As close to an honest story as I'm capable of. #flashfiction #shortstory https://t.co/wlp2YyEJw3 https://t.co/blT4yyxljz (2 days ago)

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Jul
26

VH

It suddenly occurred to me the other day… there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of women that walk around with the knowledge that they slept with Michael Anthony from Van Halen. I can’t envision the horror.

Imagine finding out that your wife slept with Michael Anthony!  How could you ever forgive the dirty slut?! Now if it were David Lee Roth I don’t think there is a red-blooded man in America that would begrudge his wife that one. Assuming of course that it was before his 2nd solo album. After that he drops down a few notches.  If I had a wife who had been nailed by DLR in, say, 1989 I think I would tell everyone I know. It would also go a long way in explaining the burning sensation I have whenever I pee.

But Michael Anthony?!

Unforgivable.

I try and picture the scene backstage… the chaos, the excitement when the band finally enters the room after the show. There he is… the magnificent David Lee Roth. Only the best of the best whores dare approach him. His leotard glistening he sorts through the various prospects and finally departs with the lucky lady. Obviously there is still plenty of estrogen in the air as Eddie makes his way around to console the runner-up. I can almost feel the tension as he finally makes his choice and leads the spandex-clad woman off to some nearby back room or closet.

All eyes then make their way to Alex Van Halen. The bronze penis is about to be awarded and I’m sure there is a little desperation among the females as they jockey for his attention. You know there is one who is clutching a thrown drumstick to her breast like some sweaty bouquet as if to say he was the one she wanted all along.

Amongst the road crew there is also growing anticipation. They know as soon as Alex makes his selection that it is open season on the rest of the herd. All of them, from the manager to the sound guy to the light technician, eyeball the remaining talent and await the moment that they will descend upon them like so many hyenas on a pack of gazelle. Snorting and grunting and making sure their backstage pass and over-blown sense of importance to the show are on full display.

And then there is Michael Anthony.

King of the Hyenas.

The 4th hottest girl in the room thinking “I shaved my privates for this?” as she weighs her options amongst the rock and roll rabble. Her friends giggle and encourage her… a sure sense that it is a tragic mistake waiting to happen.

20 minutes later she is pulling down her miniskirt and desperately looking for an exit so she can run to a pharmacy and buy a gallon of Lysol to soak her vagina in overnight. A long black night of ignoring the ringing phone and doorbell, lost in the din of her own self-loathing.

“Michael Anthony? Did I really let the Van Halen bass player do me?”

A scene that will replay itself every night for at least a month and then sporadically for the rest of her natural life.

20 years later, slumped over a dimly lit counter at a local bar, slurring out “Michael Anthony? Did I really let the Van Halen bass player do me?”. The memory of his thick sausage bass-playing fingers probing her. His big damp belly. That beard.

That terrible-smelling beard.

His nubby little bass player penis.

And to think,  there are so many women walking around who have had this experience. Living with the secret terror that it will one day come to light and they will be driven from polite society. Forced to take refuge among the other victims of bad decision-making.

Like girls that slept with any of the Poison band members.

Except C.C…. I assume those girls killed themselves a long time ago.

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