Spiller — Groovejet (2000)

A first-person narrative tale of what happens when the beats make the panties drop

Antoine St. Moritz wasn’t always this bulbously, near obese, ghastly pale, and flamboyantly gay Briton who did things like wearing cheap, poker-dealer style, pink plastic visors that did absolutely nothing to shield his clean-shaven, dull, and grayish white head and body from the steaming hot Ibiza sunrise. His heavily starched hot pink guayabera shirts were comically stiff because of how uncomfortable they looked covering a belly that was shaped like a cathedral bell clapper and shifted as such. As he wiggled from left to right while dancing and taking a phone call from a tour bus operator, his stomach arced out some four inches away from spindly arms, legs, and size 38, white sweatshirt fabric and rounded hem jogging shorts, without underwear, that sat near a size 44 waist. His white, leather-on-wood, women’s size 13 wide, Dr. Scholl’s white snakeskin slides clanked against cobblestone streets when he walked, but especially when he danced. His signature dance move? Twirling to Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love” at 10 AM in the morning, which was the peak of my six-hour DJ set at Two-Five-Eight (you know, 25 hours a day, eight days a week), which was Antoine’s “ex-pat footy bar with a disco addiction” that appeared, as compared to the legendary Cafe Del Mar around the corner, like every dive bar I either vomited at or fucked in while I lived on the Lower East Side of New York City in my first year of modeling.

Antoine St. Moritz wasn’t his real name. The bar’s owner was born Tony Taylor in Newcastle, England on October 31, 1956. His claim to fame before moving to Ibiza in 2000 was being one of the infamous “Sex” kids, who hung around Malcolm McLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s London-based punk rock, sex, and fetish clothing shop of the same name in the mid-1970s. Tony came to London as an 18-year old wannabe mod who had a thing for being roughly finger-banged, afterschool, in his asshole, in the woods behind the Catholic high school he attended, by Mr. Percy, his trigonometry teacher.

Tony was outed as gay by Mrs. Tercel, the principal of his school. On the last day of school of 1974, Mr. Percy, in a fit of hubris, decided to follow Tony into the bathroom during the final period of the school day. Tony’s physical education class took place in the gym, which was right next door to his math classroom, where he was sitting down and filling out his year-end personal review form. Mr. Percy saw Tony hurry past his door and got a wild hair up his ass to stand, shuffle over, and see him enter the boys bathroom.

Mr. Percy was roughly five feet five inches tall, and had a graying cowlick hairdo. His face would be best described as looking like, as Tony told me once, “what if Mike Brady from the Brady Bunch had a stroke.” Fond of wearing Nehru jacket-style shirts, rumpled polyester slacks, and Beatle boots, one could tell that he knew what cool looked like. But there was no way in hell that in reality, this man was cool in any conceivable way.

What really made Mr. Percy well, attractive, were his hands and thumbs. Tony told me, that as of 2018, as far as he knew, Mr. Percy was still the try leader in British collegiate rugby.

“He’s got those long, thick, and wide thumbs that are shaped like a big fat dick, so when the boys would grab after the ball, they couldn’t get it out of those paws. Oh gawd. He’d just jam it up in there, and rub on me button. Then he’d grab me dick, and jerk it into my hands and make me eat it. Mrs. Tercel was a sick fucking broad! She watched the whole thing go down in that bathroom. And then, while he was licking my hands clean of the last little bit of my cum, she cleared her throat and fired him ON. THE. SPOT. I was, what do they say, ‘slut shamed,’ and went to London, honey!”

Tony told me all about Sex as a store, and all of the famous punk boys — who fucked each other, he said, and who was I to disbelieve — and then all of the used-to-be mod hookers that he’d meet. He told me how they’d all get dolled up in clothes from the store, and go up the highways to the Northern Soul clubs in Liverpool, Wigan, Blackpool, and Manchester. They’d give head to boys and girls on speed in the back of the drugstores they would see them rob for uppers. If the overexcited quasi-john had scored any pound notes as well, they’d get to “mouth-shagging.”

