It was evident to me after her departure that it was time for me to do something new too—to step out of my “good life” and turn the amplifier knob to 11, just to go out there, pursue something else, and try to make a difference. The air was out of BEATEXPRESS. We didn’t really move forward quickly enough for my liking. Tensions were building up between me and the rest, and then they ganged up and rudely dismissed me from the band at a BBQ party in Neufeld, which was hosted by the keyboardist, the last member to join the band.
I felt relieved deep down because the attitude had changed. The obese rhythm guitarist fancied himself the leader of the pack, and the rest of the lads—his close friends—were quite a bit younger than me. Even though I was the founder and leader, I understood it was time for me to leave. Their anger-fueled feelings were so extreme that they demanded I leave the BBQ immediately in the middle of a late September night. I was tipsy, and my SAGEM’s battery was on its last legs, but it had just enough juice to accept a phone call. It was from my girlfriend’s brother, Uglich, who coincidentally sped down the main road with a big problem on his hands.
I said, “Mate, I am running through the fields as we speak. Let’s meet at the fuel station because I need a lift, in whichever direction you’re heading.” I fought my way through a wheat field and continued the brawl through a dozen lines of corn. Countless globules of perspiration gathered on my brow and slid down my face and neck, disappearing into the jungle of my furry chest. It all worked out because by the time I hit the fresh manure spread upon the fertile soil, he was already there, inquiring about helping me out.
I said, “Listen, pal, I’ve never been so happy to see you. They kicked me out of the band, and I have no way to get home.”
He said, “Don’t worry about those losers; we have bigger fish to fry.”
“Whatever it is, I’m up for it, as long as it’s not surgery or something illegal, and you promise to take me home at some point,” I replied.
He responded in a stressed but excited voice. “Listen, I pulled this chick from the O3 chat room, and I’m due to meet her in 45 minutes in Mattersburg, Burgenland (the smallest county in Austria). She said she’s only willing to meet if her best friend can come too.”
I said, “But look at me—how I look, how I smell!”
“Don’t worry about it,” he added. “They’re farmer’s daughters from Burgenland. They’re used to this smell.”
For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to show my emotions. For goodness’ sake, my girlfriend’s brother was asking me to look after the lady friend of his date. But the truth of the matter was that I felt like God in Paris.
A couple of things must be admitted. He was a nice guy, but by no stretch of the imagination was he attractive. He was super tall, but his legs reached his neck; a bald head, but by nature, not by choice—and this at the tender age of 20. He had feet that, with the right design of shoes, could have walked on water. He had hands like umbrellas—when it rained, he lifted them over his head, and they kept him dry. To top it all, he was whiter than any white person after a bleach bath.
Admittedly, I wasn’t the most faithful guy in my youth, but no one caught me in the act, so I wasn’t hurting anybody by slipping up. In hindsight, I’m extremely happy that I never missed an opportunity that presented itself because later in life I learned that at night, all cats are grey, and most girls are just like us guys. The difference is they keep their mouths shut. We men—most of us, at least—like to boast. I’m not particularly bragging about it, but I like to entertain, inform, and also set the record straight. This has been haunting me for 22 years, and I believe it’s time to confess and cleanse my soul! We all have skeletons in our closets, and I, for one, will put them out of their misery.
So the combination of a hungry, blind cock finding a piece of corn and a bohemian being asked to be a wingman seemed legit and had a ring to it. With a burnout, we left the fuel station in a VW Passat B1. The late Ayrton Senna would surely have been proud of the way we passed the drunken crowd of wannabe racers and car modifiers. These people were always hanging around on Saturday nights at gas stations throughout Austria and Germany, talking cars, parts, work, and complaining about life and their wives. Flat out on the throttle, he pushed that Passat to its limits. Around some bends, we were bordering on breaking the laws of physics until I said, “Listen, buddy, if you want to get laid, you need to arrive in one piece.”
“We need to make up for the lost time, mate,” he replied.
I said, “If she’s not willing to wait ten minutes for you, she’s not the girl you want to spend time with. Believe me, brother!”
We arrived at the agreed-upon location. The girls were waiting on a wooden bench. Not that I was choosy in life, but I asked him, “Hey, which one am I supposed to entertain?”
