In Through The Out Door - Drug Users Ask: Is It Time To Pull The Plug?

** Originally posted on Black Beatles February 9, 2009

















The last truly great drug experience I had came at the tail end of last year. We were in Montreal on the afterhours tip at Circus nightclub completely twisted on MDMA that was as pure as a Jonas Brother. It seemed to take the cap forever to kick in after we popped, but when it did it kicked HARD; too hard even.

Instead of dancing around shirtless to house like a homo or putting my tongue in a strangers mouth I found myself completely incapacitated by the high. It was so fucking intense the best I could do to manage the situation was to crawl up on the floor like those Asian kids who do 8 pills at a time, close my eyes and let the waves of pure bliss roll over me.  I was completely paralyzed by happiness and laying on the ground - a helpless faggot in mid-overdose.

To the outside observer this all must've appeared very sad. I must've totally seemed like a damaged coward. If you were anyone but me that night I could totally understand how you would think I was a random piece of street shit that just happened to float its way into the club. Absolutely fair conclusion.

What you'd fail to comprehend in any way from this reasonable dismissal however would be what it felt like to be me on that night.

It was amazing – like world peace and a sloppy blow job all at once.
It was the most serene I have ever felt in my life, and while it was most definitely just a trip – as synthetic as the little crystals of powder floating in the cap it was born from – it was still an experience that goes beyond anything I could try to begin to describe here.

I felt as though I had crawled my way back into the womb, a million warm and distant miles away from the real world and all of its bullshit. The sound of my mothers heart was adequately mimicked by the thud of 4 on the floor club beats and every other sound and smell combined to form a thick din that surrounded me like amniotic fluid keeping my body afloat. I couldn't think. I didn't need to. I felt safe and complete – in need of absolutely nothing and totally unaware of myself.

Even when compared against the numerous drug experiences I've had in the past this one was epic. A top notch sip of the electric kool aid by any standard.

When we eventually got back to Toronto I realized two things:

1. I would be doing drugs again at some point in the future

2. If I were to do drugs in the future, I'd want it to be the same shit that I had in Montreal

So without wasting any time I went to go talk to my man about securing some supply. When I got to his place disappointment ensued.


Yeah so I got some shit but its different. Not as strong as the last stuff.


Whadda you mean its not as strong?


I mean its not as strong. Doesn't kick as hard. A bit more mellow.


What? Why?


What do you mean why? Because.


Because what?


Because I don't know. Why is your sister smarter than you? That's just how it happens sometimes. I have no control over these things.


Fuck. That sucks.


Yeah...well... I'll cut you a deal on price. And besides there are ways to improve the high that could probably get you close to the stuff you were on in Montreal. Just plug em. That should do the trick.


Plug em?


Yeah plug em.


(long confused silence)


What? You've never plugged before?


Plugging.

For those of you who may not be familiar with the term it means: the anal ingestion of a drug.
That's right...anal.

What my man was trying to tell me, what I'm too slang retarded to have picked up on, was that I should take the gelcaps and shove them up my ass instead of swallowing them because it supposedly gives you a better high - and if you're gentle enough also a pleasant tickle.

Could this be true?

I know I've been told many times in my life to shove things up my ass but I'm pretty sure not once was it ever mentioned for my benefit. Was this all a hoax? A cleverly plotted ruse?  Would I be knuckle deep into my lower colon in the mensroom at Guvernment trying to 'plug' this cap and all of a sudden have Ashton Kutcher and my dealer pop out of nowhere with a camera crew and some release forms?

Could you imagine how embarrassing it would be to get caught shoving a pill up your ass in public?
Fuck that noise.

I was skeptical to say the least.

My natural heterosexual reaction was to be repulsed by the thought of shoving anything up my ass – even a tiny cap of God's powder. See, I've never had anything put up my ass ever in my enitre life.

Not my doctor's finger. (could be dying of prostate cancer right now)

Not one of those tubes they use to run a colon cleanse.

Not even my ex-girlfriends pinky when she used to give me head.

There were a lot of reasons to be turned off from the idea of plugging; yet for as unpleasant and gay as the whole thing sounded, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't more than just a little (bi) curious. I mean what if it was really great?

