The Seven Deadly Sins (8 page)

That is really the issue, right? Men and women have very different triggers when it comes to lust. Most men are basically dowel rods in search of the next piece of wood for insertion. Women are multidimensional sexual beings; they are susceptible to attraction on so many dynamics that you never know what is going to float their boat—hopefully allowing you to put the motor to said boat. Where men only need a few seconds and a cocktail (again, no pun intended) to be ready for hot jungle sex, women usually need time, talk, and a good whiff of the intellectual pheromones. I know some women are just as chauvinistic as us dudes are, but I am merely making a point. Men and women handle lust in very different ways.

So here is my question: What the hell does “God” have against fucking?

We have just established that people do the sexy time in so many ways. If the clergy have the Holy Handbook, complete with merit badges, I would like to personally peruse the chapters and get a grip on the codex therein. Is it like a pie chart? Is there a graph with graduated states of arousal? Do the sins themselves graduate to misdemeanors or felonies? Are there subsections on certain sins in which the penance is more lenient, say for penalties regarding sex in public as opposed to sex with Myrtle the Cow? My final question is easy: If there is a secret manual, when do we ever get to see it? They leave us to our own devices to distinguish between sexual right and wrong with nothing more
than recrimination. How does it feel to be left hanging with guesswork and assumption when it comes down to your immortal soul?

This is why I am calling Holy Horseshit. There is no book. There is no script. There is no Godly Guideline. There is nothing more than the personal opinion of those who are quite convinced that they are closer to God and, therefore, more important and smarter than we are. What an impossibly fucked up attitude. They stand on high and think they are infinitely better than we are. Well, the last time I checked none of my friends or family were guilty of child molestation. In fact, in my opinion, children are more in danger of being abused in a church than anywhere else. The Church cannot handle their own lustful ways, so how dare they question ours?

Again, do not get me wrong. I am talking about regular old-fashioned lust here. I am not making an argument for people who try to disguise or defend sex and abuse against children, rape, or anything else that is not between consenting adults. As far as I am concerned, there is no difference whatsoever between a repeat rapist and a NAMBLA member. That is not lust. It is a sickness. These people are nothing more than monsters among us, looking for another victim to terrorize in an effort to alleviate their own pain. They can talk all they want and hopefully choke on every word. My fight is with those who would take away pleasure that the majority of us love to experience.

And now, back to the faithful.

In terms of lust, of all the sins on the soul radar, it is the most physical of all of them. Sure one can say that wrath makes people want to take bricks to heads, but it is way more emotional in theory. Lust can be felt, but it is the episode one chooses to get involved in that really seals the deal. Religious
folk will claim that even unfulfilled lust is a sin, but that is a copout designed to control how you think and feel. To me lust becomes “sin” in copulation. I may not be an expert, but I have definitely had sex. In healthy circumstances, sex is not a crime. So why is lust a sin?

I was living in Denver, enjoying the fruits of bachelorhood, when I found myself in what Papa would have called “a delicate situation.” You see there were two women I was involved with. For anonymity's sake, and to make sure I do not get sued and lose the ten bucks I make on this book, we will call them Kate and Penny. They were both very different, very strong-willed women who I enjoyed many sweaty nights with. But I do not want to spoil the ending. Let me give you some background.

I was one of several people living in a two-bedroom flat in Lakewood, Colorado, just outside of Denver off of Sixth Avenue. I was doing time at a video distribution company, loading reels or “pancakes” of blank film onto machines. The machines would then be programmed to fill empty videocassettes with the appropriate amount of blank tape so they could be mass-duplicated for distribution. That tells you how long ago this was—the heathens were still using VHS tapes. As you can imagine, with a job this innocuous, is it any wonder I tried to find any excuse or opportunity to let loose like a coyote on meth?

I spent a lot of nights out on the town, drinking my dirty little cares away and doing things that would make the Marquis de Sade look like Barney the Dinosaur. Word to the wise: Sex in a snowdrift is not at all worth it.

Anyway, I ran with a fun-loving bunch of lunatics, and these two girls were part of that group, fringe players in our little
cabaret of chaos. Kate was from the South, a blond-haired, blueeyed curvy vixen with a day job and night school who could turn any little phrase into something salacious with the slightest flick of her accent-tinged tongue. She was dirty, too; we had sex on more floors than we did in beds. I do not know how women deal with carpet burn sometimes. I am a wuss when it comes to chafing.

Penny, however, was a redhead through and through and the hottest nut job I have ever had the pleasure of bedding. Her eyes would light up before her anger got the best of her, so you knew instantly if you had pissed her off. Her body was delicious and her voice was a razorblade—it could cut across a crowded room at a party full of auctioneers. Sex at her place was a bit weird seeing as she slept on an air mattress next to an open window. Honestly, now that I think about it, I am fairly certain I only had sex in a bed like four times during my tenure in Denver. It was almost exclusively on the ground, floor, or the aforementioned snowdrift. Oh, and a handful of trysts in cars. . .goddamn those bucket seats.

I believe I was very upfront with both women regarding my intentions. As a bachelor (read: ass), I made it very clear I was not looking for a relationship. I was very much into being my own man, whatever the hell that means. To me, it meant “I really want to sleep with you but I will not be tied down.” Now some men will lie about what they want. Others will be forthright in their sexual needs. I was the latter: I wanted fun and nothing more. Unfortunately, most women hear the truth and shoot it through the marriage prism. “Well, by saying he wants no relationship, what he means is he does not want one right now.” Women, you have to stop doing that. If a man wants a relationship, he will more than likely tell you. If he does not, never sprinkle pixie dust
on his yearning and try to build a house out of clay. Take it for what it is; it might change, but you are guaranteed to fail if you push a man too far.

