It’s Impossible to Get Laid on Tour
If you’ve ever gone on tour, some half-drunk uncle has probably pulled you aside at a holiday dinner and demanded the dirt on the finer points of travelin’ life. You can just imagine him whisper-spitting into your ear:
“So what’s it really like on the road? You know… the groupies? I bet you’re playing rumpy pumpy every night, am I right?”
The short answer is… No. You aren’t. Unless you’re a rapper, or you’re a heavy-drinking gay, or you’re in a band like Zeppelin who has roadies do the dirty work so the band can shove actual sharks into groupie gash on a nightly basis, your chances of making the beast with two backs diminishes to nearly nil when you’re out on the road. I know that sounds stereotypical, but somehow this is true.
I’ve toured for a good portion of my life, and it may be surprising for all your horndogs to hear that - wait for it -I’ve actually never seen a single band member meet someone at a show and do the deed that night. Now I know what you’re thinking: You’re thinking I’m probably just ugly, and have only toured with ugly dinknuts who wouldn’t know a serious prospect if it fell onto their genitals. But that’s not the case! There are a set of conditions at play on tour that actually make it nearly impossible to nail the dunk pot after a show. Here are a few reasons why.
Here’s a little vignette for you. You wake up on a floor at 6AM and literally roll into a gnarly Econoline 15-passenger, where you proceeded to spend the next thirteen hours with no shower, and no stops besides roadside cheese sandwiches and Dr. Pepper. You’re chain-smoking cheap cigarettes, and your afternoon visit to a truck stop bathroom to blow the butt-trumpet didn’t go anywhere near how you’d planned. Then you get to a venue, lift up a few 110-pound guitar and bass amps, eat some bad Mexican food, and play a forty-minute show under scalding lights.
At the end of the day, all of these elements combine to make your rear such a wasteland that when a prospect comes within ten feet of it their face looks like baby’s first lemon.
YOU CAN’T HAVE SEX IN THE VAN
You might think you can, but you can’t. Even if you convince some yokel to get down to it on the filthy floor of your van, turning your vehicle into a “Second Base Mobile” is hands down the biggest dick move a musician can do to his or her fellow travelers.
And if you think you can snag a quick one while they’re away, you thought wrong. Your van is littered with empty pretzel wrappers and vitaminwater bottles, perfect hiding places for that lost condom or spurt of discharge to hide. Then the next morning when your singer finds a dental dam wedged between the seats you’ll be immediately exiled from any and all group activities and cheated out of your per diems.
YOU HAVE TO LOAD OUT
Load out is a real problem. There’s a golden moment you’ve got to make an impression, and it’s directly after you get offstage. Your prospective one night stand has just seen you and your fumble-core band spill your creative guts onstage, and you’ve got that irresistible sex glow around you that makes it impossible for him or her not to want to climb aboard.
But just when you get into the groove, your new bass player sticks his stinky face between you and yours and reminds you that it’s that time of the night: Load out.
Every single night, load out will annihilate any chance you’ve got to put the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets. If you say no to your band and skip load out, it’s only a matter of time before you’re that guy, and believe me, there’s one in every band. And after load out, generally its one more drink before you drive to wherever it is you’re staying for the night. Are you going to miss your only ride? You’re in the middle of nowhere and you have to leave early the next morning. Chances are your best bet is for an impassioned and pining look from your potential bone bud, an exchange of numbers, or a quick ‘n’ dirty HJ in the parking lot.
ASEXUALITY: THE PEOPLE’S CHOICE FOR PEOPLE WHO DON’T WANT ANYONE
Minerva isn’t gay. A fluid conversationalist, the Massachusetts native has been artfully re-hashing this point for the last three hours.
“I have been told I could easily be mistaken as a lesbian,” she says, gesturing to hercropped, copper hair as evidence. “Which is not a bad thing.”
Minerva isn’t a lesbian, she says, but she certainly isn’t straight. At 29 years old, Minerva, who asked that she be identified by the name of her Tumblr, has never had a romantic relationship. She calls herself “asexual,” meaning she doesn’t experience sexual attraction. To anyone.
To the deep chagrin of some members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community, Minerva also uses the word “queer” to define her sexuality. A re-appropriated term of endearment for sexual minorities, “queer” is as emotionally charged as it is oddly exclusive, and there is an ongoing, online debate about whether she should feel comfortable using it to self-identify. In some corners of the internet, that debate has turned to all out war.
In October, 2011, an outreach organization called Asexual Awareness Week released a “Community Census” that polled data from over 3,000 asexual-identifying people. In the survey, more than 40 percent of respondents said they consider themselves members of the LGBT community, and another 38 percent said they consider themselves “allies,” or supporters of the community.
The community isn’t so quick to oblige.
“Practicing sex/sexuality slightly differently, or not at all, does not make you queer,” “Aria” wrote in a Tumblr post earlier this year. “People don’t shout ‘queer’ at an asexual person on the basis that they are not (sexually) attracted to anyone.”
In a similar post, another blogger wrote: “We have the right to our own community, we fought and died for our rights and for our queer spaces … sure you can make a community to share experiences and get support, but stop trying to fucking appropriate ours.”
The remarks echo a sentiment firmly ingrained in some LGBT circles. Gay rights activists have fought for sexual freedom, often at the risk of physical harm, for more than half a century. Asexuals, an estimated one percent of the population, have kept a traditionally low profile. Why should the LGBT community cede a once pejorative, now defining epithet to a group defined by inaction?
MIND THOUGHTS… WITH MICHAEL IAN BLACK - LET’S NOT FUCK, SHALL WE?
Here’s the thing, ladies: I don’t want to have sex with you. I know I’m supposed to. I’m supposed to want sex the way a guy in a beer commercial wants a brew: consuming my every thought, driving my every impulse, fueling my workouts, rousing me from slumber, inspiring my creativity, and propelling me through Abercrombie & Fitch with my credit card out, saliva dribbling from the corners of my mouth, and semen leaking from the pant legs of my skinny jeans. But I don’t. And I bet a lot of other guys don’t, either.
Male libido is assumed to be a constant, quivering thrum. For some men, maybe it is. But for me, as much as I enjoy the old in-n-out, the rubba-dub-dubba, the squeak-n-bubble, I have never craved it the way our culture has led me to believe I should, not even during my fabled Horny Years from ’91 to ’95. Except for those moments when I was in the first throes of a new love, sex has never subsumed me. Yet every cultural message I receive has led me to believe it should. Consequently, my lack of nymphomaniacal tendencies has always left me feeling embarrassed and emasculated.
It’s a topic I never hear men discuss. Men assume each other to be as randy as baboons during red butt season. When we discuss sex at all, we talk about it in terms of desire, never a lack of desire. Never have I been at a backyard barbecue and heard, “Man, what I wouldn’t give to not fuck Angelina Jolie.” Or “Bro, given the choice between having sex with some random bitch or reading a good book, I’d probably choose the book.”
But that’s how I feel. I just don’t want sex that much.