I decided to err on the side of caution and do 5 minutes of internet research before violating my rim like Lebron on a fast break. Here are some of the expert opinions I found after a quick Google search for “plugging ecstasy”:

“I put the cap just inside my hole past the sphincter muscle and then let my boyfriend fuck it deep into my colon with his 10’ uncut meat.”
- Anal Queen

“It's all true...my headaches go away much faster when I stick the Advil directly in my ass”
- Infinite

“I believe that plugging is the only true method of drug use sanctioned by Allah in accordance with the preaching of the Koran and that anyone who takes drugs by any other means is an Infadel who must be exterminated. Put the pill up your ass or prepare to face fatwa!”
- Asshole-Ah-Mah-Lay-Kum

“I plug before every Grammy appearance”
- Shitney Houston

“I refuse to plug because I'm afraid that it will hurt my anal tissue and eventually turn me gay. I had a friend who used to be pretty straight laced and popular with the girls. He started plugging and now he's a cavernous power bottom and a Craigslist regular. Think about what you're doing to yourself.”
- Unplugged in New York

For these and many more medical grade observations I strongly recommend you do a quick Google search on 'plugging ecstasy' and prowl the discussion forums.

There really seems to be no definitive information out there on this subject. I assume this is partly because scientists aren't taking this shit seriously and partly because Obama probably didn't set aside taxpayer dollars for 'plugging' research in the newly proposed stimulus package.

Like so many other drug related decisions the user (me) is left with only his intuitions and curiosity to guide his decision making; after all isn't that the hallmark of any experimental drug user? Aren't all 'first time' drug experiences nothing but the manifest victory of curiosity over fear and uncertainty?

So I'm stuck. Can't make a decision.

I ended up buying 5 caps and I've been sitting on them (pun intended) for a while now and still haven't decided if I'm gonna plug em or not. I probably won't. I mean the stakes are too high. I could handle putting a finger up my ass, discovering that I like it and instantly turning into a cavernous power bottom. No sweat.

But being a regular on Craigslist? Nigga please. Gotta have some self respect.

When I Jerk Off I Think About Oprah Winfrey

** Originally posted on Black Beatles April 28, 2009

Skulk slowly across the stage.
The crowd is gone now and it is only you and I.
I can feel you closing in on me – you are the hunter, I am the prey.
With your approach I am at once excited and terrified.
Repulsed yet aroused.
I feel my cock painfully erect with shame and I know that: I am alive.

As you lean into me your gut gracelessly pushes against my sex, and while I know this would disgust a normal man, for some reason it leaves me in further want of your charms.
When our eyes meet I nearly precum in my boxerbriefs.
We are electric.

No need to be coy anymore. We both know why we are here and where this is headed.
My hand reaches out to grab the vast expanse of your formless ass
and as it makes contact I realize: this is a job for both hands
Yet before I can wrap my arms around you, you chide me with the stern consternation of a woman betrayed.

How dare I handle your body with such inconsiderate brutality!
For just a moment you pull back and I wrestle with a mixed feeling of disappointment and relief.

You are toying with me now as you stand an arms length away, shedding your custom made plus size clothing. I follow suit until both our bodies and souls are absolutely naked. There is nowhere for us to hide now. You are obese and grotesque, I am lean and majestic.
The senseless improbability of our union is a poignant metaphor for blissfully erotic confusion.
I stroke my cock in mock celebration.

As we move in to embrace one another you pull me close to whisper in my ear
On your breath I can smell a strange combination of lust and KFC which causes me to beat off even harder while holding back the vomit in my mouth. I have never felt so ill yet so sexual.

We are way past the point of introduction, but as though to remind me this is not a dream you nibble on my earlobe like a piece of popcorn chicken and say

“Hi. My name is Oprah Winfrey”

The sound of you saying your own name causes you to cum.

As you flail in your self-induced euphoria I am unsure how to proceed.
Like the thousands of members in your book club I eagerly await for you to tell me what to do next. Sensing my need for direction you implore me to lick your pussy. What can I do but oblige?

I eat you out using the flicks of my tongue to spell out the poetry of Maya Angelou; reducing you to a flabby, spasming puddle of sexual contentment. I work you up slowly until you cum again, your orgasm finding voice in braying shrieks of ecstasy.

I have never hated myself more.
I have never wanted you so much.

Unable to hold myself back any longer, I force my penis past the overhang of your gunt and finally I am inside you.

I feel perfect.
We are one.
I want to die.

As I steadily finesse my way toward a premature orgasm you become vicious and domineering.
You humiliate me by telling me how small my penis is compared to Stedman's; how I could only ever be a flaccid approximation of who he is as a man. As I glance up at you I notice that you are rubbing handfuls of money all over your tits and for a moment I wonder where this money could have possibly come from, but then I think – where wouldn't it have come from? You are, after all, Oprah Winfrey.

As you continue to belittle me as a lover I am overcome by a feeling of worthlessness so powerful I can't stop myself from wanting to cum. I shoot wildly as I pull myself out of you, the puddles of porcelain white contrasting sharply against the unforgiving blackness of your skin.