By the early 90s, that scene had moved into Manchester’s Hacienda, the club New Order had started. The “Summer of Love” was in 1989 Tony said, and that’s when he tried ecstasy for the first time. He was turning 33 and was starting to feel awful about the life choices that found him selling cocaine and blowjobs in nightclubs seven nights a week. One pill later and he emerged, hot pink from head to toe, as Antoine St. Moritz. St. Moritz because if Switzerland was neutral, then he was, too. Fast forward to 2000 and Manchester had gotten boring for him. His LSD-taking and yoga-loving hippie friends had told him about this place in the Balearic Isles where people partied all day or all night and it sounded perfect. A friend of a friend of a friend was a defenseman for Manchester City and was investing in a bar there. Said bar needed a manager. Antoine St. Moritz never looked back.

I was booked there for a week at the start of every fall, as part of what Two Five Eight referred to as their “Summer Spectacular” during the second week of July. Tony laid out the guidelines for the nights rather simply.

“So the gays are going to grab your ass, the kinky girls are going to want to fuck you, and the straights, well, gahhh, I swear, we haven’t had a straight man or woman in here in ten whole years! As far as music, play a bunch of your mother’s disco records and like, that 90s shit. No rap. Keep all of that big dick energy out of here. Unless it’s for ME! Basically, I’m gonna put your ass on a flier and say, ‘GAZE UPON THIS! A GODDESS! Love yew.”

I didn’t know it was possible for a man to flitter away, but Tony definitely skippity-dip pitter-patted his clog-sandaled his way across the smooth, gray, cobblestoned 1600 square foot dance floor highlighted by a kaleidoscope of disco lights. In the background, though, the ever so slight hum of the motorized engine that controlled the flickering bulbs noted that everything at Two-Five-Eight wasn’t always as docile as it seemed

When I landed at Aeropuerto de Ibiza, I was fresh from what I’d describe as not so much a breakup as it was a “bad jump-off situation.” Tanya was a small forward on a two-week contract with the Minnesota Lynx when I met her at the baggage claim at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. She didn’t look like a WNBA player when I saw her. She was impeccably dressed in a way where you’re impeccably dressed so women who like having sex with impeccably dressed women notice you immediately.

It wasn’t her black Louboutin pumps, or her nude Wolford stockings with the seam up the back of the leg. Nor was it her cream-colored Versace business suit with the black piping accenting the seams. Yes, the cut of the jacket and skirt were particularly daring, in that it looked like she was wearing a denim coat and mini-skirt, but that wasn’t it. No, it was her black vintage Diane von Furstenberg blouse, with the bow tied at the collar. But wait, more yet, it was her matching vintage pearl bracelet and pearl earrings with a gold inset. Her brooch made me swoon. It was a piece of amber encased in a gold setting that evoked a basketball. Her hair was windswept from getting off the plane. Yet, it was still flowing, sprayed, wiry thin, and black. Her face was impeccably beat, and but stained by the water from the slowly falling rain outside. She gave me all of the vibes of Diahann Carroll, set of Dynasty, 1986. For a second, if only a second, I was in love with not her, but her aura. I wanted all of that professional, jet-set European realness to engulf me like a flame. And I let it.

“Tasha Simon. Hi…and…and you are,” Tasha said, the slender fingers of her right hand lingering on the left arm of my vintage black and white Hood by Air windbreaker. “marcie.” “Oh gosh, like the DJ chick?” “That…that would be me.” “Ohhhh…wow. They just let you travel like this?” As Tasha said “this,” she dismissively waved a hand in the air around the baggage claim for Delta Airlines at 9 PM on a Wednesday night at an airport 20 minutes outside of the desolate downtown area of one of the northernmost segments of the American Midwest.

“Yeah, I’ve literally never been here before, so I didn’t know.”

“Honey, I’ve never been here, either, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t make them order me a driver and book me a suite at the W. What are you doing in Minneapolis?”

“I have a charity gig at Fifth Avenue. There’s a summer camp for girls who want to play pro football, so the Vikings, I guess, booked me to headline? Does…does that make any sort of sense?”

“Wow! THE Fifth Avenue? Prince and Purple Rain Fifth Avenue?”

