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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: suicide.txt (MM, exh, celeb, slash)
Authors name: Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo
(christineindigo@juno.com)
Story title : Suicide: Seven Minutes Over Tampa
---------------------------------------------------------
(c) copyright 2002 Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo.
You may post this story to any free newsgroup/forum/what-
ever and/or add it to any free electronic archive, as
long as nothing is changed and you don't try to pass it
off as a true story.
---------------------------------------------------------
Suicide: Seven Minutes Over Tampa (MM, exh, celeb, slash)
by Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo
(christineindigo@juno.com)
***
In 1977 or 1978, an audience member told Alan and Martin
(from electronica pioneers Suicide) to go fuck themselves.
They did. (Disclaimer: Never happened. Not intended to
imply that it happened, either.)
http://www.asstr.org/~christineindigo
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/christineindigo/
DISCLAIMERS: This is a work of FICTION. It never happened.
If it had happened, everyone would know about it already,
just like everyone knows about Jim Morrison pulling his
dick out on stage. I am willing to remove this story from
circulation upon request from Alan Vega, Martin Rev, and/
or their representatives. (All of the other characters in
this story are fictional.)
***
You've heard about *that* Suicide show? No, not that
*other* one--I was at every show they ever did up until
1978, and I never saw Alan fuck a girl on stage. (And the
girl wasn't me, either, despite everything you've been
told.) I'm talking about the other one. The one where
they fucked each other. There's been a lot of lies and
half-truths told about that show. Let me tell you what
really happened.
It was April or May, 1977. (Or it might have been 1978. I
don't know. I don't keep a diary.) They were playing at
some dump in Tampa, of all places. About half-an-hour
into the show, some fat asshole in the back yelled, "Go
fuck yourselves, faggots!" Before I tell you what
happened next, let me tell you about what Suicide shows
were like in the early-to-mid Seventies.
Picture two leather-clad guys, one scowling and torturing
an organ, the other striding around like some Fifties
housewife's nightmare of a rockabilly (who had come for
her daughters *and* sons, of course), both intent on
making as much trouble for themselves as possible. Add an
audience full of punks, people who were there to beat up
punks, lost tourists, and a few true believers like me,
and you have a recipe for ...an interesting experience,
that's for sure. Anyway, Alan heard that and said,
"What's that? You said you wanted to fuck us? You
couldn't handle both of us."
"Fuck off, commie faggot!" (They had played "Che" a few
minutes beforehand.)
"You know, that's the seventh time you've called me a
faggot. That's not cool." He lit a cigarette. Most of the
audience were laughing, muttering to themselves, and/or
standing in the back with their arms crossed. "Nothing
wrong with being a faggot," he continued. I could tell
something bad was about to happen, so I started inching
toward the door.
"Well, if you want us to be faggots, then we'll be
faggots for you." He whispered to Martin, who started
into "Cheree." "Jerry, Jerry/my black leather laddie,"
Alan warbled toward Fat Asshole, about fifteen octaves
above his usual range. "I love you." Then, everything
changed. Let me explain what I mean. Have any of you
ever been insane?
If so, do you remember that head-full-of-cotton feeling
you get before you do something crazy? I could feel that
cotton expanding out of everyone's heads and into the air
as Martin and Alan began to kiss. They lip-locked for a
few minutes, with Martin continuing to play his keyboard
with one hand while holding Alan's hand with the other. I
could hear catcalls and soo-ees coming from the audience.
Finally they stopped, and the audience flowed onto the
stage, angry and ready to bash some heads in. They wasted
no time in running off stage before the crowd could get
them. I elbowed and shoved my way out of the crowd and
out the front door. Something, I still don't know what,
drew me back in. I pushed everyone aside and made my way
to the door that led backstage. There was a little blonde
Cuban and a tall redheaded man already back there, the
only two people other than me that had been clapping
between songs.