“The one on the right,” he said.
Out of experience, I knew where I stood before we exited the Dasher. For some bizarre and unexplainable reason, these situations always worked out in favor of the dragged-along individuals. They’re the ones who enjoy it. But let me cut to the chase to ensure you won’t put the book down just yet.
We politely introduced ourselves and asked if the ladies would care for a walk. I’d thought of this idea in the car because I didn’t have a dime on me. Before reading The Game, I already knew spending money on a girl wouldn’t make her like you more. If someone fancies you, you’ll know within seconds. The rest are just looking for a free night out before they hit you with the “You’re such a nice guy. Let’s stay friends” line. It’s the same as your mother breaking the awful news after your vacation: “Son, your dog died, but you can keep it.”
The ladies agreed, of course, and off we went. My friend and his companion trailed behind while I stole glances at them fading into the distance. Seizing the moment, I pulled my girl in front of a parked car and shoved my tongue down her throat. Admittedly, it wasn’t romantic, but let’s recap: I’d been kicked out of my band, fought my way through wheat and cornfields in a half-drunk state, reeking like a cheap sausage left on a charcoal grill, with sandals caked in manure. Yet, here she was, calling me handsome and finding my accent funny—all within minutes of meeting me.
I couldn’t miss the twinkle in her big brown eyes, and I certainly felt the tiger in the tank, which was rather full since my girlfriend was in Big Ben land. While we French-kissed, I adjusted the knobs on her excited body like a seasoned radio operator and tuned in to the weather station. The forecast reported extreme wetness incoming, and for once, it wasn’t wrong.
Meanwhile, my friend and his date—who could best be described as a plus-sized woman proudly showcasing her farmstead’s finest wood—ambled down the pavement. They resembled Laurel and Hardy, but reversed: the tall one was skinny, and the short one was large.
As we carried on, I monitored the approach of the other two through the car’s windshield. When they reached the back of the parking lot, we leapt out of the shadows, shouting, “Peekaboo!” They looked utterly confused but laughed it off. We all strolled downhill on the sidewalk, seemingly the picture of innocence.
I needed a quick plan to separate from the group. Thinking fast, I leaned in and asked my girl, “Is there a park nearby? Let’s walk there.” As we meandered through the streets, we passed a secluded alley. I whispered for her to excuse herself once we reached the park, under the pretense of needing a “ladies’ break,” and to wait in the middle of the pathway. She agreed, giggling. A minute later, I also excused myself, heading in the opposite direction. Timing my steps carefully, I looped back through the alley to meet her.
There she stood, twirling her knickers on her finger like a helicopter propeller. We sneaked into someone’s backyard, where she peeked through the fence to check for onlookers while I got busy. The meteorologist was, yet again, correct—I found myself ankle-deep in her flood of desire. The act was short but memorable, lasting precisely 35 seconds and 56 milliseconds, a testament to raw, unfiltered lust.
Rejoining the group, we emerged from opposite ends of the park, raising no suspicion. Everything seemed “hunky-dory.” Around 11:30 pm, we decided to call it a night. Parting ways with cheek kisses and exchanged phone numbers, the others left with a “let’s stay in touch” vibe. For us, it was just the beginning. The following night, she visited my “sin cave,” where my well-worn “planer bench” under mirrored walls witnessed another bout of unrestrained passion. This event will resurface later in the story, so keep it in mind.
I was thrilled about what lay ahead. The prospect of moving to England filled me with anticipation. I imagined it would propel my music career forward, provide fascinating experiences, and improve my English. Though I had two months to finalize my decision, my heart had already made up its mind when she left. I told no one, but deep down, I knew this new venture deserved a shot.
The two months leading up to my departure were nothing short of exhilarating. I spent most of my time with my best friend, Kopo—a phenomenal guitarist, a decent drummer, a wicked bassist, and someone with pitch-perfect hearing. Together with Uglich, we formed a tight trio, indulging in drunken escapades that danced on the edge of legality. On a handful of occasions, we crossed that line, but we thought we had nothing to lose and were always incredibly lucky. We were just three stupid guys with a penchant for chaos—and, fortunately, never got caught. We were just stupid while drunk and extremely lucky all the time!