The Seven Deadly Sins

by Corey Taylor

  I believe I was very upfront with both women regarding my intentions. As a bachelor (read: ass), I made it very clear I was not looking for a relationship. I was very much into being my own man, whatever the hell that means. To me, it meant “I really want to sleep with you but I will not be tied down.” Now some men will lie about what they want. Others will be forthright in their sexual needs. I was the latter: I wanted fun and nothing more. Unfortunately, most women hear the truth and shoot it through the marriage prism. “Well, by saying he wants no relationship, what he means is he does not want one right now.” Women, you have to stop doing that. If a man wants a relationship, he will more than likely tell you. If he does not, never sprinkle pixie dust on his yearning and try to build a house out of clay. Take it for what it is; it might change, but you are guaranteed to fail if you push a man too far.

  This is exactly what Kate and Penny both did. Pressure was coming from both sides, drinking and laughing was being interrupted and serious dents were appearing on the high-performance vehicle that was my sex life. I was starting to feel a lot like some kind of gigolo ping-pong ball. And the sex was just amazing. They were fucking me like they were trying to qualify for the Olympics. I hate to say I was loving it, but holy hamster shit, I was totally loving it. The gloves were off and we were all running for the finish line: win, place, or quit—it was about to get weird.

  At a birthday party, it finally did.

  My friend, codename Mr. Nipples, was throwing a party for his former girlfriend’s birthday at their apartment. Booze was flowing and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. I was having a banner night, running from room to room joking about this or that. But slowly and surely, darkness spread across the festivities. I could not put my finger on it, but a presence was lurking just off the scopes, a force that threatened to destroy the merriment with zero remorse and zero mercy. At this point in the movie, it would behoove the director to do a push-focus, run the hallway of the apartment POV style, and present the viewer with the shocking vision of Kate and Penny comparing notes on their exploits with yours truly.

  To me, it was not that big a deal. Neither one was my girlfriend. But as it turned out, they both considered themselves “exclusive,” the shadow cabinet to my prime minister. So right at the peak of my sweet buzz, the two of them marched into the bedroom I was holding court in and confronted me with their grievances. I am fairly certain I did not make matters any better by applying reason and a nonplussed attitude to this fiery affair with the simple retort: “. . .and?” This set off a series of spectacular female assaults aimed at my person and my person’s person that eventually led to me, stumbling drunkenly to my feet and muttering, “Well, I need a break. I am taking a walk.” At least I hope that is what I said; at the time I could not really feel my mouth.

  I wandered out into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a single 7x10 wall. Just around that wall was the front door to the establishment, which opened simultaneously to the kitchen and the front room. As I was heading toward sweet freedom, the birthday girl asked me in her own tipsy slur where I was going. Because I assumed it would not be a problem, I said for a walk to clear my head. For some reason she took this as the worst idea that had ever hit her eardrums and into her inebriated mind. So being a big girl and easily outweighing me by twenty pounds, she grabbed my arm to stop my hasty retreat. Not realizing her own strength and having no control at all because she was bombed, she half-pulled and half-threw me back into the kitchen. I was flung around like a rag doll, and because my own equilibrium was shot, I slipped, fell, and landed hard against the lower cupboards by the kitchen sink. My right elbow came down painfully on the ’70s plastic or metal handle on one of the cupboards, and it pierced the skin, drawing blood, bone, and whatever the hell else makes up an arm.

  With blood pouring down my forearm, the birthday girl tried desperately to rinse the wound, then, just as desperately, to convince me just to stick a Band-Aid on it. Luckily the commotion had raised the curiosity of the other partygoers, and I was hastily pushed out the door and into a waiting backseat to be whisked away to the nearest hospital. Because I was drunk, I could barely feel the pain even with my elbow bone sticking out. And unfortunately, because I was drunk, I passed out in the back seat of the car. I must have been on the verge of lighting a cigarette because when I came to, I had a broken Marlboro Red in my mouth.