“Yep! I mean, is it forward of me to ask if you weren’t doing anything, I have a plus two and well, I know they have a Nordic-soul food fusion place catering, so there’s that…”

“No date?”

“Well, for a girl like me who likes girls who probably aren’t like most girls from here, well, yeah. I’ll leave it at that.”

“Ha. Where were you staying?”

“Funny. I wasn’t. I booked this in and out because I’m going to Ibiza for a week after this. So this bag I’m waiting for is literally filled with bikinis, sneakers, pumps, and my laptop.”

“Amazing. Ibiza. Spain. I love Spain.”

“You’ve been?”

“Six-time all star for Liga Femenina de Baloncesto’s Valencia Basket!”

“You. Play. Basketball?”

“Really well. Shhhhh. Don’t let the couture fool you! But yeah, I’m playing for the WNBA team here for two weeks then I’m headed back.”

“Oh wow. So you’re staying at THE W for two weeks?”

“I mean, WHY WOULDN’T I?”

“Amazing. Again, forward, but do you mind if I dropped my stuff off at your place and freshened up? I mean, I’m going to be in a booth on a stage, in some kind of Nike Fitness get up they want me to wear, but I might want to smell and look nicer.”

“Smelling nicer and looking nicer are certainly important, honey.”

Downtown Minneapolis wasn’t exactly picturesque, but Tasha Simon’s body sure was. She’d just showered, and advised I let the bathroom cool down some before I go in there. Her body and her head were wrapped in plush white hotel towels, which against her umber colored skin provided quite the striking visual dichotomy. The bright white recessed track lighting, glowing orb-style lamps, and Art-Deco-inspired furnishings really actually complimented the starkly linear nature of Tasha’s physique. Most women I was into had curves — even the slightest — of which to speak. Instead, Tasha was built like the star small forward that she was on the basketball court. Her arms were one and a half times the size of her torso, and her legs seemed to go on forever. She had the number 52 tattooed in between her shoulder blades, barely large enough to be seen if you weren’t within three feet of her. It was just low enough to be out of the way of any neck or cleavage line of any business, business casual, or gala event wear. You get a tattoo in that place when what you look like actually matters in the grand scheme of the world. I wasn’t just smitten, I was thoroughly in awe.

“Yeah girl, I left my Lush products in there. Feel free to use. Shower is one of those rainfall shower heads, and the water gets hot really fast. This is a gala, right?

“Thank you. And yes.”

“Amazing. I have a black satin turban I picked up on vacation in Marrakesh last summer at a vintage shop. It has a really nice diamond set in the middle of it. It’s very ‘Cicely Tyson in 1974.’ Is that too much?”

“Oh no. I mean, (dripping with sarcasm) I’m going to be wearing purple yoga pants and a customized women’s NFL jersey with eye black under my eyes and purple lipstick. So, yeah. You do you! Ha!”

“Well, I know you know about keeping up appearances. And I’m the ‘jet setting women’s basketball star who’s always seen either on the court or on a plane.’ This American trip is beautiful because there’s no paparazzi. I just get to be glamorous for myself!”

“I’m gonna hop in the shower if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, I have a sneaker deal with Li-Ning in China, and I’m trying to get some shoes FedExed over to me in enough time for my game in 48 hours. So, I need to send an email and make a call. See you in a second!”

As I closed the door and regarded my situation, I just kinda wanted to cry. Usually it’s ME who’s the super-dope bad ass chick with swag on a million who seduces the willing ingenue “stranded at the airport.” But no. Here I was, with what Wikipedia was telling me was a multi-millionaire woman with a luxury villa in Valencia, Spain who, at the age of 39 was coming off a year where she scored 19 points and had 15 assists and nine rebounds per game, plus was the Defensive Player of the Year. This was wild. Also, somehow, her Louis Vuitton luggage smelled like fresh leather. Not that I was addicted to luxury. I wasn’t necessarily. It’s just that being in the presence of someone more luxurious than yourself humbles you, which in turn definitely makes it easy to slip up and fall into all of the feelings. I was already at the trying not to trip and stumble over my good fortune and fall into her bed.

