A M P : : : S L E A Z E

WORDS: HEATHY LEE ROTH
PICTURES: SEFF LEPPARD

I suppose this could qualify as one of the sleaziest things I've ever done. As with most things in my life that end up being memorable, classic, and worthy of being passed down to future generations, it was unplanned.

As much as I dream of being that girl who presses her bare ass against law firm windows, flings used tamps at jilted lovers, and licks hot-lookin' strangers on the cheek upon realizing I'd enjoy them rimming me, I usually just end up shit-talking out my ears.

Whenever I attempt to do something of PRICELESS status, it blows up in my face abd backfires, leaves me speechless and red-faced facing a sea of onlookers, and/or hideously unpopular (or more so than before I did it).

But this shit happened.

Circa 1997 I developed a crush on a certain 'indie rockstar' who shall remain anonymous throughout the course of this article (see me in person, get me hammered, I'll spill the beans no problem. Hey, email me, promise to someday get me hammered, I'll let the cat out. HELL, email me while YOU'RE drunk, don't promise me shit, I'll think it's funny and tell you who. But on paper, shit's gotta stay private).

Anyway, after I moved to Berkeley, I found myself living mere blocks from said obsession, whose appeal had dwindled significantly, but, who I could still picture myself taking it in the ass from quite vividly (mirror above the bed. Beach Boys posters on the wall. Blacklight. Bearskin rug. 'Doogie Howser' muted on the TV. Mmm.)

I saw him around and he was nice to me. Gave me rides and sips of his poison at parties. One night he called my house randomly and invited me over for vegetarian chili. I was floored. Obsessed, I was no longer, but hot, he still was. My only qualm being the absence of crucial meat chunks in said chili, I accepted the offer.

A few hours later I show up at his pad. Apparently humpin' around was not on his menu - for he also invited my roommates and a few of his own friends - but meatless chili was, so I was happy.

As I got drunk, I sized up the Other White Meat-- Mr. X himself. Looking better and better as time wore on (I'm referring to myself, of course), I started to feel a fire in my loins comparable only to the great Jonathan-from-Who's-the-Boss outing of '98. Shit was lookin' hawt.

Actually I just had to pee. Excused myself. I entered the bathroom and as I let 'er rip I surveyed my surroundings. Noticed his wife's brand of facial scrub was the same as mine. Scanned the floor for telltale pubes, for that was the closest I figured I'd ever get to his crotch. If I snatched a pube and flossed with it, wouldn't that kinda mean I'd gone down on him? Drunken thoughts are without a doubt my most rational and productive.

I eyed the lock on the door, waiting for it to rattle and quiver as he grasped the knob, kicked down the door and confessed to me that he'd sent the other guests home, that he'd never seen a sight quite as breathtaking as that of me squatting and grunting as I expelled the chili from my system.

I waited for him to charge through the door wearing only chaps, professing that he would take me right there on the fuzzy bath mat as soon as I finished. That even my defecation was amazing and gorgeous, as was I. (You know how it is when you like someone so much you think you wouldn't even care if they threw up all over you? Like, the vomit would suddenly be an elixir of sweet passion? Not.)

By the way, if you're thinking right now that MAYBE, just maybe my obsession was not quite dead at this point, you would be wrong. Okay? Like I said, there are a lot of people who I think are pretty fucking mediocre, and would rather shoot heroin into my face than converse with, yet would pay considerable sums of money to let nail me into oblivion just once. That's just one extreme to prove my point, so there. Okay? OKAY?

I heard muffled drunk conversation in the living room, finished my deed, sighed, wiped thoroughly, and stood up to flush. When I pressed down on the lever, nothing happened. I didn't even react at first. Blaming it on my drunken incompetence, with an expressionless face I tried again.

Dead silence and eerily still toilet water. The silence was deafening. I swear I heard crickets calling each other from distant corners of the wild. My heart began to race and images flashed through my mind: me, pinky finger in mouth, eyes wide, announcing to the party that I had pinched a loaf that would remain there for all of eternity due to bad plumbing. Me, leaving the bathroom poker-faced and nonchalant, and pretending that nothing happened until the host himself took a trip there and his screams of terror echoed throughout all of Oakland, finding what I'd left for him. Those screams...I can still hear them some nights.

I panicked. Looked desperately at the third-story window and was deterred not by fear, but by the fact that even drunken reasoning proved that there was no way my fat ass would fit through it.

My eyes shifted frantically to the bathtub, where I saw some only-innocent-out-of-context-looking razors. I saw myself, sunken-eyed, chin-deep in red water, the cryptic message "HEATHER SKELTER" scrawled on the wall above me in blood.

