Digital Underground - uXu - Underground eXperts United #uxu-430

### ### ### ### ### #### ### ### ### #### ### ### ##### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ##### ### ### ########## ### ### ########## ### ### ### ### Underground eXperts United Presents... ####### ## ## ####### # # ## ## ####### ####### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## # ## ## ## #### ## ## #### # # ####### #### ## ## ## ## ## ## ##### ## # ## ## ## ## ## ####### ####### # # ## ####### ####### [ Virginia is for Fighters ] [ By Michael W Dean ] ____________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________ Virginia is for Fighters. By Michael W. Dean We had a lot of fun together. One memorable night was our trip to see Fibber in DC: I had been hearing about Fibber from the guys that I used to live with. Johnny and Eddy were DJs at WTJU, and deified this band for some reason. They told me all kinds of interesting tales: the guitar player was a Vietnam vet, the band met in college at frat party (they certainly didn't look like frat boys to me though; they looked like sleazy, xool, older men.) I'd heard that Fibber were drug addicts, and that they sometimes let the audience come up and play their instruments while they went to the bar and drank. That sounded far out to me. I loved their music, too. It was simple--most of their songs had two parts, one part or even less--but it was deep. It was simultaneously celebratory and sad--poetic and guttural. You could dance to it or pass out to it, or both. Becky and I got tickets in advance through Plan 9 records. When the lucky day came, we were very, very excited. Becky got all dressed up. She was cluelessly cute. I came home and found her doing the bunnyhop in front of the mirror, listening to the Fibber song, Never. This inspired me to start calling her, "Rebecky" on the spot. She was wearing a red and white checkered gingham babydoll dress and sporting an Easter bonnet. Girl looked like she was on her way to a barn dance. She said, "Oh Cash, I haven't been to a concert in so long!" She then tackled me and threw me onto the bed, opened my zipper and began sucking. I said, "Baby, what was the last concert that you saw?" She stopped slurping me for just long enough to say, "Supertramp and Bob Seeger." She then went back to her business. I lifted up her skirt and stuck it in long enough to splurt cum into her perma-wet pussy. I stayed hard and inside her and rubbed her clitty with my thumb for about fifteen seconds until she shuddered and poured. Then I slapped her on the ass, pulled her skirt back down and said, "Thanks, Babe." It was going to be an interesting night, indeed. The drive was fun. We stopped three times to pull onto little-used sideroads and make love. I made a special point of stopping on Route 666. Becky was kinda disturbed at this, having been raised Southern Baptist, but she shed no tears and went along with it because she loved her man. We got to the 9:30 Club and parked down the street. We went around back and smoked the joint she had saved for the occasion (I didn't really like pot, but she did. Pot had ceased being fun a few paranoid years earlier. I was an alcohol man. I used to like drugs that change the channel on reality. But for the past bunch o' years, I have only liked drugs that turn down the volume.) I lifted up Becky's skirt, knelt and licked her little pink butthole. I spit on my cock and began boinking her in the ass. We were standing up. I forcefully pushed her up against the brick wall. She rubbed her clit and came instantly and said that she loved me. I was so turned on that I splatted globs all over her ass. I wiped the shit off my cock with a rag that I found on the ground and said, "Blow me, you Beautiful, healthy little whore!" (I don't lose my hard-on when I cum.) She said, "Gladly!" She reapplied her lipstick and knelt down in the rubbish to wrap her pretty worm-lips around my root. I didn't bother to tell her about the two HUGE rats that were fearlessly watching us during the doing of the deed. I swear that they were bigger than cats. We went back into the club. It was totally packed. The show had sold-out and Fibber had added another performance. I grabbed Becky and tried to go backstage. I was astonished that no one tried to stop us. We walked down the stairs and acted like we were supposed to be there. (More often than not, this approach works in most areas of this life.) We were also surprised that there was hardly anyone down there. Just the band, the manager, and one woman interviewing them for a radio station. I introduced Becky and myself to the band. They seemed unimpressed. They seemed larger-than-life. I was star-struck, and I am sure it showed. I had brought copies of the Translucent Infant 7" E.P. to give to the band. I handed them out all around the room. I'm sure that I thought that they would take one listen to it, fall in love with my free and convoluted