“Yeah babe. Minneapolis is cool. I’m staying with a famous DJ chick. marcie barbarella? Yeah. The model. Hotter in person than in pictures! Ha! Don’t be jealous, boo. We’re going to a thing, so I get to pull out that turban I got when we were in Marrakesh. With what? That black Halston pantsuit we found in Paris and those glittery silver slingbacks. Yeah! I took them BECAUSE they were in your closet. How DAAARE you? Heh. The water stopped so I think she’s gonna be out soon. Yeah! Face Time tomorrow from the gym! Love you too, hon!

“Wife?”

“No. Technically, live-in lesbian mistress that the Spanish press thinks is my personal trainer. I married a minority owner of my team, and he abused me, so we split after eight months. He gave me the house, and we’re still married on paper so that there isn’t a big to do in the media. While you’re in Ibiza, you’ll have to come. Tamera, that’s her name, she would adore you. She’s big into, what’s their name? Major Lazer? The DJs? She’s Guyanese-Jamaican, so while we were back home for her in Kingston, I got us tickets to some festival. Popped a molly. Sweated. I’m over it. She was tripping balls and ran around naked all damn day. But, yeah. Should I text you my addre…”

“That’s fine. I’ll only be in Ibiza a week.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little overwhelmed by all of this.”

“What? My new Louis luggage? This room? Me? Oh honey…what’s up. Sit. Let’s talk for a second.”

“Sure Tasha. I’ll be frank. It’s like this. I’m not new here. You picked me up at the airport by wearing THAT outfit. Insinuated inviting me back to your hotel. Preyed upon the fact that I make about one-fifth what you do a year right now. Now you’re on the phone with your mistress, and all the while acting like nothing at all of any importance is going on. We’ll go to this event, then we’re going to come back and fuck. It’s gonna be the best sex I ever had, and you know that. And then what. If I stay and you Face Time with Tamera, then god knows what happens. If I leave and you don’t see me again, then it’s just a missed opportunity at something, right? This is all a bit fucking much for me.”

“First, like Elvira in Scarface said, ‘who, what, when, where, and how I fuck is of no concern to you.’ Moreover, yes, I picked you up. And yes, I’m fucking rich. But you know what, bitch. You WILL be me one day. All I’m trying to do is prepare you for this life. Also, you’re as sexy as I am and Ray Charles can even see that. So, yeah. I have a husband and a mistress, too. But they’re 5,000 miles away. So, I’m a lonely broad in fucking Minneapolis making money I’ll either blow in a Duty-Free Shop at the airport on the way back home, or when I have my stop-over in London. First, stop judging my lifestyle and second, calm all of the way down.”

“Well shit then. I’ll just pick my jaw up off the ground and start getting ready, ma’am.”

“That’s more like it.”

I was actually DJing what looked like, given the crowd in attendance, a pretty hot little dance party. That was antagonizing, actually. My great hope in this is that this would be a sit-down soiree where I’d play some Prince, maybe some MJ, then go into my “this is very northern European” playlist that basically consisted of playing a bunch of ABBA, then a ton of Ace of Base, followed up by a mashup of Ace of Base’s “Don’t Turn Around” and Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro.” After being upbraided by Tasha, who was standing at the back bar like Morris Day in Purple Rain watching me, playing those songs felt kinda juvenile. But, I played them anyway and they slayed, so there was that.

This was that “young businessperson fresh out of ‘Midwestern State University’ but on the marriage/career path” crowd. They dressed conservatively and typically went out to two weddings, a bar mitzvah, and a New Year’s Eve event, yearly. Thus, this mix that was a very pedestrian showcase of my talents was the equivalent of seeing Armin van Buuren play euphoric trance classics for six hours at Tomorrowland or something. I saw Tasha giggle when the very blonde, crimped, and — fresh from having a smoke outside — rosy cheeked, Inga and Margot Johansson, wearing their matching 1988 Minnesota Vikings t-shirts, purple jeggings, and knee high black riding boots began drunkenly grinding on each other. When I pointed at them and blew them a kiss like the corniest big room EDM DJ ever, they fake swooned, screamed “Go Hot Vikes Girl DJ! Woo hoo! Yeeeah!,” and disappeared into the crowd of 1000 who was dancing to Morris Day and The Time’s “Jungle Love.”