The Cuban was beating her little fists on the door as the
redhead looked on. Finally, the door opened. Inside, we
saw Alan and Martin fondling each other against a brick
wall. After a nervous second, they opened up a nearby
door and beckoned us inside. We went in. There was a
moment of silence before someone found a light and turned
it on.
The room we were in must have been a storage room,
because there were a lot of cardboard boxes around. It
was apparently very close to the stage, because I could
hear lots of people talking through one of the walls. I
could also hear the drum machine still going, stuck in "I
Remember" ticky-tocky mode.
Martin's keyboard was also still going somehow, cycling
between two chords endlessly. The band had left the
stage, but no one had yet pulled the plug on their
instruments. All of the sounds were echoing through the
room, and I thought about how much it sounded like
Suicide when I first fell in love with them, years ago,
before they'd started playing the sinister little nursery
rhyme mantras that they're best known for. But I digress.
I was still staring at the wall, having a Grand Nostalgic
Moment, when Alan began to sing.
I turned around and he was standing in the middle of the
room with his cock out, stroking it, and holding Martin
pressed up tight against him. His cock was hardening so
quickly that it looked like a balloon being filled from a
faucet. Martin's back was to us, but his arm was bobbing
up and down, making it clear that he was doing the same
thing. (Now, this was a brilliant idea, since that was
what most people at the time thought they were pretty
much doing with their music anyway.)
"Pretty boy, night in the city/Captured by, ahh...." Alan
started to shake, and for a second I thought that he was
going to come all over me and the rest of the audience.
However, he didn't, and after taking a deep breath, he
continued on singing and masturbating, improvising some
kind of _Behind The Green Door_-in-a-blender-with-the-
first-chapter-of_Native Son_ story.
I wish I had had a tape recorder with me, so that I could
have recorded it--it was fantastic. (That boot that's
been circulating for ages as "The Backstage Tapes" or
"Seven Minutes Over Tampa" is a fake. Believe me.) I
crept as close in as I dared, close enough to be able to
smell his crotch, and sat on the floor. The Cuban and the
redheaded guy stood nearby, giggling to each other.
Assholes. Personally, I was getting pretty turned on by
the whole thing. I'd never been attracted to either Alan
or Martin before--why go for stringy pretend-junkies when
you can get the real thing on any street corner--but I
was starting to change my mind.
Anyway, I had closed my eyes for a second, lost in some
Black Leather Comic Book Moonlight Screams fantasy, when
I was startled by a loud yell from Martin. I opened them
as he went rigid and came. Alan then yelped, started to
shake again, and began to moan (yep, he sounded just like
he did in "Girl"). He also came, squeezing Martin so hard
that I thought he was going to cut him in two, and
ejaculating straight towards me. I opened my mouth to try
to catch some of it, and I did. Then, as Martin sank
towards the floor, Alan stood there with unsteady legs
and sunglasses askew, panting. "Are there any more
requests?" he said.
Well, I had a few requests. Luckily, I could tell that
the audience participation portion of the show was just
about to begin. I stood up, wrapped my arm around Alan,
and pulled him in closer to me. In the corner of my eye,
I could see Martin beckoning towards the other two people
in the audience. They hesitated a moment before walking
toward him.
Suddenly, Martin's keyboard stopped playing the two-note
sound that it had been playing, and started to play "Mary
Had A Little Lamb." Alan and Martin ran out of the room,
to see who was fucking with their equipment, I think. I
considered waiting for them to come back, but the moment
was gone, so I left. And spent the rest of the night
going from bar to bar, looking for a tall, skinny guy or
two to relieve some of my frustrations.
So, that's what really happened. That little Cuban ended
up marrying the tall redhead and writing a book on
Suicide. It's a good book, but don't trust it too much,
and don't trust it at all when it mentions the show that
I've just finished telling you about. Maybe you shouldn't
trust me either. After all, memories are a strange and
unreliable thing.
END
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Celebrity Archives