You've heard about that Suicide show? No, not that other one--I was at every show they ever did up until 1978, and I never saw Alan fuck a girl on stage. (And the girl wasn't me, either, despite everything you've been

told.) I'm talking about the other one. The one where they fucked each other. There's been a lot of lies and half-truths told about that show. Let me tell you what really happened.

It was April or May, 1977. (Or it might have been 1978. I don't know. I don't keep a diary.) They were playing at some dump in Tampa, of all places. About half-an-hour into the show, some fat asshole in the back yelled, "Go fuck yourselves, faggots!" Before I tell you what happened next, let me tell you about what Suicide shows were like in the early-to-mid Seventies. Picture two leather-clad guys, one scowling and torturing an organ, the other striding around like some Fifties housewife's nightmare of a rockabilly (who had come for her daughters and sons, of course), both intent on making as much trouble for themselves as possible. Add an audience full of punks, people who were there to beat up punks, lost tourists, and a few true believers like me, and you have a recipe for... an interesting experience, that's for sure. Anyway, Alan heard that and said, "What's that? You said you wanted to fuck us? You couldn't handle both of us."

"Fuck off, commie faggot!" (They had played "Che" a few minutes before.)

"You know, that's the seventh time you've called me a faggot. That's not cool." He lit a cigarette. Most of the audience were laughing, muttering to themselves, and/or standing in the back with their arms crossed. "Nothing wrong with being a faggot," he continued. I could tell something bad was about to happen, so I started inching toward the door.

"Well, if you want us to be faggots, then we'll be faggots for you." He whispered to Martin, who started into "Cheree." "Jerry, Jerry/my black leather laddie," he warbled toward Fat Asshole, about fifteen octaves above his usual range. "I love you." Then, everything changed. Let me explain what I mean. Have any of you ever been insane? If so, do you remember that head-full-of-cotton feeling you get before you do something crazy? I could feel that cotton expanding out of everyone's heads and into the air as Martin and Alan began to kiss. They lip-locked for a few minutes, with Martin continuing to play his keyboard with one hand while holding Alan's hand with the other. I could hear catcalls and soo-ees coming from the audience. Finally they stopped, and the audience flowed onto the stage, angry and ready to bash some heads in. Alan and Martin wasted no time in running off stage before the crowd could get them. I elbowed and shoved my way out of the crowd and out the front door.

Something, I still don't know what, drew me back in. I pushed everyone aside and made my way to the door that led backstage. There was a little blonde Cuban and a tall redheaded man already back there, the only two people other than me that had been clapping between songs. The Cuban was beating her little fists on the door as the redhead looked on. Finally, the door opened. Inside, we saw Alan and Martin fondling each other against a brick wall. After a nervous second, they opened up a nearby door and beckoned us inside. We went in. There was a moment of silence before someone found a light and turned it on.