Staring into the contrast I can see both the light and dark parts of my soul bleeding into one another. I realize that I am defined by each in equal measure. I realize that to deny this is pure folly. I realize how much more we are together than when we are apart

And then I realize that I am alone in my room imagining this and you were never here.

The Percentages

** Originally posted on Black Beatles May 12, 2009






My latest unhealthy obsession is fixating on the thought of how it is I'm going to die.

Pretty fucked up, right?

It's not like it's something that's constantly on my mind, it's more like a question that I puzzle over in the stolen moments I find day to day when I'm alone with my thoughts – most often the fifteen minutes before I fall asleep every night.

'How am I going to die?'

I sit there with my eyes fixed at the ceiling letting the infinite waves of possibility wash over my imagination pushing my mind into new states of paranoia before my brain finally pulls the plug and switches into R.E.M.

I can’t really say that I’d recommend this to anyone as a hobby but it makes for some pretty vivid dreaming.

Sometimes I see myself dying in a fit of self indulgent hedonism – accidentally hanged by my own belt while receiving a blow job a la Hutchence. Other times it’s a boring case of pneumonia. The only thing that I know for sure is it’s never the same thing twice. There are just too many ways to die in the modern age to have any repeats.

I've dreamt up some pretty crazy stuff since I started playing this game, but I've come to realize: no matter how inconceivable the demise I conjure up, my imagination will never be able to beat reality when it comes to death.

I mean I could never think up some shit like this. It really seems as though fact is stranger than fiction.

Somewhere in the world right now someone is dying in a way you literally could never imagine. You'll read about it tomorrow. They'll be one of the novelty headlines on an Associated Press feed. They'll become part of the percentages helping to fill out life's boxscore. There are quotas that need to be met and statistics that need to be maintained and whether or not you like it 4.4% of all deaths this year will be because of ‘accidents’. It’s The Percentages.

We're all aware of them in some abstract way. We read about them and know that they're real, we just never believe that they'll ever apply to us. It's always some other poor bastard who gets the cancer or catches the AIDS or happens to board the wrong American Airlines flight.

You know that these things happen; you just never believe they're going to happen to YOU.
Everyone lives under the ignorant supposition that they will live a long normal life and die way down the line of 'natural' causes in the arms of someone they love like that geezer from the Notebook. This is the way we all want to die and it's a nice thought but it's highly unrealistic.

What's more likely is: you burning alive in a twisted pile of metal that used to be your Camry on the side of some highway after you lose control of the wheel. If it's not that then it's definitely going to be some kind of cancer. Or maybe, just maybe, you end up being one of the novelty headlines – like the three people who die every year in vending machine accidents. It's not likely, but then again neither is dying of 'natural' causes. Not these days anyway.

What started all of this for me was thinking about the percentages. Not in an abstract way like we all do when we read about this shit day to day. Instead I decided to tally up the deaths that I have come to know personally; real people with faces that I could relate to the numbers.

I thought about it for a while and by the time I was finished I was amazed to discover that for almost every type of death, no matter how improbable, there was a real example that I knew of that could approximate it. I realized that all of those headlines that I read about and believe to be so distant from the safe little world I live in are not so distant after all, that a lot of it has already happened to people I know (knew?).

Murder, suicide, disease, accidental death…they’re not as far away as we all like to think.

Take Paul for example. He lived across the street from my parent’s house when I was ten. He was in his early thirties with a son who was barely a year old. He was working on a construction site one day when an improperly secured pile of steel fell from a crane and landed on him like he was Wile E. Coyote in a Bugs cartoon. He was crushed and died instantly.

Who the fuck would ever imagine themselves dying like that? Extremely improbable right?
Nevermind though. It’s all accounted for in the percentages.

I could go on with examples but I’m sure you all have your own if you stop to think about it.

I know that it’s definitely not a productive way of life to fixate on this kind of stuff. If we all really felt the weight of the different ways we might die we’d probably never leave the house. In some way you have to ignore the statistics to live a happy, healthy life. I know this. Still, I can’t help myself.

Disease, murder, suicide, car crashes, plane crashes, swine flu, SARS, ebola, cancer, alzheimer’s, knife fights, bar fights, electrocution, falling into an uncovered manhole, slipping over the balcony rail of your apartment, skydiving accidents, workplace accidents, fatal sports injuries, poisoning, allergic reactions, overdose, fire, flooding, earthquakes, tornadoes, decapitation, superflu, pneumonia, heart disease, mad cow, flesh eating bacteria, aneurysms, hanging out with Phil Spector…

Fuck it. You know what; finish the list off yourself tonight before you fall asleep. Lay in bed for a while like I do and think about the percentages.

