I Don't Care About Your Band Read Online Free PDF Page B

of it seems to be comprised of one-adjective sentences that alternate between synonyms for genitalia. Heaving. Hungry. Moist. Rod. Slit. Glistening. Taut. Mighty. Shaft. There’s Beat poetry that’s more linear. But at the time, I read all that stuff. I ate it up. I loved those stories. All those “I never thought it could happen to me” chestnuts; the stewardesses, the friends’ wives, the cheerleaders, the hokey endings from “then we fucked all night” to “afterward, I never saw her again.” And little by little, I padded out my dirty thesaurus, which is not just an awesome name for a jam band, but would also prove to be a valuable resource during our next fateful sleepover at Johanna Loeb’s house, the site of Nascent Sexual Awakening Experience Number Three.
     
    JOHANNA WAS a newcomer to our clique; she was tiny—like four foot nine—and freckled, with long nails and dark, straight hair down to her elbows. She lived in Riverdale, and one night, all five of us went out to the Hard Rock Café in Manhattan for her birthday dinner before coming back to her parents’ apartment for her slumber party.
    Here is an example of why you should never underestimate a preteen’s hunger for pornography. In the hundred or so feet between the entrance of the Hard Rock and the car door of Mr. Loeb’s White Acura, Ronit and I managed to buy ourselves, from the newsstand on the corner, a magazine by the name of Stallions . The transaction itself couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds. We were like porn-starved ninjas, or kids at Fat Camp who manage to get Mallomars on their day pass to the orthodontist. And our six dollars did not just earn us the right to gape at photos of the rock-hard erections of at least ten free-weight and hair-gel aficionados. With Stallions , Ronit and I were able to provide the recreational agenda for the remainder of the evening.
    Melissa shepherded us into Johanna’s kitchen as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Loeb went to bed, so we could pore over our newly procured booty. Unfortunately, Stallions was not as fertile in the gross-out department for everyone, being as we’d cut our dentata on the vaginas of yore. There were boners, sure, but no dirty stories or staged interactions. There was only beefcake, which was not as exciting as Carvel ice-cream cake—the kind with the chocolate on the bottom, vanilla on top, and crunchies in the center—which beckoned, at least to Johanna, who seemed freaked out by her new friends’ porncapades. She wanted to celebrate her birthday with a screening of Can’t Buy Me Love ; she didn’t expect the horn-dog travails of the new group of gal pals she’d accidentally latched herself on to. Just before we resigned ourselves to the conclusion that Stallions was a bust, we found the phone sex ads in the back of the magazine .
    FREE FOR WOMEN! the ads shrieked in white Arial all-caps bold on a black background. SINGLES TALK LIVE! Melissa, ever-alpha, gave the go-ahead for us to call in from Johanna’s landline—the blue touchtone princess mounted to the wall above the Loebs’ kitchen counter—and Ronit went first. We huddled around her and listened in, trying hard not to break up in snorts.
    “Hello! And welcome to Loveline,” said a recording of a voiceover actress pretending to be a slut. “You’re about to be connected to one of New York’s hottest singles. Just stay on the line!” The archaic technology prompted Ronit to record an introduction, and she lowered her voice an octave to that “sexy” range that, when you hear it from your friends, makes you want to barf up your Hard Rock curly fries.
    “Hello, my name is Danielle,” Ronit said, using the name of an unpopular girl from our grade so as to better play to her audience.
    “I’m a brunette, twenty-six years old, tan skin, long legs, and huge boobs. Great skin. Not fat.”
    Ronit’s description of “herself” sounded like a letter to Santa, asking for what she wanted more than anything.