were ‘Narcotic Buddies.’ I once asked her what she did for a living. She winked at me and said, “I’m a call girl!”

“But honey, you don’t dress sexy!” I observed.

“That’s right. My clients want me to look like the girl next door’s younger sister!”

A vivacious woman without adornments, she was no Dominatrix. Out of her element if you ask me. But who’s asking? And I really hate to say this, but Mary was a coke whore. Tony Curtis (yes, that Tony Curtis) was her client. He must have found her at one of those agencies that rich guys always went to when they were lonely or horny.

“Come on, Dave. Let’s go find Tony.” Mary pushed me on.

Entering the Hellfire hotspot was like descending into an infernal, dark, cavern. The lights were dimmed. There was a huge bar upfront near the entrance with bondage equipment on either side of it. It was Saturday night. Almost midnight. And the revelers were many - dressed in differing S&M outfits. Some could be made out as Masters or Mistresses, or as slaves / submissives. Others? Just bizarros.

As you entered, you could feel the thick, large, black mats on the floor. They were rubber – like the type commercial buildings put down when rain or snow is anticipated. And they were lumpy. Not the lumps from defective rubber but actual people underneath living out fantasies of having other people walk all over them. You had to watch where you stepped, or did you? One dude especially loved when women walked over him with sharp pointed black boots or edgy, spiked heels.

We were heading into the back now and heard many voices muttering all types of expletives. The whole deal was a farce. Mary was copping for her rich, famous client. Hellfire, with its infamous reputation was just another Speakeasy for these two. You could actually smell the sweat of decadent sex in the air. People were moaning loudly in pain and pleasure as riding crops shot across their bodies.

As we neared the back, we passed a bathtub planted on the floor. In it an elderly man with a long scraggly beard yelled out, “Yellow showers! Please give me your yellow showers!” And sure enough, there was a throng of men in various black leather outfits pissing on him. He was screaming in ecstasy! We kept on moving.

Finally, we made it to the back where private booths lay beyond heavy yellow curtains, appropriately. The cubicles always seemed even darker than the rest of the joint. Some stalls had little red lights in them. Tony Curtis was in the second booth from the front. I could make out the faded movie star’s silhouette from behind the torn lemon curtains.

Almost immediately, Mary marched in. I stayed where I was, not entering. There was a flurry of activity, then Mary stormed out. She returned to me looking agitated. Her beautiful face look flustered as she stammered, “He doesn’t want to see you!” Her voice trailed off. “I’m sorry, Dave..”

On hearing that, I sort of laughed. “I expected that. Why would he want to meet me - a garbage head.”

She just nodded, swinging her red curls at me and said, “I wasted your time…but I have to return to him like now. But here.” She took my hand and put hers in mine. “I’ll see you around, sweet stuff.” She ran back into the enclosure. I couldn’t care less about the ‘missed’ opportunity.

In my hot little hand, was a small glassine envelope containing a small rock that looked blue-ish – white Hollywood cocaine – almost pure. It pays to hang around – I had gotten my payoff!

I almost waived to Tony’s shadow…a salute would’ve been more appropriate, as I walked away.

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