I fucked a rock star.

Okay, okay; to be honest, he was doing most of the work. He’s such a top, that Lindsey Buckingham…

One Hour Later

Excuse me. I had to take a mOment to…revel. Where were we? Oh yes, I’d like to maintain the illusion of intimacy, but I wasn’t the only bottom there that night. In fact, there were a good five hundred feet and a few thousand other shrieking, tambourine-rattling, pot-smoking fans between us. No matter, though, because thanks to the mega-screen, his cum-face was on display for even the cheapest voyeur.

Lindsey Buckingham may ooze sex appeal, even at sixty-years-old, but the passion in discussion surged during his solo performance of “Big Love.” Previously, this song wasn't on my set list of personal favorites, but I’ve never witnessed such a raw, urgent musical display of emotion. His aggressive thrusting aside, it was the honesty that penetrated me so thoroughly. Thank Gawd sitting was an option, because the instrumental climax left me breathless, panting (internally) as heavily as if this greatest hit were a private revelation, whispered in my ear as we fell limp amongst the dampness of our mingled sweat.

“So this is what everyone is talking about,” may not have replaced “I just want to go and eat chips,” as the follow up to any of my sexual experiences; but it is definitely an accurate summation of Fleetwood Mac’s Los Angeles stop on their 2009 UNLEASHED tour. And they still had several more songs and two, TWO encores to go.

Stevie Nicks continued the night of firsts as she strutted back on stage to the opening beats of her solo smash, “Stand Back.” Lindsey may have knocked me off my feet, but Stevie’s danciest had all of us bouncing back up and down and all around, or at least as far as we could without jostling our neighbors too aggressively. I can’t believe I’ve lived my first twenty-three years sans this aural treasure, but I couldn’t ask for a more appropriate post-coital revelry.

In typical Stevie Nicks form, she was sheathed in white tights and flowing folds of black cloth, alternating between shimmering gold and scarlet shawls. Only one hand and her face offered a glimpse of exposed skin. Her dancing can barely be deemed as such, at least outside of an outdoor music festival. Besides that glorious mane of butt-length blonde hair, she’s not even that attractive, at least by today’s standards for female artists. Yet, despite all of this, sensuality swirls around Stevie, even when all that fabric hangs still. She is the Bette Midler of hippie gays.

With no effort at research, I can say with confidence that I don’t believe Stevie or her former paramour has gone under the knife. Maybe they’ve had a few paralyzing needle pricks to the face, but what keeps these legends relevant is their undeniable talent. For Gawd’s sake, Fleetwood Mac has broken up and reunited in varying forms more times than even the most dysfunctional of couples; but they just can’t repress their passion to perform. “The Mac is back!” Hard as it might have been to pay attention to anything else but Mick Fleetwood’s pointy red ankle boots and German(?)/Swedish(?) short pants-vest combo, those four parting words were all I needed to hear.

Double Vision

There are few things in life more frustrating than that illusive piece of knowledge you just KNOW is teetering on the tip of your tongue, chillin' in your brain, just below the surface. Most often the answer bubbles up later that day; however, since my introduction to Journey, some years ago, I've lived with a constant thorn in my lobes: With whom does Steve Perry share his infamous do? WHO?!

Well, dear readers, I'm happy to say that today, that pride stinger has been removed.



I'm still working on not having to ask my roommate, "What's that song we like? You know, by that band we love. Uh - UH -" Obviously, this was no help initially, but after the first seven times, she now knows I'm talking about Hall & Oates' "You Make My Dreams Come True." Please, no judgments of my musical tastes. And yes, yes I AM a karaoke master.

Rudy Huxtable? Is that you?

Oops! No. Sorry Lil' Wayne. Or should I be apologizing to Keshia Knight Pulliam? Chalk it up to an observation, not an insult, and call it a draw.

Violated.

LSD has long been tattooed on my list of "Just Say No" and the events of the last hour have proved to be a veritable touch up. My skin is sheathed in goose-bumps, I'm riding waves of nausea, and still longing for the ability to hoover a few inches further from the ground.

"Good God," my neighbors must have thought. "What has so horrified that boy?" "Wolves," might have inspired murmurs of consent. "BANSHEE!" Could have been suggested. "Murder," one might have said. Probably that bitch downstairs who refuses to say hello. I'll bet even that hypothesis couldn't illicit a glimpse of humanity. Thanks for nothing, lady.

Alright, so I might be exaggerating a bit. In fact, it's likely no one but me heard the shrill, uninhibited scream I let loose. Regardless, I can attest that to be the sheerest terror I've felt in a long while. Clarice couldn't shake the screams of the lambs. It's the skittering I'll never forget. The ski - the ski - the skittering. The resounding shuffle of an indestructible, prehistoric design against one of today's modern amenities - faux-wood cabinetry. Yes. You fear correctly. Roaches.

Well, a roach. Just one. But these dramatics are the main reasoning behind my anti-psychotic pledge. I've let my feet touch the floor a few times. I'm thinking about putting the drawer back. You can bet I'm still going to wash each and every piece of silver and cookware that calls that space home; but I'm no longer waiting for an army of exoskeletons to pour out from beneath the fridge and the stove and the furniture. I've stopped contemplating tearing the cabinets from the wall, searching for the pests brethren. My sense of reality has returned.

I imagine my dad would reply to this with some reference to my status as a "city boy." The sentiment is there, even though I'd say roaches are most decidedly a problem native to city living. I suppose "nancy boy" would be a more appropriate old-fashioned assessment. "Suburbanite" might be more inclusive and less homophobic. No matter how big your balls, though, I don't care to meet the person who enjoys the feel of a dead insect's body heat. BODY HEAT. I slipped on a dishwashing glove and grabbed two napkins; yet I could still feel the warmth of the little monster as he faded away.

A quick Wikipedia search, an effort to ascertain whether or not cockroaches do produce heat - yes, yes they do - has brought my feet back up to my chin. Just as I was allowing myself to forget about it, to think that maybe it wasn't a roach after all, just a really big beetle, I had to get all investigative and mar my memory with irrefutable photographic proof of that entomological cretin.

Oh, here we go with the goose-bumps, again. Let's just hope that ditching all of the unsealed food in our kitchen will be as cathartic as Catherine Martin's rescue, that I won't even begin to "wake up in the dark...to that awful" skittering of the roaches.