Charly grabbed my ass, pulling me in. While I pumped away, I sucked on her neck, giving her a hickey. She returned the favor by planting one on me that was positively vampiric. Though I wasn’t into having blood extracted from my jugular, I was thrilled to finally be getting laid. Honestly, I was so numbed out, I’m not even sure I had a complete erection, but that didn’t stop me. I kept going and going until all of a sudden I saw a flash of light . . . but it wasn’t from an orgasm.
“What’re you doing?” Charly yelled, loud enough to bust my eardrum.
“Who, me?” I sheepishly answered, afraid my lack of technique had betrayed me.
“No . . . him!”
I looked up and saw her friend posed behind a camera. Apparently, he’d decided to record my first coital experience for posterity.
I yelled, “Get the fuck out of here, dude!”
Before exiting, he snapped a few more quick pics, did a sweeping pirouette, and disappeared down the stairs.
Slightly stunned by that bizarro interruption, we paused a minute, then tried to regroup. But, sadly, the gay paparazzi had killed our vibe and my erection. She tried desperately to resuscitate my boner, but it was no use. I was completely desensitized. It was like trying to drag a dead horse back into the barn. My cock had a mind of its own and apparently had decided this party was over.
Charly went to shower. I followed after her and, though I pled my case for another go at it, she passed. That’s when it occurred to me that I never came. That’s like climbing Mount Everest but forgetting to plant your flag. I hoped it still counted as a notch in my belt, even though it was more like a nick. Oh, well . . . next time I’d finish the job.
We went back to her bedroom and passed out. I woke up a few hours later worried about getting my drum kit out of there before her parents returned. I was also concerned about covering the enormous eggplant of a hickey she’d given me. It was summer, so it wasn’t like I could hide it under a shirt collar. I’d heard you could get rid of one by smearing it with toothpaste. I tried it and failed. At home, I sold it as a joke. My parents weren’t buying it, but they were cool and let it slide. I retired to my room to relive my first fuckfest. Praise Jesus . . . I was now officially a member of the Big Boys’ Club.
I found out later Charly was a full-on lesbian. It occurred to me that I may have flipped her switch with my incredibly underwhelming performance.
Occasionally, I check eBay to see if photos documenting my “first time” are listed for sale. If you show up at a Death Punch meet and greet with one in hand, I promise to sign it for you.
CHAPTER 7
SEX, MORE SEX, AND A LITTLE ROCK ’N’ ROLL
2007
We finished the Family Values tour and earned a few weeks off. I desperately needed it. I wanted to get with a trainer and start addressing some leg problems I’d recently developed. I never knew when my right leg would decide to go on hiatus, and for someone known for his machine-gun double-bass shredding, this was akin to an opera singer developing a vocal-cord nodule the size of a fucking cumquat.
The bizarre problem began with my right foot turning outward—barely engaging the kick-drum pedal. With every passing day, it had gotten worse. What began as a physical problem spiraled into a psychosomatic mind fuck. I worried constantly about when it would kick in, because it seriously affected my playing and snuffed out any remnant of joy that hadn’t already been destroyed by the natural grind of touring.
After a few episodes of gimp-leg syndrome, my confidence was totally shaken. I convinced myself it couldn’t be fixed. On top of that, the anxiety I felt—worrying about my leg—occasionally caused vertigo. Right in the middle of a set, I’d get so dizzy it felt like I was about to tumble off my drum seat. I’d immediately become nauseous, scared I’d blow my cookies right onstage. What I didn’t know at the time was that excessive boozing was a contributing factor—“excessive” being a monumental understatement. What I did know was that we were embarking on a big arena tour with Korn and Hellyeah in a couple of weeks and something had to be done . . . and fast. If you think I was just being a pussy, try furious double-bass drumming with a gimpy leg for an unrelenting forty minutes—in front of thousands of people—and you’ll understand my concern.
