The CBGB’s bathroom had many purposes. The main use was the traditional release of body waste. Another was spray-painting or magic-markering a band’s name atop the thousands of previous honorees of the toilet hall of fame. The inhalation of cocaine or heroin was more popular in the stalls than shooting up dope or speedballs. The smell of the urinal kept conversations short and sweet. There was no mirror in the men’s room, so self-grooming was reserved for the women’s room. Its state of filth revealed Hilly’s opinion of sexual equality. We deserved nothing better than the worst and that grungy atmosphere suited some people’s desire just fine.

After all we were punks.

One night I was at the bar. A red-haired girl in torn fishnet stocking and black plastic mini-dress asked for a drink. A JD and coke. Her hair was tousled by the wind and her mascara ruined by tears. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were a 32-A. A languid gaze betrayed her dabbling with ‘ludes. Our dialogue headed in one direction and after two minutes she downed her drink.

“Let’s go to the bathroom.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd. I signaled to BG behind the bar to watch my beer. The Cramps were on stage. Luxe was singing SURFING BIRD. The brunette waved to the bass player. He gave a sardonic grimace and nodded to indicate he had been there before. I was no rock star

As we passed the dressing room, e opening band called out her name.

“Brenda.”

The redheads was popular. We descend to the basement and the redheads led me into the ladies room. She pushed open the door to a stall and locked it shut.

“Keep your back to it and don’t let anyone in.” She dropped to her knees with the grace of a ballerina auditioning for SWAN LAKE.

I was single, 25, and a punk. We lived for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. This scene most certainly fit into the sex part of the equation. A minute passed with her writhing on the tiles. She pulled down her the top of her dress.

“When you’re ready, cum on these.”

I was good at following orders.

A man stormed into the bathroom and pounded on the stall’s door.

“Brenda, you in there?” He was angry.

Brenda lifted a fingernail to her lips and stood pulling up her dress. She kissed me and opened the door. The man was a punk. Leather jacket and engineer boots. His eyes narrowed with fury.

“Brenda.”

“Brenda laughed in his face.

“We were only doing drugs.” She held up a packet of cocaine. <

“Brenda’s my girlfriend.” He wasn’t buying her lie.

“Then that means you’re next.”

Something about sex in a bathroom brought out my cockiness and I returned to the bar. The Cramps had finished their set. The bass player winked at me. My beer was still on the bar. BG asked if I had a good time.

“Good enough.”

Someone tapped my shoulder.

This was a classic lead-in to a sucker punch.

I figured it to be the boyfriend.

I ducked and felt a fist go over my head. It was the boyfriend. I was too close to punch him, so my hands clutched his throat. He return the gesture. We were choking each other to death. I couldn’t breathe. He was in the same boat.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Brenda taking the drummer of the opening band outside. Her boyfriend saw her exit thing. Unable to speak our eyes called a truce.

“You had enough?” He gasped for breath.

“Sure, you want a beer?”

“Why not?”

Guadalcanal and I became friends after that evening. We never mentioned Brenda. She became a cabaret singer. Too much style to go to the bathroom with men anymore. Brenda was too good for us, but at one time she wasn’t bad enough.

Guadacanal and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Like I said.

We were punks.