Well, uh, High Times called me and said they were dedicating this issue to sex or some such and that I should write some such. Since sex is one of the main activities people get high for, and since I have been asked “How does it feel to be a sex symbol?” about a thousand million times in the last six months, it all seems very natural, and after all nature is gonna win no matter what all you suckers do.
Sex sells more magazines, books, movies, records,etc., than anything else. Only violence runs a close second, with flying saucers and drugs tied for third. I wish I had invented sex.
“So tell us how it feels to be a sex symbol, Debbie.”
“Well Johnny… uh, why don’t you go fuck yourself with a double water-spurting, pulsating, rubber, motorized, body-temperature dildo—then and only then will you know the truth, the answer you have sought.”
The real truth is that I learned about sex at the zoo. As a cute but clumsy four year old, I was taken to the Central Park Zoo by my mom. We stood peacefully watching the bears while they sat and scratched themselves, when out of the blue came superjerk in his weather-beat-in raincoat (à la Columbo) flashing his worn-out privates. My mom was pissed off. I couldn’t have cared less, except he seemed to have three of ’em and I couldn’t get much of an explanation from my mom.
Years later I discovered that the male of the species is equipped with nuts and that these in fact were what I had mistaken for two extra wangs.
My only sex-related problem is the unexpected biological urge at the most inappropriate time, e.g., lines at the supermarket or crowded buses and elevators. And if I can be completely open with all of you perverts, the supermarket is the place for a turn-on. I can’t say exactly what it is that turns me on: the bright lights, the Muzak, the smells of the deli department floating around the aisles or the bloodied uniforms of stiff white-duck material. I don’t know, I don’t know. And it doesn’t cost 25 cents to get in!
Pinball is sex. The flashing lights, the tension, the facade, the score, the climax and anticlimax, and after all, as the pros say, “All you need is one good ball.”
Game shows on TV are sex—big orgasms as we see what’s in the box! Everyone knows rock ’n’ roll is sex.
Just sex is not really sex because it’s private and you’re not supposed to think about it. Better you should go beat one of your friends to death with a meat ax. That would be much less perverse.
I can only think of one market where sex has not been totally exploited: furniture. We use furniture most in connection with active and passive sex.
I got a couch
Shaped like a penis
I just hope
It don’t come between us.
Well, when Wayne County saw this couch of mine, he was fit to be filled with “Crocodile Tears.” (The Mumps.) I couldn’t blame him, after all those years of searching the 42nd Street and Village sex shops for battery-powered cock rings and padded toilet seats, the poor thing was exhausted. I am surprised that there isn’t more furniture like those tables in Clockwork Orange or even more bidets like in Europe.
I really did have a couch shaped like a penis, only it made one of my chairs pregnant, and I threw them both the fuck out.
So that’s my report. Don’t believe everything you read, however, especially things related to rock ’n’ roll, since no one in the business can read or write, especially rock ’n’ roll writers and/or musicians. And remember, boys, if you’re tired of shaving, get laid more, so your hormones come out of your cock instead of your face.
Love and X,
Debbie “Blondie” Harry
Read the full issue here.