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 bee... 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. You walk you over to the bed as you are undoing my trousers and pull them off before laying me on the bed in only my boxers. You kiss me on the lips and then kiss your way down my body until you reach the top of your boxers. You kiss your way down my thighs and back up until you reach my balls which are starting to throb.You kiss your way up my shaft until you reach the tip of my hard cock and pull the boxers down and watch my cock spring back and forth as it escapes the confines of my boxers. . The well dressed man asked, "Are you Ms Margaret Hunter?"I said that I was, and the man introduced himself as James Weston of Sunrise Airlines, Inc. The other man was Rev. Samuel Jackson. Then I recognized him as the assistant pastor of the UMC (United Methodist Church) that we sometimes attended. I invited them in and introduced them to Bud. I got coffee for each of them and Cokes for Bud and me. That was when I asked why they were calling on us."Ms Hunter, I have some horrible news for you.. ." Easier to notice someone where they're wearing a skin-tight swimsuit,"Rob says, earning a glare from me that soon turns into a sigh and a nod. "God knows I know THAT's true," I sigh. "From both sides, heh." She's usually so sweet," Dean muses. "Hard to believe she can be sobigoted." Believe it," I snort. "...Think I will take that break, actually..." Take your time, mate," Dean says. "We're quiet enough, can managewithout you for a bit." Thanks," I whisper, saying goodbye to Rob and his.
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