Everything happened quick in CBGB’s subterranean toilets. The release of body waste was rivaled by magic-markering a band’s name atop the thousands of previous honorees in the toilet’s hall of fame and while the inhalation of cocaine or heroin in the stalls was more popular than shooting up dope or speedballs, sex within the battered stalls was a cherished memory for anyone who could remember the moment.

The ladies room was only a little cleaner than the men’s room, reflecting Hilly’s belief in sexual equality, for the club’s owner thought that his clientele deserved nothing worst than the very worst and that basement’s grungy atmosphere suit us just fine.

After all we were punks.

One night in 1977 I was at the bar. The Cramps were on stage.

A red-haired girl in torn fishnet stocking and black plastic mini-dress ordered a JD and coke. She wasn’t wearing a bra over her billowy 38C breasts. Her wind-tousled hair and tear-ruined mascara betrayed her wanton desires, which were easily answered in CBGBs.

She moved to the beat of HUMAN FLY with a seductive ease.

After a minute she asked, “What are you looking at?”

“Not what. Who.” I stared her in the eyes.

“And who are you?” Her trampish voice slurried with a slur of ‘ludes.

I told her, “No one.”

“I love no ones. They never stayed around to make trouble.”

“And other people do?”

“Not other people. Other men.” The redhead looked over her shoulder. “But not tonight.”

Our dialogue was heading in one direction and after two minutes she downed her drink.

“Let’s go to the Ladies Room.”

“Ladies room?”

“Yes, I hate the men’s room. It’s so squalid.”

“Okay.” I signaled to BG behind the bar to watch my beer.

“Good.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd.

Luxe sang SURFING BIRD. The voluptuous redhead waved to the ash-skinned bass player. He gave a sardonic grimace to indicate that he had been with her before.

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

“Brenda.”

The redhead was popular with musicians.

We descended to the basement and the redhead led me into the ladies room, locking the door behind us.

“I want a little privacy. Not for long, but long enough.” 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.

The upcoming scene answered the sex part of the equation. Brenda was no angel, but a guide to earthly paradise.

After a minute on her knees she pulled down her dress.

“When you’re ready, cum on these.”

“Your wish is my command.”

I was good at following orders.

A man pounded on the stall’s door.

“Brenda, you in there?”

Only a boyfriend sounded that angry.

Brenda lifted a fingernail to her lips and stood to pull up her dress.

“Another time.”

Heaven was not to be mine this evening.

“When?”

“Not tonight.”

She kissed me and opened the door.

The man was my size and wore a leather jacket and engineer boots. His eyes narrowed with jealous fury.

“Brenda.”

She laughed in his face.

“Calm down, Guadalcanal.”

“But___”

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

He wasn’t buying her lie and turned to me.

“Brenda’s my girlfriend.”

Something about sex in a bathroom brought out my cockiness and I said, “Then that means you’re next.”

I thought that the remark was funny and returned to the bar. The Cramps had finished their set. The bass player winked at me. BeeGee the bartender asked if I had a good time.

“Good enough.” Another two minutes and I would have shared everyone’s happy ending. have changed my answer.

A hand tapped my right shoulder.

The gesture was a classic lead-in to a sucker punch. Scrappers from South Boston loved to Jap the unaware, but I had learned my lesson from Old Colony project boys as a teenager.

I ducked and a fist swung over my head.

It was the boyfriend.

I was too close for a counter-punch and my hands reached out to clutch his throat. He responded with the same tactic. Within seconds we were choking each other. ‘Guadacanal’ was losing consciousness. couldn’t breathe. He was in the same boat.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Brenda exiting with the drummer of the opening band. Her boyfriend noticed her exit as well.

“Brenda,” he croaked in my death grip.

“Beer,” I warbled to call for a truce and release his throat.

“You had enough?” He leaned on the bar regaining his breath.

“Sure.” I signaled BeeGee for two beers. Our fighting was a thing of the past, so we drank till closing, after which the waitress play JOLEEN on the jukebox. It was a good song with which to end the night.

After that night Guadalcanal and I became friends. We never mentioned Brenda. She became a cabaret singer with too much style to visit the bathroom with men, but at one time she wasn’t bad enough.

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

Like I said.

We were punks.

ps I’m still friends with Guadacanal

And Brenda was everyone’s dream even as a blonde.