This is exactly what Kate and Penny both did. Pressure was coming from both sides, drinking and laughing was being interrupted and serious dents were appearing on the high-performance vehicle that was my sex life. I was starting to feel a lot like some kind of gigolo ping-pong ball. And the sex was just
amazing.
They were fucking me like they were trying to qualify for the Olympics. I hate to say I was loving it, but holy hamster shit, I was
totally
loving it. The gloves were off and we were all running for the finish line: win, place, or quit—it was about to get weird.

At a birthday party, it finally did.

My friend, codename Mr. Nipples, was throwing a party for his former girlfriend's birthday at their apartment. Booze was flowing and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. I was having a banner night, running from room to room joking about this or that. But slowly and surely, darkness spread across the festivities. I could not put my finger on it, but a presence was lurking just off the scopes, a force that threatened to destroy the merriment with zero remorse and zero mercy. At this point in the movie, it would behoove the director to do a push-focus, run the hallway of the apartment POV style, and present the viewer with the shocking vision of Kate and Penny comparing notes on their exploits with yours truly.

To me, it was not that big a deal. Neither one was my girlfriend. But as it turned out, they both considered themselves “exclusive,” the shadow cabinet to my prime minister. So right at the peak of my sweet buzz, the two of them marched into the bedroom I was holding court in and confronted me with their
grievances. I am fairly certain I did not make matters any better by applying reason and a nonplussed attitude to this fiery affair with the simple retort: “. . .and?” This set off a series of spectacular female assaults aimed at my person and my person's person that eventually led to me, stumbling drunkenly to my feet and muttering, “Well, I need a break. I am taking a walk.” At least I hope that is what I said; at the time I could not really feel my mouth.

I wandered out into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a single 7x10 wall. Just around that wall was the front door to the establishment, which opened simultaneously to the kitchen and the front room. As I was heading toward sweet freedom, the birthday girl asked me in her own tipsy slur where I was going. Because I assumed it would not be a problem, I said for a walk to clear my head. For some reason she took this as the worst idea that had ever hit her eardrums and into her inebriated mind. So being a big girl and easily outweighing me by twenty pounds, she grabbed my arm to stop my hasty retreat. Not realizing her own strength and having no control at all because she was bombed, she half-pulled and half-threw me back into the kitchen. I was flung around like a rag doll, and because my own equilibrium was shot, I slipped, fell, and landed hard against the lower cupboards by the kitchen sink. My right elbow came down painfully on the '70s plastic or metal handle on one of the cupboards, and it pierced the skin, drawing blood, bone, and whatever the hell else makes up an arm.

With blood pouring down my forearm, the birthday girl tried desperately to rinse the wound, then, just as desperately, to convince me just to stick a Band-Aid on it. Luckily the commotion had raised the curiosity of the other partygoers, and I was hastily pushed out the door and into a waiting backseat to be whisked
away to the nearest hospital. Because I was drunk, I could barely feel the pain even with my elbow bone sticking out. And unfortunately, because I was drunk, I passed out in the back seat of the car. I must have been on the verge of lighting a cigarette because when I came to, I had a broken Marlboro Red in my mouth.

I regained consciousness in the emergency room—face down, the broken smoke dangling from dry lips, and the sounds of Kate and Penny arguing over the top of my still body over who would get to keep me. However, the tables had turned: Now they were trying to foist me off on the other. “He is your mess—you can have him!” “I do not want anything to do with him, you can have him!” So as I lay there for another hour waiting for a doctor to come in, then another hour while the doctor sewed up my arm, the vocal equivalent of Federer and Nadal volleyed over my back the entire time I was in the hospital and continued the whole ride home, even as I searched all the twenty-four-hour grocery stores for a sling to put my arm in. I had twenty-one stitches in all. Because I could not use my arm, I lost my job. Because I lost my job, I ended up leaving Denver. Because I left Denver, I ended up putting Stone Sour back together, which led to my audition with Slipknot and other fine things. So fans around the world take note: If not for my lust and truthfulness, I would not have come to be the singer in Slipknot nor would I have been able to put Stone Sour back together, hence there would be no “Snuff” or “Through Glass.”

And it was all because of my lust and a circular wound on my elbow. J. J. Abrams could have never come up with a storyline like this. The flames of lust do incredible things. They burn to the bone and heal into different skin configurations. They drive us out of our comfort zones and into the arms of destiny. They
desolate our landscapes and show us the complexities of relationships. They also convince us to make out with our guitar player on New Year's Eve when we are so trashed we did not know who was in front of us. I tell you one thing: He has a giant tongue. It made me puke. True story.

So I guess most of my adult life has been a road map on the in and out highway. If I am guilty of a deadly sin—and you know me, I am not saying I am or am not—my sin would be lust. But does it stand to reason that if lust were a true sin then it should have never been made to feel so damn good? Why is sex our fleshlike version of chocolate? Why do we get caught in the nets when they feel like heaven and taste even better? In other words, what the fuck, man?

I still maintain that it comes down to how comfortable people are with their own sexuality. The status quo has gone to great lengths to make sure the taboo is in the tablet. I mean, up until the 1960s homosexuality was regarded as a fucking mental illness. Is that a big enough control issue for you? “Those in favor” chose to make people who were confused enough as it was feel like they were fucking crazy. Can you imagine having to go through shock therapy all because you wanted to sleep with whomever you were attracted to? It is so hard for the gay and lesbian community to trust us; we had to go and try and fuck with their minds, so I do not blame them in the slightest.