Date: Wed, 1 May 2002 18:21:39 -0400
From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com>
Subject: Suicide: Seven Minutes Over Tampa

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.  It's
also not intended to imply anything about the sex lives of anyone in the
story. 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," 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.  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 of them
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.