Again, was deterred not by fear, but by the fact that at that point it dawned on me that I hadn't yet gotten to see that one episode of Friends where Ross plays keyboards.

In desperation I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, as if it were some pagan god or even Christ himself, constructed before me in white porcelain. I think I may have also pointed my chin heavenward as well, in some sort of last plea for a miracle.

I thrust both hands into the bowl and retrieved the offending items, swaddled them in toilet paper like two sacred, yet unholy Christ-Children, and flung them into the wastebasket among the harmless used Kleenex, cotton puffs, and waxy Q-Tips.

I scrubbed my hands...but sin doesn't wash off easily, and as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the red-faced, wild-eyed monster I saw bore no resemblance to my former self. The self that many had respected, trusted...even loved.

I left the bathroom shaky and nervous. My roommate made eye contact with me and her face told me she knew something had gone horribly wrong. All I could think about were those two most intimate remnants of myself lying in the once-unsullied wastebasket of the man I had previously pined for. Worried over whether I had concealed them sufficiently. Was the only one acutely aware of each guest's bathroom trip, and the length thereof. Strangely, though, no one else had trouble in the bathroom.

This is not the only fucked up shit story I have. Ask me about the Great Shower Scare of '99, last year's relatively tame and therefore less renowned Litterbox Incident, and the more recent Starbucks Sinks Can Be Bidets Too! Fiasco.

Back at the apartment, the drinks kept flowing and my mind wandered from the incident in the bathroom. I reassured myself: "Not unless your secret emits a stench so foul as to warrant an investigation will it be revealed." To my knowledge, it did not.

When we left, I immediately confided in my friends what had taken place. They reeled at first, but then relaxed and consoled my last shred of anxiety. I was safe. He'd never find out.

Since this happened, I have reclaimed its ugly stigma and made it powerful in my very own way. You gotta do what you gotta do. If that means emptying your bowels in someone's wastebasket because you broke the toilet, by all means, ladies... Let 'er rip.

Want more Heathy Lee Roth? Check out her article Eating Pussy: The NEW First Base for Pubertystrike.com, or buy Gravy Train!!!!'s new release, Menz, on Spam Records.

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Heathy Lee Roth of Gravy Train!!! gets very, very nasty indeed.

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Apparently?

"Cocaine* can be a sexual mentor and a sublime electrician, bringing the lights of Broadway to women who have spent years in frigid darkness."
Natalie Angier, Woman: An Intimate Geography

*actually, the word she used was 'marijuana', but dope's for lo$ers, kidz!


WORDS: HEATHY LEE ROTH PICTURES: SEFF LEPPARD
I suppose this could qualify as one of the sleaziest things I've ever done. As with most things in my life that end up being memorable, classic, and worthy of being passed down to future generations, it was unplanned. As much as I dream of being that girl who presses her bare ass against law firm windows, flings used tamps at jilted lovers, and licks hot-lookin' strangers on the cheek upon realizing I'd enjoy them rimming me, I usually just end up shit-talking out my ears. Whenever I attempt to do something of PRICELESS status, it blows up in my face abd backfires, leaves me speechless and red-faced facing a sea of onlookers, and/or hideously unpopular (or more so than before I did it). But this shit happened. Circa 1997 I developed a crush on a certain 'indie rockstar' who shall remain anonymous throughout the course of this article (see me in person, get me hammered, I'll spill the beans no problem. Hey, email me, promise to someday get me hammered, I'll let the cat out. HELL, email me while YOU'RE drunk, don't promise me shit, I'll think it's funny and tell you who. But on paper, shit's gotta stay private). Anyway, after I moved to Berkeley, I found myself living mere blocks from said obsession, whose appeal had dwindled significantly, but, who I could still picture myself taking it in the ass from quite vividly (mirror above the bed. Beach Boys posters on the wall. Blacklight. Bearskin rug. 'Doogie Howser' muted on the TV. Mmm.) I saw him around and he was nice to me. Gave me rides and sips of his poison at parties. One night he called my house randomly and invited me over for vegetarian chili. I was floored. Obsessed, I was no longer, but hot, he still was. My only qualm being the absence of crucial meat chunks in said chili, I accepted the offer.

