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.