  I regained consciousness in the emergency room—face down, the broken smoke dangling from dry lips, and the sounds of Kate and Penny arguing over the top of my still body over who would get to keep me. However, the tables had turned: Now they were trying to foist me off on the other. “He is your mess—you can have him!” “I do not want anything to do with him, you can have him!” So as I lay there for another hour waiting for a doctor to come in, then another hour while the doctor sewed up my arm, the vocal equivalent of Federer and Nadal volleyed over my back the entire time I was in the hospital and continued the whole ride home, even as I searched all the twenty-four-hour grocery stores for a sling to put my arm in. I had twenty-one stitches in all. Because I could not use my arm, I lost my job. Because I lost my job, I ended up leaving Denver. Because I left Denver, I ended up putting Stone Sour back together, which led to my audition with Slipknot and other fine things. So fans around the world take note: If not for my lust and truthfulness, I would not have come to be the singer in Slipknot nor would I have been able to put Stone Sour back together, hence there would be no “Snuff” or “Through Glass.”

  And it was all because of my lust and a circular wound on my elbow. J. J. Abrams could have never come up with a storyline like this. The flames of lust do incredible things. They burn to the bone and heal into different skin configurations. They drive us out of our comfort zones and into the arms of destiny. They desolate our landscapes and show us the complexities of relationships. They also convince us to make out with our guitar player on New Year’s Eve when we are so trashed we did not know who was in front of us. I tell you one thing: He has a giant tongue. It made me puke. True story.

  So I guess most of my adult life has been a road map on the in and out highway. If I am guilty of a deadly sin—and you know me, I am not saying I am or am not—my sin would be lust. But does it stand to reason that if lust were a true sin then it should have never been made to feel so damn good? Why is sex our fleshlike version of chocolate? Why do we get caught in the nets when they feel like heaven and taste even better? In other words, what the fuck, man?

  I still maintain that it comes down to how comfortable people are with their own sexuality. The status quo has gone to great lengths to make sure the taboo is in the tablet. I mean, up until the 1960s homosexuality was regarded as a fucking mental illness. Is that a big enough control issue for you? “Those in favor” chose to make people who were confused enough as it was feel like they were fucking crazy. Can you imagine having to go through shock therapy all because you wanted to sleep with whomever you were attracted to? It is so hard for the gay and lesbian community to trust us; we had to go and try and fuck with their minds, so I do not blame them in the slightest.

  Anyone who feels that homosexuality is not only a sin but also a disease or a mental issue should take a look in the mirror and realize who the real crazy person is. Of all the gay and lesbian people I have ever known, there has only been one crazy candidate, and believe me he was truly crazy. He was convinced he had wings under his skin. Now I am not one to judge, but that shit is fucking crazy to me. But he was crazy because he thought he was some kind of Thanagarian warrior, not because he knew who he was attracted to. There is a subtext to judgment that is hypocritical and openly selfish. If people spent more time minding their own business and less time in other people’s business the world would be having a much bigger party. These are the same people who believe gay marriage isn’t a constitutionally protected right. I bet the houses of their unions have more skeletons in their closets than brooms.

  My blood is starting to boil,
but I should be careful. This is not the wrath chapter. It is all things lust, all the time on this Sirius channel. Lust is such a fun thing too—it is a real shame that people cannot just relish it for what it is. Lust is a doorway to the very heart of our heart. Lust and sex were celebrated by many cultures as the tapping we hear on the doors of our ids. Mating rituals have been a part of us since we clubbed our first cavewoman. There are nuances and delicacies that we can still learn from our inner pervert. When we turn a blind eye and numb pelvis toward our spiritual horizons, we never get to see our suns peak. That is a mother-fucking shame.

  Rest assured that nothing will be accomplished in the War of the Loins. Even if they were to legislate monogamous missionary sex by penalty of law, we as free-thinking rebellious folk would find a way to get around it. Lawmakers and judicious churchies, or Christos as I am fond of calling the uber-religious, will do their damnedest to stick their heads into our unanimous asses to see where our shit has been. But we—the few, the proud, the horny—will beat them back with the speed of our wits and the strength of our sexual resolve. This is not only the freedom we should all have but also the right we should all enjoy. The good fight starts when the bad shit happens. So bring it on—the world is waiting.

