Suicide: Seven Minutes Over Tampa, v2 [MM, celeb, exhib, voy, Real Person
Slash]
by Christine "Green Leafy Dragon" Indigo (christineindigo@juno.com)
http://www.asstr.org/~christineindigo
ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/christineindigo/

DISCLAIMERS AND DISTRIBUTION RIGHTS: 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 may post this to any
free newsgroup/forum/whatever 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.


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 before.)

"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," he 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. Alan and Martin
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 the other two people in the
audience, and 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
I've just finished telling you about. Maybe you shouldn't trust me
either. After all, memories are a strange and unreliable thing.