PUMP UP D’ANGELO – originally published October 1995

PUMP UP D’ANGELO – originally published October 1995 in Rip It Up magazine

“It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you - without a strong rhyme to step to”

Ah yes, the immortal words of Rakim… what can I say other than: “It’s good to be back!”  It’s been 18 months to the day since my last column, although the good folk at Rip It Up have been kind enough to tide me over with Mo’ Better Beats.  We can’t really go into the reason’s for my absence, suffice to say there was a court case, I lost, and part of the damages awarded against me was that I cease writing for 18 months.  Enough about me, let’s talk about you.

Hmmmm, that was pretty boring - let’s get back to me. What have I been up to since we last spoke?  Same as always - I’ve been trying to get laid.  Earlier this year I organized a dance party called Cheap Sex.  Subtle I know, but we wanted to be certain people didn’t get confused as to the theme of the party.  Actually I wanted to call it Cheap Sex - Nubile Young Women Only, but the Squid management wouldn’t let me.  So lots of nubile young men turned up as well, thereby preventing me from sidling up to young women and testing the theories espoused in the book I got last Christmas: ‘How To Score with Chicks - Guaranteed Results’.

It’s an interesting tome, but sadly lacking on the pictorial front.  A bit like Michelle Pfeiffer’s latest movie ‘Dangerous Minds’.  She spends most of the movie in jeans and an old shirt - what were the producers thinking?  Where is the shower sequence?  Are they trying to tell us that teachers don’t bathe?  Why doesn’t she seduce one of her hunky young students?  Are they saying that female teachers are just dried up old spinsters who aren’t in touch with their own sexuality?  Better yet, why doesn’t she seduce one of her spunky young female students?  This film is an affront to lesbian schoolteachers everywhere.

Hey! - it’s okay for me speak out on behalf of lesbians because I love pussy as much as they do.  Yes, I know you’ve heard otherwise but the rumors published in the gay newspaper Express are simply untrue.  Okay, so I did come out from the Back Room in the Tool Shed a bit wobbly but it was all a mistake.  Father’s Day was approaching so I went in there to buy him a present.  I thought it was garden shop, but when I asked for a spade they offered me a ‘Harlem Hunks’ video.  Christ, you should’ve seen the guys on the cover: one was hung like a horse, and the other guy had three feet! If you know what I mean.  Then I realized he wasn’t a real man at all [thank god - I was starting to feel inadequate] he was just one of those inflatable dolls.  I could tell because the other guy on the cover was blowing him up.

Being the 100% heterosexual guy I am I realized I was in totally the wrong place and bolted out the door.  Unfortunately it was the wrong door and I found myself in a very dark room.  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark I realized there were other men in the room - which had more than a few nooks and crannies.  I stumbled about for a bit and as I groped my way back to the exit I grabbed someone by mistake.  He groped me back in a manner which indicated that his eyes were already well accustomed to the dark.

Well, maybe he wasn’t because he dropped to his knees pretty damn quickly, presumably looking for his lost contact lenses.  Well, maybe not.  I think he was blind; his hands were all over me.  Once I relaxed it got quite interesting.  He certainly knew what he was doing and did a better job than those cheap hookers who try to get you out of the room two minutes after you stepped in.  I mean, what’s up with that?  If I pay for the Sultans Feast I want the whole thirty minute extravaganza, not a quick rubdown and a box of Kleenex.  And they always sneer at you as you leave: “were you a premature baby, too?”  You have to wonder if they really like their jobs at all.

Anyway, I realized I was spinning out a bit and needed to get back on track.  I figured I needed sex: a] with a woman, and b] with one who wasn’t charging for it.  My only problem was finding some luscious babes who were hot and horney and ready for anyone.  That shouldn’t be hard, and after that I’ll get a winning lotto ticket.

As fate would have it I stumbled across the perfect opportunity.  Manpower were in town and god knows I’m always horney after a strip show, so I figured that women must be the same.  I puffed up my chest and loitered spunkily as a thousand excited women came flooding out after the first show, their cheeks flushed with excitement, their eyes glazed and ravenous for love.  “Geeday luv, fancee a beet of the ol’ Kookaborra?” I enquired in my best Seedney accent, but they all had buses to catch and I was left alone on the pavement.  Obviously they weren’t that hungry after all.

There was second show that night, and I figured I’d have a better chance of passing my self off as one of the Thunder From Downunder if I was actually inside the venue.  Getting past the bouncers is never hard.  Just don’t look at them and give them lots of attitude.  “Geedday mate, I’m Gazza, frenda Bluey’s - I’m on tha Guest Leeest” was all it took, and I was in.  I bolted upstairs and positioned myself close to the balcony so the women could see me.  It didn’t take long; they were all over me like I was Marcus Lush. 

“What they hell are you doing here, this is a woman-only show” they purred huskily.  
“It’s okay, I’m weeth the band” I purred back. 

“It’s not a band, it’s a male strip show mate!” 

Sensing the natives were hostile I hid in the toilets until the show started.

Once the show started it was easy to see why the women loved them so.  Seven guys on stage in very little, each with a body that would shame Adonis.  These guys had tans, they were cute, and they could dance to a syncopated beat - everything their men back home were sadly lacking in.  I felt sorry for any man waiting back home thinking they were going to reap the fruits of their wives horney desires…  After two hours with Manpower most women would be returning home mightily pissed of with that tub-of-lard boyfriend of theirs.  Realizing I wasn’t going to get laid that night either, I snuck out early. 

It hadn’t been a total disaster - I was now all fired up to join a gym.  My body would soon be a temple, I too would have buns of steel, and my sexual drought would be over.  That was until I found out the price of Gym memberships.  Cor blimey mate, is this for the gymnasium or the mayor’s re-election fund*?  It took me about two minutes to realize that paying for sex was a damn sight cheaper than making an effort.  Still, I’ll give it (the pursuit of free love) one last go because i] the 95bFM Private Function is on this Thursday night, and ii] I do a show on bFM. 

If that doesn’t get me laid…

~ Nick D’Angelo

(*a reference to Les Mills, who in 1995 was Mayor of Auckland and also owned the city’s biggest Gym)