			A few hours later I show up at his pad. Apparently humpin' around was not on his menu - for he also invited my roommates and a few of his own friends - but meatless chili was, so I was happy. As I got drunk, I sized up the Other White Meat-- Mr. X himself. Looking better and better as time wore on (I'm referring to myself, of course), I started to feel a fire in my loins comparable only to the great Jonathan-from-Who's-the-Boss outing of '98. Shit was lookin' hawt. Actually I just had to pee. Excused myself. I entered the bathroom and as I let 'er rip I surveyed my surroundings. Noticed his wife's brand of facial scrub was the same as mine. Scanned the floor for telltale pubes, for that was the closest I figured I'd ever get to his crotch. If I snatched a pube and flossed with it, wouldn't that kinda mean I'd gone down on him? Drunken thoughts are without a doubt my most rational and productive. I eyed the lock on the door, waiting for it to rattle and quiver as he grasped the knob, kicked down the door and confessed to me that he'd sent the other guests home, that he'd never seen a sight quite as breathtaking as that of me squatting and grunting as I expelled the chili from my system. I waited for him to charge through the door wearing only chaps, professing that he would take me right there on the fuzzy bath mat as soon as I finished. That even my defecation was amazing and gorgeous, as was I. (You know how it is when you like someone so much you think you wouldn't even care if they threw up all over you? Like, the vomit would suddenly be an elixir of sweet passion? Not.) By the way, if you're thinking right now that MAYBE, just maybe my obsession was not quite dead at this point, you would be wrong. Okay? Like I said, there are a lot of people who I think are pretty fucking mediocre, and would rather shoot heroin into my face than converse with, yet would pay considerable sums of money to let nail me into oblivion just once. That's just one extreme to prove my point, so there. Okay? OKAY? I heard muffled drunk conversation in the living room, finished my deed, sighed, wiped thoroughly, and stood up to flush. When I pressed down on the lever, nothing happened. I didn't even react at first. Blaming it on my drunken incompetence, with an expressionless face I tried again. Dead silence and eerily still toilet water. The silence was deafening. I swear I heard crickets calling each other from distant corners of the wild. My heart began to race and images flashed through my mind: me, pinky finger in mouth, eyes wide, announcing to the party that I had pinched a loaf that would remain there for all of eternity due to bad plumbing. Me, leaving the bathroom poker-faced and nonchalant, and pretending that nothing happened until the host himself took a trip there and his screams of terror echoed throughout all of Oakland, finding what I'd left for him. Those screams...I can still hear them some nights. I panicked. Looked desperately at the third-story window and was deterred not by fear, but by the fact that even drunken reasoning proved that there was no way my fat ass would fit through it. My eyes shifted frantically to the bathtub, where I saw some only-innocent-out-of-context-looking razors. I saw myself, sunken-eyed, chin-deep in red water, the cryptic message "HEATHER SKELTER" scrawled on the wall above me in blood. Again, was deterred not by fear, but by the fact that at that point it dawned on me that I hadn't yet gotten to see that one episode of Friends where Ross plays keyboards.

	In desperation I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet, as if it were some pagan god or even Christ himself, constructed before me in white porcelain. I think I may have also pointed my chin heavenward as well, in some sort of last plea for a miracle. I thrust both hands into the bowl and retrieved the offending items, swaddled them in toilet paper like two sacred, yet unholy Christ-Children, and flung them into the wastebasket among the harmless used Kleenex, cotton puffs, and waxy Q-Tips. I scrubbed my hands...but sin doesn't wash off easily, and as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the red-faced, wild-eyed monster I saw bore no resemblance to my former self. The self that many had respected, trusted...even loved. I left the bathroom shaky and nervous. My roommate made eye contact with me and her face told me she knew something had gone horribly wrong. All I could think about were those two most intimate remnants of myself lying in the once-unsullied wastebasket of the man I had previously pined for. Worried over whether I had concealed them sufficiently. Was the only one acutely aware of each guest's bathroom trip, and the length thereof. Strangely, though, no one else had trouble in the bathroom. This is not the only fucked up shit story I have. Ask me about the Great Shower Scare of '99, last year's relatively tame and therefore less renowned Litterbox Incident, and the more recent Starbucks Sinks Can Be Bidets Too! Fiasco. Back at the apartment, the drinks kept flowing and my mind wandered from the incident in the bathroom. I reassured myself: "Not unless your secret emits a stench so foul as to warrant an investigation will it be revealed." To my knowledge, it did not. When we left, I immediately confided in my friends what had taken place. They reeled at first, but then relaxed and consoled my last shred of anxiety. I was safe. He'd never find out. Since this happened, I have reclaimed its ugly stigma and made it powerful in my very own way. You gotta do what you gotta do. If that means emptying your bowels in someone's wastebasket because you broke the toilet, by all means, ladies... Let 'er rip.
		Want more Heathy Lee Roth? Check out her article Eating Pussy: The NEW First Base for Pubertystrike.com, or buy Gravy Train!!!!'s new release, Menz, on Spam Records.