spirit, and make me famous. Stebe, the relentlessly steadfast drummer who held their glorious mess together, wordlessly bit his copy in half. I was crushed, but undaunted. I gave one to Bill. He said "Thanks," and went back to calmly conducting a Dictaphone interview with the woman from WGNS. The guitar player, Ned, was the only one who was really nice to me. He told me that he had a radio show in San Francisco, and that he would spin my record, at least once. I was so happy! I asked Ned if I could have one of the band's beers. He said "sure" and incurred a dirty look from Bill's co-lead singer, Bruce Juice. I sipped the beer-of-the-gods for a few minutes and tried to think of something to say. After a while, Bruce said to me, "Hey man, why don't you get outta here." Rebecky and I turned to leave, crushed, and one of them added, "... but your girlfriend can stay!" I was hurt, but impressed. To me it seemed like the treatment that I deserved from my idols. It increased my resolve to move to California and become a Rockstar. The show was great. Fibber did not go to the bar. They stayed on the stage and played the hits furiously. I was especially impressed by Ned's truck-jackknifing-on-the-interstate guitar playing. It was the sound of Western civilization crumbling. It was magic; not only in sound, but in the fact that what his fingers were doing did not seem to correspond with what was coming out of the speakers. Bill and Bruce alternated on lock-groove, live distorto-bass loops and drunk, poet-in-the-gutter lead-singing. At times, Stebe's amazingly clocked-in, idiot-savage, simple drumming was the only thing that kept the whole mess from dissolving. The between-song patter consisted mainly of admonishments to the DC scene for fostering the Straight Edge movement. Everything that Fibber did seemed contrary to that ideal. They were a walking, squawking, attractive promotion for the sinister Beauty inherent in hedonism. Becky was sweet and smart. She was a great listener and a good conversationalist. She was a good companion. She also supported me financially and would fuck me, very well, any time and place I wished. When she didn't feel like fucking--very rarely--she would hold me, kiss me and dote over me while I masturbated. In short, Becky was every thing that a short, pig-headed misogynist asshole of a man like myself could want in a woman, and more. She was totally true to me, and lived only to please her man. She cooked for me and loved me and cleaned up my messes and she was my best friend. She even bought me my first nice guitar, a Fender Telecaster. (I later smashed it in a drunken rage.) I was bored, though. When a man gets everything he needs and everything he wants and is too immature to appreciate it, it frustrates him. Also, in the back of my mind was the sneaking suspicion that I was somehow not worthy of this heavenly treatment. I began testing Becky. Even though I was a malicious drunk, I would get her to buy me a bottle of wine. We would share it, (with me drinking the pig's share) and I would fuck her and then verbally abuse her. I would tell her that she was ugly and fat. (Nothing could be further from the truth--but almost any woman will believe these lies if you are convincing enough.) I would say "if you really loved me, you would go to the store and buy me a root beer"--even though it was three a.m., the dead of winter and a woman had been brutally raped the night before by the railroad tracks between our house and the store. I got my root beer. I would often walk around town in a daze of smug self-satisfaction, telling myself that I was the "luckiest boy in the world." Sometimes the ego would strip away and it would be just me and my god walking and talking about stuff. I thanked my god for my gifts in secret and flaunted them in public. (It would be ten years before I would hear "if you don't [humbly] use your gifts, they will kill you.") I haunted that town and became a legend. My spirit still walks those streets, and people still speak of me in hushed tones and degrade me in drunken spiels. I am a folk hero there, and when I sleep, my living-ghost still wanders Charlottesville. Even though I only lived in Virginia for two years, when I moved to SF I told everyone I was from Virginia rather than Upstate New York. This was partially because I had felt more at home in Charlottesville, and partially because when you say you're from NY, most West Coasters assume Manhattan (as if there is no Upstate--even though I grew up 300 miles from New York City and know better.) I'd rather be thought of as a redneck then as a New Yorker. http://www.kittyfeet.com http://www.kittyfeet.com/queery.htm --------------------------------------------------------------------------- uXu #430 Underground eXperts United 1998 uXu #430 Call RIPCO ][ -> +1-773-528-5020 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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