One piece of advice though – don’t waste your time thinking about death by ‘natural’ causes. It’ll never happen.

Of Course You Would Never...

**Originally posted on Black Beatles March 3, 2009

Dear Reader,

Please bring me the most pious and morally upstanding heterosexual man you know. Get him to sit with me for a moment – I have a question to ask:

How much money would it take for him to suck another man's dick?

Now it's amazing how much you can learn about a person through this one very simple question; mainly because the answer given will always directly relate to the respondent's level of self delusion.

Those most honest among us would probably say between 5 to 20 thousand dollars. Anything less than that and you're either a closeted homosexual or an indiscriminate whore.

Those most concerned with religious morality would probably be less forthcoming, maybe even saying that they would never suck a dick no matter how much money was on the table.

For everyone else the answer lies somewhere in between these two extremes.

It's fun to watch people justifying their answers. For example you might come across someone who reasons that if they give half of their procurement to charity then they should be absolved of any moral transgression they may have made by involving themselves in the deal. Others might point to the fact they aren't religious and as such it might be immoral for them not to suck the dick in question seeing as they stand to gain so handsomely from doing so. There are a million ways for people to justify things to themselves when they want to.

Here's the problem though: Almost none of the answers that you get, no matter who you ask, are going to be totally realistic, even the most honest ones. Why? Because the exercise is theoretical and it deals with an issue that most people would consider to be moral. The respondent in this case knows that no one is going to break out a bag of cash so they aren't really vested in their decision. At an arm's length, removed from the real reward and consequence of a decision, it's easy to sit back and overestimate your stock in moral fibre.

In the real world shit tends to run differently. The guy who asks for 100,000 dollars would most likely do it for 70,000 or less. The guy who said he'd do it for 70 would probably do it for 40 if he knew there were a real chance of him actually seeing the money. And the guy who said he'd do it for 10,000...well if you catch him on the right night he'd probably do it for a few drinks and cab fare.

If this were a real question and I was asking it with real cash at my disposal and a promise of absolute confidentiality, I guarantee the same man who said he wouldn't do it for less than a million would be blowing a rail of meth off my shaft and swallowing me whole like a cock crazed Ted Faggard before I could even pull out $50,000 in twenty stacks.

And that's the important thing to remember for what I'm going to say in the remainder of this post: when it comes to moral issues who you are in theory is very different from who you are in a dark room with no one watching and a bag of cash on the table. Maybe you'd like to think otherwise but the truth is until you're really there in that room with something to gain or to lose, there's really no way for you to know.

Now I'll get this out of the way early – I can't fucking stand Alex Rodriguez. He is most definitely a big, huge bundle of sticks. He's not a team player, he can't hit in the clutch, he's a Yankee and he enjoys fucking Madonna.

Really, what is there to like? I get why people hate on him.

What I don't get however is how he's become the de facto villain of the sport for doing something so many other superstars of his era also did. When people talk about Gay-Rod these days they're not so much hating on him cause he's a bad player, they're hating on him cause he's a bad person. People seem to be passing a moral judgment upon him.

Something about this negativity seems overly harsh to me – and yes I know I'm probably the only one who feels this way – but to me it feels as though the people passing judgment are the same people who pretend that they would never suck the cock. There's a degree of armchair piety and moral consternation about their attitude that just doesn't ring true to me.

Yes he did something wrong, yes he should be punished; but all these big righteous fingers waving around need to cool the fuck down for a minute.

I mean does anyone really have any trouble understanding why A-Rod used steroids? Let's take a look at what was on the table for him, so to speak – millions and millions of dollars, fame, fortune, celebrity and immortality, or as close to it as you can get in this life. In exchange for all of this all he had to do was cheat a little with there being no guarantee of him ever getting caught. So he did exactly what so many other players in the culture of baseball had already been doing for over a decade by 2001 and he put a needle in his ass. What a villain.

Can you honestly tell me that you would've done differently? Remember: don't make me drag you into a dark room and pull out, in succession, a brief case full of cash and my 7uncut inches.

I also feel that it's reasonable to assume that A-Rod's motivations were probably not strictly monetary. He already had a 250 million dollar deal on the books when he started juicing, so if anything he was probably taking enhancers because he was genuinely concerned about his performance. Is there anything more American than that? The succeed at all costs mentality?

In North America we only want the best and even when we get the best we want better still. We want our women to look so good they're now partially made out of silicone. We want our food to look so appetizing it's injected with colour and preservatives. We want airbrushed magazine covers. We want music that's heavily produced and compressed in million dollar studios.

