(The following is excerpted from my memoir-in-process, Have a Nice Day, Man…tales from the dark side of the 70s.)
Goldfinger, that was his name, the leader of the infamous STP Family, running the Boulder-Berkeley drug circuit before it was even called that, back in the early 70s. They brought in bad drugs: mostly speed, some shitty acid and occasionally, oh my, some unbelievable chocolate mescaline—I mean the real deal, because it went well with huffing paint. That’s how Goldfinger got his moniker. He carried around a banged up guitar case that was empty, except for a can of gold spray paint and some golden rags. Huff that paint and it’s instant rags to riches.
Goldfinger was ugly, most of his teef was fallin’ out, and you could count every rib (twice) on his emaciated body. His hair was a matted golden blonde, with the stench of paint woven into the never-washed and never-combed rat’s nest that curled in clumps around his scabby shoulders. But the guy was crazy tough. He’d fight anyone to the death just for looking at him the wrong way, or saying something out of turn to his woman—the beautiful as he was demonic, Jana-Lee.
A curvy, sinewy golden, buttery smooth and soft bundle of hippie joy and love, that was the queen of the STP family, Jana-Lee. As kind as he was cruel, as sane as he was deranged, she never did more than a little weed. I never even saw her drink. No, her vice was cock, and lots of it.
Just keep ‘em coming boys.
And if Goldfinger didn’t find out, you might live to tell your friends you fucked Jana-Lee. Because, more than likely, she wouldn’t fuck you again. Why fuck any guy twice when there were a thousand more dicks out there to try.
It was a cold Colorado December, and I was staying in the ladies room up in the old Hotel on Pearl Street, on account there weren’t any ladies, except Crazy Mary from Texas (another story, partner) staying up there, so the ladies shared restroom, which was nice and toasty, was good for me. But it did mean sleeping on the hard floor. And I was a bony little thing, 125 pounds on a good day, soaking wet, so it bruised my hips just to sleep on that scarred linoleum.
Even with the temperatures knocked down well below zero, on many nights I would choose to sleep in my option B—a VW microbus with a down sleeping bag, rated thirty below (just enough) and a really nice bed, full size, so it was perfect for two.
I went to a party this particular night I’m telling you about. Christ, I went to a party every night. Hell, it was a non-stop party in Boulder, 1972. And I was the party. I was the guy who would show up with a garbage bag. Plop it down in the middle of the living room floor and walk away, leaving over a pound of loose mexigrass for everyone to smoke at will. I was getting ready to go into my import business, bringing in pounds of pressed-brick ganga from Jamaica. But that’s another story, too.
It was a lame party, but there was someone very special at this gathering, Jana-Lee, who was hanging around with some dude other than Goldfinger. He never went to parties. He just huffed paint, played his imaginary guitar, sold bad drugs and killed people with his bare hands, while he was higher than a reindeer on magic mushrooms.
The STP Family name came from some god-awful concoction that Goldfinger had come up with and sold on the streets of Berkeley, just for kicks, to unsuspecting college kids . . . who never quite saw drugs the same way again . . . when they, or if they came down few days later. People wanted to know what that shit was so they could try it, or never come within twenty feet of it. Goldfinger called it STP, on account of the way it cleaned your mind out and got it working right.
So Jana Lee and her man in waiting—because there was always some guy waiting on her when Goldfinger wasn’t around, and Goldfinger was never around because he was too high to do anything—wanted to leave the lame party. And I suggested they come with me to my bus, where we could smoke a joint of my stash and . . .
Well, it was way below zero. Stars so crisp they were ice cutting holes in your blackest eyes. We smoked my shit. Shivered. Then, of course, Jana Lee says, “I know a way we could all warm up.”
I’m not gay, but hell, it was the 70s where orgies and three-ways were as common as hair on a hippie.
With a moon like a slice of cold, hard Philadelphia cheesecake beaming through the back window, she removed her flowing green dress and layers of hippie upon hippie clothing and socks and tights and every other thing. Finally, she was naked in the god damned moonlight knifing into the bus. Tits like heaven, so firm they hurt my eyes as they stood up like soldiers waiting for orders. Fuck. The dude was already on her in the back on the bed, while I was watching voyeuristically from the front seat. Oh yeah. Just how I liked it.
He never got out of his clothes all together. He had just started in on top of her when he suddenly stopped moving. Yeah, he lost it. Premature, on account of her beauty, the moonlight, the drugs, the cold . . . threat of Goldfinger slicing off his balls with a dirty knife and feeding them to him.
I took my time getting back there, removing all my clothes except my tee shirt, on account of the deep freeze cold, starting to warm up, but still walk-in refrigerator temperature. I took her flesh with me gently under the blind moonlight, and the thick, but wispy-light down comforter. With our combined body heat, things warmed up quick as a cat under the comforter.
She was a smooth excited puppy rubbing up against me everywhere. Finger banged her first. She whimpered like the foothills whispering moonlit snow behind us. Fortunately, dude hadn’t left much. Hell, it was the 70s man. I never gave any thought to STDs, or the danger inherent in bedding Jana-Lee, the mother queen of the STP family. She was 25 going on 40. I was just a babe, not that anyone concerned themselves with those concepts of over and under this age or that back then.
We started to fuck because we could, and we wanted to, taking our time, moving slow as molasses on top of her absolute beauty—pure, raw, hippie mama, green-eyed goddess, with little hairs, soft as down feathers, on her legs and under her silky arms.
She opened up and took me in like the earth itself, stealing me into her like the hundreds before who thought they would stand out, impress, or make some mark . . . on forever. Not a chance, buddy boy. I expired looking across her shoulder at the moon setting over the foothills. She stroked my hair, patted my smooth shoulder like any primordial earth mother goddess would do. I was christened, the boy from Pittsburgh, way out west style, by the Queen mother of the STP family.
The other dude opened the sliding side door, seeing we were oblivious to his meaningless presence, and spilled out into the sub-zero, windless night, still as death, nearing the solstice.
We slept until the sun heated up the van to the point we were sweating and melting into each other like butter, at about 11 AM. Without a word, we got dressed. She went her way. I went mine, trucking down to Mother’s Café to eat leftovers off other people’s plates, before they got all the way cleared, in the bite-sized diner, from the counter to the dishwasher. I was like a human garbage disposal in between.
I went back to the floor of the ladies room, nice and warm, in the old hotel above the cowboy bar on Pearl Street. Soon, I’d be getting on a Greyhound Bus, in the middle of a blizzard, and heading back to Pittsburgh, to get the cash, before heading south to Kingston, to gather up the Ganga. So many crazy bad things happened on that journey that I like to think it was her, the Queen Hippie Earth Mother Goddess herself, who protected me, and eventually brought me safe and unharmed back to Boulder . . . Where I was born one cold night, in the back of a VW micro bus, on the back end of a three-way, birthed by the mythical Jana-Lee, Queen Mother of the STP Family