With Angel’s help, I found a trainer who assessed the leg problem and introduced me to a series of strange exercises—spending a half hour or more just rolling my body on hard foam rollers—that worked out the tightness and knots. He recommended I work on various exercises with Angel, who taught yoga. Trying to take orders from someone I no longer considered my partner was a constant struggle. Even though she was trying to be helpful, she frustrated the hell out of me. Jerk that I was, instead of being grateful, I usually ended up verbally abusing her.
I kept working at the various exercises because I had to get myself back to normal. However, the drinking never tapered off; I got hammered every day. It was an easy way to clock out and not have to deal. I’d stockpiled lots of reasons to keep numbing myself: my rocky on-again, off-again relationship with Angel, the frustration of my leg problems, the personality clashes of the band, and my low self-esteem all fed my need for validation. And validation seemed to come only when I was blitzed.
Occasionally I’d call my folks and let them know how I was doing. I explained about my anxiety-aided vertigo, and Dad told me to “just breathe.” Sounds good, but try breathing deeply when you’re pounding drums like a madman. For me, an important part of being a successful rock drummer is the visual element. When I play, I might as well be in a nine-round boxing match. I give it everything I’ve got, and I’m soaked to the ass crack one song into the set. I thanked Dad for the useless advice and hung up, dreading what lay ahead.
Once the arena tour began, it didn’t take long for my leg problems to kick in. I spent more than an hour every day doing toe exercises, all kinds of weird shit to rehab myself back into playing shape. But I refused to slow down on the alcohol. Quite the contrary.
Other than Zo, our band drank our faces off. As a result, it didn’t take long to start butting heads with the Hellyeah camp. Talk about two bands that drank themselves stupid every night. The problem usually revolved around chicks. Girls who were talking with some of the guys in Hellyeah would end up talking to me. Band members thought I was intentionally trying to snag them, but I wasn’t. I’d either be watching Korn play or just hanging out drinking after the show ended. I had no idea who any of these chicks were or who they were with until after we’d hook up. Those guys were forever getting all bent out of shape about it.
One night, I ended up on Joey Jordison’s bus with Tom from Hellyeah. We were drinking and doing shots. Joey was visibly uncomfortable with the two of us in his space. Tom was drunk and—having obviously built up some resentment toward me—tackled me into the table in the front lounge. When I got back to my feet, Joey was standing there with a get-the-fuck-off-my-bus look. I was more than happy to oblige. New to the touring game, the last thing I wanted to do was make enemies. All I wanted was to have fun, get drunk, and have sex. Pretty original, eh?
Thanks to MySpace, I was able to line up various get-togethers before we arrived at a venue. However, I was often suckered into believing the Internet beauty was the real deal a little too late. One such “beauty” showed up at an early tour gig. Unlike her svelte photo, she turned out to be considerably chunkier. However, her face was somewhat attractive and, even more important, she was all about me. Suddenly it wasn’t about quality, it was about landing the plane, as pathetic as that now sounds.
In spite of my eagerness, I wasn’t about to let the rest of the guys see me with Miss Pleasantly Plump. So we jumped into her car and headed for a restaurant, where I started slamming wine. With each glass, her appearance improved markedly. Finally I was ready for The Conquer. Having overimbibed, I was completely numbed out, so I popped a Viagra. At thirty-four, booze had already become the enemy when it came to getting it up.
We went back to her place. Spoiler aler
t: she lived alone with a cat. What a shocker. And, nervous? She talked nonstop. I knew this had to happen fast, or it wouldn’t happen at all. When the Viagra kicked in, I pulled her to bed, yanked off her clothes, and started going down on her until she was begging to get pounded by Rocker Guy.
In my mind, she was definitely the one scoring in this exchange, but, man, I soon discovered I had that bass-ackwards. She clamped down on me like a leech on a ball sack. I don’t know whom she’d been practicing on, but her lips didn’t get that way from sucking doorknobs. Numb or not, it didn’t take long before: Super Splooge.
Selfish bastard that I was, my first thought was: All right! I don’t have to fuck her. Looking back, if she was half as good at doing the deed as she was at giving head, I probably missed out on the time of my life. Still, this way I figured I wouldn’t have to put up with her bugging me on MySpace. I expedited the conversation in order to hurry and get out of there.
