I was a teen slut

Last night I couldn't sleep so I decided that I should add a page of all my writing to this blog. I decided to start with my New York Press columns from about five years ago. I started gathering URLs, and then I started reading them. Much to my annoyance/dismay, many of the older columns are missing big chunks of text. The page will just begin halfway down the column. I guess this happened when the Press overhauled their website.

Obviously a fired columnist's ancient files aren't going to be anybody's priority, but I'm kind of sad because some of them were actually kind of good and I'm very unorganized. Anyway, one of the mangled columns had a funny story about me and this deranged NJ punk rock dude named Bobby Ebz:

My all-time best hickey moment came after a weekend-long tryst with the now-deceased Bobby Ebz (singer for a charming NJ hardcore band called Genocide–heard of them? Thought not). I was home from college and picked him up at a CBGBs matinee. I had a foot-high mohawk and a strategically ripped t-shirt. He had a spiked leather jacket and bore an uncanny resemblance to Stiv Bators (to my warped mind, a very good thing). Anyway, I phoned home and lied that I’d be with a girlfriend the rest of the weekend. Bobby and I spent the rest of the weekend cavorting on his half-full waterbed and on top of the KISS pinball machine he kept in the basement. A day or two later, Bobby drove me home. Much to my surprise he seemed anxious to meet my mom. Against my better judgment, I let him. Bad move. My mother just stared at me, barely able to contain her fury. For one of the first (and last) times ever, she was actually speechless with rage. Me, I had to pee. I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Uh oh. My strategically ripped t-shirt revealed a chest full of the blackest, bluest and purplest hickeys I’ve ever seen. Big bitemarks covered my shoulders and chest, wending their way up my neck, practically to my ears. I hadn’t noticed them before. I skulked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where my mother shoved a giant platter of bologna sandwiches at me. "Give these to your friend–he looks hungry," she hissed. Oops.

Years after the fact—more like a decade, actually—a friend of mine called out of the blue to ask if I knew someone named Bobby Ebz. Now this particular friend had absolutely no connection to my past life—she was a Harvard-educated lawyer who, as far as I knew, had never even set foot in New Jersey. I was shocked and caught off guard and so I yelped, "how did you know I had sex with Bobby Ebz?!"

My friend dropped the phone. "Chris!!!" I could hear her scream to her husband. "She had SEX with Bobby Ebz!" I quickly realized the only reason she knew I'd had sex with him was because I'd just told her. She was calling because a crack dealer had just moved into their building and he was from Jersey so she thought we might know each other. And she was right!

That's Bobby and Genocide performing their hit, "Stillborn."

Comments

[Lauren]

Maybe try the Internet Archive's Wayback Machine for archived webpages without the broken text?

http://www.archive.org/index.php

[rh]

He looks cute, but a bit too full of himself.

[WFH]

Wow! too funny. I was Bobby's roommate and probably drove you home as he didn't drive (unless he took my car). Good text and really funny.

[e.g.]

Someone should do a collection of Bobby Ebz stories. Girls he spent the weekend with. I bet there are a lot of us.

[jb]

I am....writing a book about Bobby I mean.

[Cynthia Ellerington (aka Cinful)]

You guys had sex with EBZ hahaha!

[james taylor]

I used to party hard with Bobby in the mid 90's. Miss that guy! R.I.P Bobby!