“God, if you don’t mind me asking, what DO they pay you for that type of gig?”

“$15,000. This includes 10 social media posts, use of my image, name, and likeness in all advertising for the football stuff. My price if they wanted to get me for plane, room, and board, well, that’s $25,000. My team decided it was a good look for me to do one of these.”

Well, it wasn’t my team as much as it was me, looking at flying out from say, my Los Angeles club residency to Ibiza, or from the much less difficult flight from Minneapolis, which, once the organizers told me it was an international airport, I was sold. Now, given that I was peeling off purple yoga pants and about to crawl into bed with a six foot tall and rock-solid built woman whose sworn goal it was to “fuck me until I had to be peeled off the ceiling,” I’m glad I decided to make the trip.

“Okay! I’m ready for bed. Are you?”

You’re goddamned right I was ready for bed. The Minnesota WNBA franchise’s colors were described as “lake blue and aurora green,” I remembered. Thus, the fact that Tasha had four of her toes painted a neon shade of cerulean and each of her longest toes painted neon tea green made sense, and actually made my clit tingle. “This bitch is so bad that she’s gonna end up taking off her sneakers and socks in the locker room, then the sportswriters and cameras are gonna pick up on her feet.” Because, of course. Her fingers were just painted with a top coat, which I’d noted earlier, if only because they had an ever so faint glimmering undertone. Just enough to distract you so that she could steal your attention. This was a baaaad bitch.

The lights were off in the room, so I hadn’t noticed the muscular definition of her body as yet. “Touch me baby, I promise I won’t break,” she said. I ran my left hand across her surprisingly tight and muscled to the point of an eight-pack abdomen. I ran my hand across her breasts, noting that, though small, they were so well rounded and yes…that was unmistakable, the telltale heft and feel of obvious plastic surgery and implants. Not that I was mad, but it did inform me that well, if she’d had her nipples cut off for surgery, she probably wouldn’t feel me sucking on her dime-sized nipples. Thus, I quickly ran my left hand down her side, and could feel the striations of muscles from her shoulder blades down to her ass. As my hand grazed her right thigh, it was warm and tense, and whoa, yes, that was a vein. Was she some sort of power-lifter? Who knew? I decided to explore inside her thighs, and as I rested my hand upon her just-shaven pussy, I attempted to slide my thumb inside of her pussy lips and onto her clit.

“Stop.” Tasha didn’t say it forcefully, but rather in a manner that felt more benign — not polite, yet matter of fact. “I want to fuck you like how I want you to fuck me.” She grabbed my left wrist and pinned it down behind my head. Then, as she grabbed my right, she rolled on top of me, and began licking the left side of my neck and my left ear. As my head turned to the right, in between feeling like my eyes were going to roll into the back of my head from a pleasure overload, I looked at our reflections in the underside of the drapes-drawn fifth floor window overlooking downtown Minneapolis.

We were twin, yet separate forms, united by a shared lust. She was dark, chocolate by night, hopefully delicious by taste. Me, I was butter pecan, being licked, melting by the second from the heat. by body felt oddly at home here. I had that “female swimmer’s body.” I was broad and muscular in my shoulders these days, benefit of hatha yoga. My waist pinched severely at the waist, as per my intermittent fasting. Because I was an avowed squatter, my wide-bell of the hourglass hips and ass got dudes confused by my big sunglasses and current Skrillex-style hair for being “Amber Rose doing some shit with herself these days.” But here I was, feeling now, the meeting of two warm, wet, shaved pussies engaging in friction-filled passion work. Then, I heard her:

“Bitch you were so fucking hawt up on that STAGE. God damn I just wanted to rip you down and EAT YOU. PUSSY TO ASS AND BACK AGAIN. Shit. Sheeeit. I wish I had a dick to fuck you. Like bend you over those turntables, spank you for teasing me, and fuck the whole shit out of you boo. Do you HEAR ME?”

