At a concert in Dallas, a blond and a brunette in spandex and tube tops stumbled backstage before the show and said they wanted to do the whole band. It was either Vince or I who came up with the great idea of telling them that they’d have to work for it. We grabbed a champagne bottle off the hospitality table and told the brunette that if she wanted to fuck us, she’d have to take the bottle and sit on it in the middle of the room. “If you’re not still sitting on that bottle when we come back, then you can’t fuck the band,” Vince said as we went onstage to play. After the show, she was still there, squatting in the middle of the room. We brought the two girls to the hotel. The blond was sitting with her legs spread open on the bed, and that gave us ideas. Tommy came with a tube of toothpaste, so we stuffed it up her cap-first. “What else do we have?” Tommy asked.

“How about the fucking phone?” someone suggested. We took the receiver off the hook and worked it inside until just the mouthpiece was hanging out. The brunette started laughing. Suddenly, Vince, in a flash of inspiration, turned to her. “What do you think you’re laughing at? Does your mother know where you are?” Vince asked. “No,” the girl said. “Don’t you think she’s worried about you?” “Maybe. I don’t know.” “Perhaps you should call her. What’s her phone number?”

She gave it to Vince, and he dialed it. The brunette bent over her friend’s crotch. “Hi, Mom. I just called to say I’d be home soon. I’m at Sherry’s right now. Okay? Thanks.” We didn’t just lose respect for the girls that night, we lost respect for ourselves.