  One brutal by-product comes from hetero lust though, and it involves panic, hysterics, and peeing on blue sticks. That is absolutely correct, Harry, I am talking about babies. For those of you not in the know, babies are tiny humans who cannot feed themselves, change their own diapers, or drive themselves to the gas station. For those of you (like myself) who are all too familiar with the concept of young ones, we are very aware that babies are loud, insane creatures who barely walk and never talk but cry continuously until they are distracted. Coming as that does from a father, please make no mistake, I love my children.

  But holy shit, they will drive you to drink more.

  This goes hand in hand with lust in general. The Good Book—and by that I mean The Joy of Sex—tells us “go forth and procreate.” So lust is the lube for our child-bearing gears, the gas in our engines so to speak. It is a part of our genetic unconscious to spread our seeds across the lust-filled landscape, a postcard of fleshy reminders that we were here. Orgasms are affectionately along for the wonderful ride. Thank god for that: If all we got out of sex were children and migraines, humanity would have phased out genitalia centuries ago, along with pinky toes and that snot tunnel that takes phlegm from your nose directly into your mouth. I will never understand that piece of our anatomy.

  When did the necessary get lumped in with the ne’er do wells of our sinful never can tells? Who put the Sodom in Gomorra? Were our ancestors so fucked up that they crossed lines even ignorant, undeveloped ancient fuckers found distasteful? I mean, did ye old lust lead to sticking your cock into mountains? Were people chasing down frogs? Was mud being plunged into with romantic fervor? These are the things the Bible conspicuously leaves out. I bet you a handful of Chili’s coupons that Jesus had a foot fetish. People are just inherently weird, man. I got to be honest; I have sucked my fair share of toes myself, and it is some of the sexiest shit on the planet. Damn, I might have to take a break and work something out if you get my drift.

  That reminds me: I do not know what the Catholics have against masturbation, but if there were a way to levee complaints on their heads, I would do so in an instant. What the Catholics and Christians call a sin against oneself, the great Woody Allen called “sex with the one you love.” Masturbation and a rented movie beat dinner and shitty conversation with a bad blind date any fucking day of the week. Quote me on that. A little push, a little pull, and a lot of imagination can be just what the doctor ordered after a hard day. Let’s face it, sex sometimes requires talking. For guys, sometimes quite frankly we just need to tap the sexual valve. Pull up cam whores or your porn or red tube or porn hub or a plethora of other worldly Web sites that offer “visual horizontal recreation,” then get a “handle” on yourself and fall asleep watching Forensic Files. Besides, I would never listen to people who spend too much time in wooden booths listening to people’s secrets all day.

  The days of feeling humiliated about normal sexual escapades should all be behind us. Sadly, there are many among us who still equate sex with hateful things like rape and molestation. Small people have small minds cluttered with smaller ideas, and it is a shame that so many of them have giant reaches into huge pockets. If I would never hand control of my sexy bits to a falcon with epilepsy, then why would I be expected to do so with strangers who have no clue about pleasure? I feel like I am going fucking nuts here. And when I go fucking nuts, I have a tendency to break my lucky Guinness glasses. Damn it guys, I only have so many of those things left!

  Sentient beings with intelligence and morals should be allowed to put their pieces in whatever Reese’s they want, whether they are gay or straight. The stigmas of the past should be eradicated. The powers that be should be the powers of free. Brothers and sisters, the twilight of our sexual revolution is going to give way to the dawn of our lusty victories. We can lead a march through the streets of every major city of the greatest country in the world and proclaim that our privates are private property. No one gets away with murdering our right to coitus. No one gets away with controlling how we feel about how we feel. The right to bare asses is right up there with licking apple pie off the tits of someone called Big Mama. America puts the cunt in country, damnit. We are fucking alive in here.