“Yesssssss…”

“I’m gonna let go of your right arm and finger-fuck your pussy. I’m going to fuck you and then while you suck my fingers, I’m gonna lick that clit and make it hard like a dick. Then I’m gonna suck the shit out of it and make you cum in my mouth. You want that?”

“Yesssssss…”

“Ugggghhhh, god damn. These tits. These tits. I’m so fucking jealous. I’ve got so much plastic in me I can float, but you’re all natural as fuck. I looooove it. Ugh. Ugh Unggghhh…Do you feel it? Do you feel me FUCKING YOU?

Yesssssss…”

Good, cunt. I’m fucking the shit out of you. Call me daddy.”

“Yes Daddy…”

“WHAT? WHO AM I?”

“YES DADDY…”

“SAY. MY. MOTHERFUCKING. NAME. BITCH.”

“DAAAAADDDDYYYY…OOOOOHHH….AAHHHHH…FFFFUUUUHHHH…SHHHIII…AHHHHH…AH! GOD DAMN! FUCK THIS SHIT. OOH. FUCK. NO! SHIT!”

“Oh shit?!?! Are you okay?”

“Yeeeahhh…I…I just squirted and I think I shit the bed at the same time. Oh shit. I am sorry.”

“Anal orgasm. All good. Ha. So, whew. That. Was. Cool. I don’t think you even know where you are right now, so like, I’m gonna take this Hitachi out of my suitcase, go hop in the shower and knock one out while I’m washing up. Cool? Okay boo. Fuck, you’re HOT.”

She rolled off of me, got out of bed with a languorous flair, then kissed me on the forehead, like I was a child with a fever. She had the smoothest, thickest, and reddest lips I think I’ve ever felt and seen. And shit. They felt so cool to my skin, so relaxing. Hell. I could curl up and go to sleep right now. Maybe, maybe she WAS daddy?

This bitch was fucking right. I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground. Anal orgasm? The holy hell? And did I just call this cunt “daddy?” I don’t even call my own daddy, “daddy.” What. The. Fuck? I do wild shit in the bedroom all of the time. Unrestrained. Fetishistic. X-Rated. Pornatastic. Trans-loving. Lesbian. Gay. Bisexual. Queer. Questioning. Does. Not. Matter. But somehow, because I totally lost control of my body and mind, it felt different. Good different.

By the time Tasha Simon got out of the shower, all I heard in my half-awakened stupor was her sigh ad get under the covers, spooning me and petting the newly shorn side of my head as I slept.

4 AM in Ibiza at the Two Five Eight is an acquired DJ taste. The dance floor is largely comprised of 65 year-old gay Afrikaaners and their 25 year old Nigerian boyfriends. The Eurotrash are at the bar with runny noses and post-bathroom visit shakes, downing shots of awful rail tequila and trying to hit on the tanned to brownish orange Catalonian sixteen year olds who lack breasts, asses, or common sense. “These cunts work for free drinks and tips, you know, the ones I used to get, honey,” Tony joked.

So, I’m checking my phone while I’m playing, and there’s a strange number on my WhatsApp.

“m it’s tash. on my trainers phone. broke my foot. in mpls for a month now. its halftime. wanna see?”

“OMG Tasha! I am so sorry. You didn’t send a pic.”

“ha. heres my pussy. and yes, one of my foot. get back here cunt. miss you. lets have fun.”

“Well hell. Now I have to cum home.”

“cum. yep. daddy needs you. you didnt fuck me yet, bitch ❤”

I’ve never actually been in love before. I’ve liked the idea of falling in love with one or two random hookups I’ve had, but I’ve never slept with anyone like Tasha who understands how and why I tick because they obviously tick better than I do.

A song crossed my mind. And because a bunch of very fat pale men and their very gangly, dark, and drug-addled boyfriends probably couldn’t give to two fucks what I was actually playing, I decided to push play on what I wanted to hear.

Holding you closer, it’s time that I told you
Everything’s going to be fine
Know that you need it and try to believe it
Take me one step at a time

And if this ain’t love (why does it feel now?)
Why does it feel now?
Why does it feel now?
Why does it feel so good?