alexandria

When I was in college, I sang in a cover band, the only girl in a group with between five and seven guys depending on the band and the year, traveling around the Bible Belt singing such powerful future classics as "Get Your Groove On" and "Set U Free." While there was never a lack of marauding around the Deep South committing unspeakable act after unspeakable act, one particular incident sticks in my mind, and not just because of the clear presence of E. Coli.

The band, which was suitably named after a profane term of endearment, played at a club in central Louisiana named after one of the greatest inventions in history. No doubt, then, that some of the major memories I have of this club include (a) their selling nitrous oxide balloons on the left hand side of the dance floor, (b) having an apparently bisexual girl seduce me by discussing a song called "Orgasm" and offering me free draft beer, and, much to the guys' chagrin, my choosing not to take her home, and (c) hearing the story of the stabbing in the men's bathroom, an event that didn't stop the flailing about on the dance floor.

On what I think was my first gig at this club, we decided that in order to safely drink our body weights in free liquor, we would require a hotel room, to avoid the two-hour drive back home. We booked at the closest, cheapest place we could find, but then ended up happily accepting the invitation of two girls at the club, who offered their home to us for the night. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence: the stories you've heard about girls and their love for guys in the band is true, something I marveled at throughout the years I sang with these guys. While I was friends with them and wouldn't characterize them as unattractive or not fun to be around, I never understood the magnetic attraction they held for girls… that is, until I considered the mental (or should I say, chemically influenced) states of said girls.

On this particular night, there were two interested parties, neither of whom had a name that I remember. One was a very nondescript, average-looking brunette, and the other was a blonde with a somewhat large face that was still on the other side of pretty. That they were happy to invite six total strangers (me, two male vocalists, a guitar player, a bass player, and a drummer) to their home should have indicated something about them, but we were just happy for the free room. We promptly cancelled our hotel reservations and took off for Chez Sluts once we'd packed up our gear.

After stopping at a grocery store for more alcohol, we drove to their house, a two story home that I have very little memory of. In retrospect, I'm sure it was in an incredibly seedy neighborhood, but on the forty bucks a week I was making as an undervalued female singer in a band with guys who saw me as a potential lay, I was just happy not to have to pay to sleep on a semen-stained hotel bedspread from 1974. Their desire to hook up with two of the band guys, one of which had a serious girlfriend and wasn't known for philandering, didn't affect our decision at all, of course.

The house was the typical college-age place. Mismatched furniture, poor lighting—none of which made a rat's ass of a difference to us. Immediately upon entering, the brunette, having realized that her hoped-for partner for the night was only interested in free lodging, lit up some incredibly rank smelling weed and promptly passed out on the couch. Her roommate, the moon-faced blonde, welcomed us with drunk cordiality and put on a Bad Company CD. As she began to sing along in operatic tones, we put the squeeze on her potential partner to get her out of the room. He was only happy to oblige, as you can imagine, and we were left to our own devices, since the brunette was still mentally MIA.

As soon as the coital trip upstairs was taken, the remaining (coherent) guys in the band took over the house, determined to corrupt everything they could touch. And by touch, I don't mean with their hands.

The first order of business was to raid the fridge, since drinking from six pm to three am tends to make one hungry, especially after a four-hour stint in a sweaty bar. After consuming what they could find (during which time I was scoping out the place), they began their invisible destruction.

After depositing some pubic hairs into a bag of frozen boneless chicken breasts and doing other damage to the foodstuffs, the drummer, who had an unnatural and hilarious (to everyone who wasn't dating him) preoccupation with his ass, decided that his posterior was his weapon of choice. The other guys were only too happy to assist him in his endeavors. Over the next few hours, he put his behind on everything that was sitting still, including perhaps the brunette, but I can't swear to that. I was too busy checking out the clean load of laundry, since the girls were about the same size as I.

Before the night came to a close, the drummer's ass had come into contact with most of the girls' eating utensils, all the downstairs doorknobs, and as much of the banister as could be made vile without risking splinters in his nether region. And mysteriously, at least one of their polyester fly-collar hippie-flowered shirts went missing and was never seen again.

The next morning, we were awakened by a banging on the door. When the brunette, finally awake, opened it, it was apparently someone's mom, which was a total buzzkill. Like any good party band, we immediately grabbed our crap and rolled out, the bass player and I jumping in the dilapidated band van with no air conditioning to follow the other cars back to our hometown.

As we were pulled over by a policeman for following the guy singer in his three-lane veer to reach a hotel bathroom on the way home, I happily held my somewhat heavier bag in my lap, sweating buckshots like a whore in church. It was a story I knew would become a story even before the story was over.

And any time I hear "Feel Like Makin' Love" to this day, I feel compelled to sing it in operatic tones.