On the way back to the hotel, she asked what time she should show up for our show. I used my default excuse about not being able to hang, because, say it with me, “I have to do press.” I could tell she was disappointed, but in my fucked-up, insecure state, I was all about me. I needed the juice from The Conquer, and I was willing to pretty much fuck anyone or anything to get that validation. When she pulled into the hotel parking lot, I said, “Adios,” and that was that.
Later that night, I joined Ivan and Darrell at a strip club right outside of town. The place was decked out like something from Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses. While we were having a drink, I met this hot little brunette stripper right before her turn to dance. Halfway through her routine, she yanked me up onstage, climbed on top, and started mock sixty-nining me. She was chewing on my rod right through my jeans. After the dance, we exchanged numbers and I invited her to the show the next day . . . another would-be notch in the ol’ Conquer belt.
That was the kind of spontaneous happening that made touring a blast. And if it ever got dull, I could always count on Bobby to help liven things up. He was the only tech we could afford on this tour, so he teched for all of us. You have to give it up to the kid for busting his ass every day, even though I insisted he get blitzed with me every night.
We’d become inseparable running partners. We closed a fuckload of trim on that tour, and there were many nights of us “sharing.” Once, he and I took this chick to a hotel and she was giving him head while I was trying to bang her. I was so drunk it was all I could do to stay erect. Without warning, he starts singing Disturbed songs at the top of his lungs.
“Don’t deny me. Don’t deny me. Don’t deny m-e-e-e.” Except it was more like “DO NOT DE-NY ME!” All proper and staccato and loud enough to attract a crowd.
I tried to ignore him, but he kept it up. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I could tell the chick was getting irritated, so I finally yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Robert! I’m trying to concentrate here.”
“Sorry, man, but I can’t have her DE-NY-ING ME!”
Talk about a buzz kill.
Another time, I’d run into these chicks somewhere in Louisiana. Bobby and I were doing our routine on them. Basically, we told them we were gonna take them backstage and bang them. They willingly came with us, but once there, they protested, “We’re not that kind of girls.”
Bobby lost patience and bailed. The minute he left, the chicks that “weren’t like that” started making out with each other with me as ringmaster. I dumped one of them on Matt and continued to work on the other. Because we only had a few minutes before the bus was scheduled to leave, she wouldn’t do the deed. But she agreed to drive to the next show. I doubted that, but sure enough, both of them traveled to Texas. Turned out they were strippers and actually had some cash. They bought Matt and me dinner and drinks. After getting smashed, we branched off.
On the way back to the hotel, we purchased more booze. The chick I was with came loaded with some serious issues. She’d been molested by her mom or some weird shit. We started going at it, and she was one of those, “Slap me in the face. Slap me in the pussy. Choke me.”
I was extremely uncomfortable with this scenario. I’m just not into pain, especially during sex—either dishing it out or receiving it. I hate when chicks scratch me or bite or any of that. (As previously mentioned in the Charly episode, I’m not even into hickeys.) Still, she kept insisting, so I started slapping her softly.
“Harder. No, harder! And choke me . . . do it!”
Because I’m not that guy, I felt horrible. But she kept begging me, so—hoping to put an end to her pleading—I finally relented and gave her a good whack. Instead of ending this nightmare scene from Marat/Sade, she was turned on even more—insisting I choke her out to the point of orgasm. What the hell! I could have refused, but like a compliant wimp, I grabbed her neck and started choking her until she finally got off.
“Oh . . . , ” she panted, “. . . that was incredible!”
Though complicit, I couldn’t help thinking, What the hell’s wrong with people? Personally, I don’t relate to the pain part. And I’d have never done that sober. But then, I wouldn’t have done most of the shit I’ve done if I hadn’t been drunker than a funker.
That scene was emblematic of what became the tour from hell: crazy partying and wild-ass chicks at every venue. We were drinking copious amounts of alcohol, which led to raucous nights—and, eventually, more infighting.