  I am a big fan of pizza, with ranch dressing handy for dipping. I had no other reason for writing this than to lighten the mood a bit before I pull your panties off. Do you feel me, earth? Yeah, that is my hand on your thigh and my lips on your ear. Besides, does anyone really like having a tongue in their ear? It is akin to a worm trying to take over your head. It is just gross. I would rather have a raccoon’s dick shoved into my navel than have a tongue stuffed into either one of my ears. Now nibbling is a different story. Just give me some tiny bites on any part of me and I am rendered harder than mahogany in the Arctic Circle. I think I am going to drag my wife upstairs and rub something against her. No, I mean it. She has lint on her sweater and the sticky lint brush is on the counter in our bathroom. What did you think I was talking about? You guys are fucking perverts, man—get your head out of the gutter. That is my wife you are thinking about!

  God, my wife is hot.

  I have had sex with porn stars and rock stars. I have had sex with friends and strangers, with beauty queens and the stuff of wet dreams. I have fucked whores and hags. I have done so much that it is damn near impossible to put a finger on just where my own unique kink comes from sometimes. But one thing is for certain: If it were not for lust, half my stories would be boring wastes of breath. If it were not for lust, my little soirees would be nothing more than campfire sonnets designed to lull you to sleep—maybe not all of them, but most of these stories would be anyway. For the last thirty-five years, lust has been my copilot, I have been its captain, and we have gone down in the shit together.

  I do not think I am unraveling the mysteries or the science behind our sexual drives or weakness. I am just a guy trying to make you feel better about having sex in the first place. The stains of the past can wash off with enough time and effort. People, the power is truly in our hands. From soup to nuts, from hello to the afterglow, from dinner to the postcoitus cigarette—every decision, every move you make, and every vibe you gauge is free will burning. You can dodge the bullet at any moment or bury it with the closest bone. Although sex feels great when it is dirty, it should never feel evil or, for that matter, deadly. We all live with lust in our hearts, the passionate pulse of being alive, and nothing the authorities say will do anything to make us become eunuchs.

  So for all you uptight vanilla hard-on motherfuckers who are just hanging around the sandbox waiting for the first opportunity to kick dirt in our beds, how about you go ahead and stick your head deep in that very sand. The world is a little bit easier to cope with after a good bout of “Who
Tied Me Up?,” and I for one can keep from plotting the deaths of my enemies when I have had a strong six-second orgasm. I am begging those of you who just do not get it or, more appropriately, do not get it enough to lay off! Better yet, get laid and get off. If you could view the world through blue-lined glasses, you would see most of us are just having fun, just kicking the mud off of our bodies and spirits. It is a fucking jungle out there, man. But thank Pete we all came equipped with a great stress-killing mechanism that hopefully never disappoints, never dies down, never gets old, and never ever makes anyone say “ow!” Is lust a sin? In my professional opinion, lust is not a sin at all. But I will say this: Sometimes it feels even better when you pretend it is one.

  chapter 4

  Bonfire for Vanity

  For those of you not very familiar with me, let me introduce myself.

  My name is Corey Taylor. I was more or less born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa, although I had lived in twenty-five different states before I’d reached puberty. I am (apparently) a renowned artist, singer, songwriter, lyricist, entertainer, dancer (total lie), magi (another lie), aura reader (where’s he going with this?), and all-around famous person. I have two very successful bands, Slipknot and Stone Sour, with multiplatinum albums and award-winning music. I have seen a million faces, and I’ve rocked several hundred of them. And I have been nominated for ten Grammies, winning one, making me the Susan Lucci of rock and roll. I also have had the privilege of writing my own monthly column for a British publication called Rock Sound since 2001.

  Besides all those other super-cool things, I am a loving husband and father of two ultra-cool children. I am a manic geek who enjoys all things geek-tastic, such as comic books, movies, collectible action figures, and so on. I have been writing since I was nine years old, my first published piece being “The Tiger,” which was featured on the front page of the Jackson Journal (to be fair, the Jackson Journal was the leaflet handed out at my old elementary school, and it was only two pages—but I did score the front). I am not Elmer Fudd and I do not have a mansion and a yacht, but I have three houses, a commercial building, and I hope to have a house boat by the time I am old, or at least young enough to swim after it when it gets away from me.