From the moment Demosthenes plucked those pebbles from his bazoo, mounted a soap box in Athens, and electrified the hoi polloi with inspiring oratory, it was clear that words, forcefully intoned, possessed the dramatic power to stir men to their very marrow. One need only conjure Lincoln at Gettysburg, Winston Churchill rallying the beleaguered Brits under heavy bombardment, FDR defiantly facing down fear itself, not to mention what the Huffington Post called the twenty words that were “perhaps the most important Miley Cyrus said.”
Apparently, a press encounter with the erotically provocative superstar had homed in on country matters with the precise inevitability of a heat-seeking missile, and her declaration proclaiming unbridled sensual freedom, worthy of a Thomas Jefferson or citizen Tom Paine, read as follows: “I am literally open to every single thing that is consenting and doesn’t involve an animal . . .”
This lubricious manifesto, breaking just short of bestiality, brought to mind the candid musings of another free thinker I knew, but here I should step back and let the lady spiel out the whole lurid enchilada herself.
Oh wow, life is like so totally unpredictable. Who’d have thought looking at those eight-millimeter home movies of little Amber Grubnick gamboling o’er meadows of green with her golden retriever, Bashful, that the very first album she would cut for Autopsy Records would go platinum. I’m not saying the cover of yours truly, doffed in bupkis save my unobstructed epidermis and gestapo armband, didn’t goose the sales a wee dram because, let’s face it, I’m a hot little chick. Not that I’m built like those titanic Victoria’s Secret babes with a body that unequivocally proves God’s existence. No, my appeal is strictly that of the girl next door who projects intelligence, down-home values, and a willingness to perform any act.
My first manager, Waxy Sleazeman, couldn’t keep his hands off me. Waxy discovered me singing with the rock group Toxic Waste at the Burgeoning Tumor, a joint downtown. Incidentally, it wasn’t Waxy who took my virginity as is falsely rumored, because I was deflowered much earlier in a stalled elevator at the Dry Heaves Motel courtesy of Luther Headcase, the lead singer with Swine Flu. But it was Sharkey who launched my singing career, and I will say, during the six months we were lovers, he taught me some very interesting new positions which I believe he got off a mural at this temple in Mumbai. It was Sharkey that introduced me to Nigel Pilbeam, the great British A&R man who was the motor power behind my first album. I remember how stunned I was over high tea when he and his mistress, Lady Beancurd, suggested a ménage à trois. Of course, I was shocked because basically I’m a shy person with a strict Sunday school upbringing, and it was a real struggle to overcome my natural timidity and finally take out some chains and a vibrator I happened to have in my purse. When my album clicked, I left New York for a big concert tour, and that’s when I met the international playboy Porfirio Moshpit, who owned his own Gulfstream and quickly made me a member of the Mile High Club. He put the plane on automatic pilot and had sex with me at forty thousand feet. Then he took over the controls, and I had sex with the automatic pilot. Porfirio was into this whole Tantric thing and could last making love forever.
One day we did it for sixteen straight hours without a break, and when it was over, I looked for him in bed but there was just a little pile of dust. After Porfirio, I was hit on by Nat Pinchbeck, who taught philosophy. Nat liked to role-play. We’d smoke some weed in his pad, and he would pretend he was Werner Heisenberg, and I would wear a thong and sometimes be a particle and sometimes a wave, and the fact that he couldn’t determine my exact position got him so excited. One night he asked me if I’d like to go to a party, and typically, he never mentioned the word “orgy.” Always game for new experiences, I did it in a room with twenty-five naked guests and it was okay, although I feel sex with more than a dozen people at once can be too impersonal.
Later that night I joined some friends for an aperitif at the Fire Trap, a small bar nearby where I couldn’t help noticing a willowy Asian woman drinking alone who seemed to be checking me out, undressing me with her eyes. She removed my skirt and blouse with her left eye and my undergarments with her right. She came over and whispered something in my ear. I said her proposition was a turnoff, and while I was not really into S&M, I hated to think of myself as close-minded or a party pooper who would carp over being bound, hooded, and beaten to within an inch of her life. She was Fay Ling Upwood, and we moved into a ritzy high-rise together. We had a mirror on the ceiling over the bed, and to give you an idea of how passionate our relationship was, we also had one on the ceiling over the sofa, the dining room table, one in the lobby of the building and in the elevator. I remember we were invited to the races at Belmont and were getting a private tour of the stables for the seventh race when I happened to notice the favorite, Bold Vontz, staring at me from his stall. I’m not saying he was making it obvious but believe me, I feel a vibe when someone is giving me the once-over. Suddenly, Fay Ling became livid, her almond eyes ablaze with fury.
“Have you been having an affair with that horse?” she demanded sharply.
“Me? Why, don’t be silly,” I replied.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said. I trembled, my heart pounding faster.
“You were exchanging glances,” she accused. “You smiled at him, and unless I miss my guess, the horse winked back.”
“You’re bonkers,” I argued. “I’ve told you many times I’m literally open to every single thing that is consenting and doesn’t involve an animal.”
“I don’t buy it, bitch,” my significant other yelped, turning on her high heels and striding out of my life forever.
Well, not only was I dumped, but I guess I shouldn’t have shot my big mouth off, because being a celebrity, everything I say winds up in print. The following day, wouldn’t you know it, my quotes hit the press under the headline, Sexy Pop Star Discriminates—Draws Line at Animals. And there’s a fake composite of my kisser oozing total indifference while staring at a Great Dane, a goldfish, and the winner of the Preakness. Suddenly, CNN calls and asks if I would like to come on and defend my politically incorrect remarks. Next thing I know, I’m being picketed for discrimination at my concerts and my album goes dead. Panic-stricken, my flack Rose Gorgon begged me to apologize, say the quote was taken out of context and it’s only certain animals I draw the line at, like hippos and lesser kudu. I guess my public groveling helped mollify the barbarians at the gate, because some fans slowly started to filter back and forgive, but the whole thing has really taken a toll on my psyche. For instance, I was at my cousin Elsie’s for a quiet dinner and out of the blue her mynah bird gives me the eye and says “Hey toots, what about meeting me at the Carlyle Hotel tomorrow—room 601. And wear mesh hose!”
At first, I recoiled, but then penciled in the date. After all, the last thing I need is for all those ornithologists to call me a bigot.
humours and unexpected.
i thoroughly enjoyed this piece!
<< I would wear a thong and sometimes be a particle and sometimes a wave, and the fact that he couldn’t determine my exact position got him so excited >>
F'ing beautiful:)