It seemed like Ivan was always starting some shit. His need for drama became an incredible annoyance. Once, Zoltan was working at his computer in the front lounge when he heard the bus door open. Ivan had grabbed handfuls of snow, forming them into a gigantic snowball, which he was planning to throw at Zo. He bolted up the stairs; however, before he could heave the ice-packed snowball at Zo, he slipped on the metal steps and fell back out of the bus—crashing to the ground. He let out a loud groan. Apparently he’d fucked up his knee, because he started crying. A few minutes later, he came hobbling up the bus steps.
“You’ve got to help me. Someone just jumped me and kicked my ass.”
Zo barely looked up from his monitor. “Dude, what are you talking about? You slipped and fell out of the bus.”
“No bullshit, I got jumped. Seriously, man . . .”
We soon learned that anytime Ivan said “No bullshit,” it was complete bullshit!
That kind of crap went on all the time. We drove tour managers fucking crazy, to the point where they would up and quit. We were not an easy bunch to work for. Part of it was just bad behavior enhanced by way too much booze. Another part was the borderline-personality behavior we all brought to the party: Zo’s compulsive micromanaging and never-ending obsession with pointing out everyone else’s imperfections; Ivan’s volcanic anger and near-constant combativeness; Matt’s need to be a jerk to almost everyone he encountered; Darrell just being the crotchety old fart he was; and me, the sarcastic drunken retard who couldn’t let anything pass without comment. Together we were like a bus full of sweating nitro—just waiting to explode.
The fall tour quickly rolled into the next, with Disturbed. Management told us to avoid trying to hang out with them, so we kept to ourselves. However, one night after drinking lethal amounts, we heard a loud knock on the door. Wary of this late-night interruption, we opened it to find Disturbed, the entire band, in full party mode.
“What’s the matter? You guys think you’re too good to hang with us? Get the fuck out here and party.” Apparently, they’d been wondering why we’d kept our distance.
I was happy to finally get to hang with them, but I was also way too fucked up to know I shouldn’t. I took one step and fell out of the bus—ripping open my tattoo on the side of the door. Ivan grabbed me and got me back to the jump seat. Stunned, I sat there a minute before staggering back to my bunk, where I tried to pass out.
The second my head hit the pillow, my eyes sprang open. I didn’t want to miss any of the action with Disturbed, so I got up—swaying back and forth like a hammock in a hur
ricane—and headed back outside. Mikey and Dan were doing multiple shots of Jäger, so I joined them. Bad idea. It didn’t take long before I was fumbling over my words and making an ass of myself. I can’t remember who, but someone from my camp guided me back to the bus. This time I conked out immediately.
The rest of the tour was a blast. We got to know Disturbed, who turned out to be a great bunch of down-to-earth guys. They also liked to party, which was a plus for me because they were swimming in free booze. Nightly I made a fool of myself, drinking till I was sloppy drunk. For me touring meant two things: getting hammered and conquering as much tail as I could.
The Conquer took on all kinds of aberrations. As soon as I finished a show and Bobby packed up the trailer, he and I would shape-shift into bird dogs on the hunt. Once we spotted the prey, it became a game to see where we could fuck . . . the more unlikely the spot, the better.
It really got out of hand on the first Rockstar Energy Drink Mayhem Festival. There were many nights of yanking chicks into the Porta-Potty. We’re talking after a whole day of people splarting Duncan Hines Butt Clay and filling it to the rim with Brim. You know what I’m sayin’? It looked like someone had ingested a large bag of chocolate chips, washing them down with an Ex-Lax cocktail. What other explanation could there be for the Jackson Pollock shit splatters on the walls? It was disgusting, and no deodorizer could mask the putrid aroma. But that didn’t stop us from bumping uglies in the shit-box sauna. It became a game of seeing if you could get it off while still holding your breath.
“If you can smell it, it’s in you!” became the battle cry.
Once, I was getting it on with this hot chick in a Honey Pot. I’d had too much nasty Jäger, and I had started to feel its effects. As I was kissing her, the pungent vapors made me nauseous. When I started gagging, I stumbled outside to puke, hoping I hadn’t blown my shot at fucking her.
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