In a world where the extreme expectation of excellence exceeds reality's ability to deliver, who wouldn't consider cheating? Ask yourselves: what is it you really hate about Alex Rodriguez and Barry Bonds and all the other villains of the MLB? Do you hate them because you really believe they are bad and deceitful people, or do you hate them because you see in their decisions a very ugly part of our culture that you would rather ignore?

And I love the people who go on about how the game has been ruined and that the athletes of yesteryear were such virtuous heroes. Really? You think someone like Babe Ruth, or Ty Cobb, who were both notorious, selfish assholes would have been above using steroids if it were available to them? You think someone like Mickey Mantle, who used to show up to games drunk, cared so much about baseball that he'd have been above juicing?

Listen, believe whatever you want. Hate all the steroid users cause they ruined your national pastime. But know this: your life will never be so remarkable that you would ever be in a position to be able to make the kind of choice A-Rod did, let alone be the one to choose the high road. But don't let me stop you from waving your incorruptible finger from the comfort of your living room. I know that from a nice safe arm's length you really might believe that you would have been so much more virtuous. You're a regular Serpico, right?

And as for sucking another man's dick – I know, I know...of course you would never.

If Heaven Calls: Remembering Martin Streek

To say that Martin Streek was a huge influence on who I was in my formative years would be an understatement. As a young teen I wasn't old enough to be in bars or clubs and adults didn't take me seriously. I wanted to be a part of what was going on in my city yet I only had limited access. Still, every weekend I and thousands of others in the GTA could tune in from home to Streek's live to air show and we were right there at the club with him listening to the best music on planet.

Through my teenage years whether I was alone, in the car on my way to somewhere or out at a party with my friends, the one constant was always the soundtrack of Streek's live to air show on CFNY playing in the background. It's impossible to know how many nights there were for me between the ages of 14 through 18 where Martin Streek's voice was the last thing I heard before falling into sleep.

Man, that voice…

During these same teenage years my CD collection also grew quite a bit thanks to Martin. I had a really great system in place: I would dub Streek's weekend broadcasts from the club, wait for him to run down the playlist after another epic non-stop set and then I would jot down the names of the bands I didn't know. I would then pass this list to a friend who would steal me the CD's for these bands at $5 a pop. So many of the artists I grew to love, artists that are still in my CD collection today, have come to me courtesy of Martin Streek. Of the 300 plus discs that I own, he might as well have put half of them on my shelf himself and pointed me in the direction of where to find the other half.

It's hard to imagine, given that today it's such a pile of generic corporate shit, but there was once a time when CFNY was one of the best radio stations in North America thanks to independent thinking DJ's like Martin. In the Golden Era of CFNY (the late 80's/ early to mid 90's) the DJ’s played bands on a basis of personal interest and cultural relevance, not corporate dictatorship. They played obscure stuff and took chances on new artists giving them airtime when no one else would.

When they spun cuts from the bigger alternative bands instead of adopting a 'singles only' policy like most stations they went deeper into the catalogue. For example when it came time to play Nirvana instead of beating you over the head with Smells Like Teen Spirit for the millionth time you'd be just as likely to get Floyd the Barber or D-7. It was the best case scenario: a radio station for and by the fans of alternative music with the most knowledgeable and enthusiastic leading the charge. Martin Streek was a huge part of this. The energy and passion he brought to the scene made him a local legend in Toronto.

Over the years it has become progressively more painful to listen to CFNY, now 102.1 'the Edge'. After being bought out by the CORUS network everything vital and unique about the station has been slowly suffocated to appease the demands of corporate radio. 102.1 is now the antithesis of what it originally started out as; today it's a corporate rock station specializing in “top 40” alternative. The playlists are no longer cutting edge and fan oriented; instead they sound more like something a DJ came up with while a record executive held a gun to their head.

In the face of this decline Martin Streek remained one of the few highlights. His integrity carried through to the very end when he was unceremoniously ‘downsized’. Up to his very last broadcast he maintained the spirit of what originally made the station great.

If you’re looking for an example of how corporate agendas fail to accurately reflect real world sensibilities look no further than Martin Streek and Barry Taylor being ‘downsized’. It’s the kind of move that could only ever make sense to someone who wasn't in tune with the station or its spirit in any capacity beyond bottom lines and marketing agendas.

As a 14 year old I never thought that I’d actually get to meet Martin, but over the last 10 years I was fortunate to share time with him on a number of occasions. One of the coolest things about him was how accessible and open he was to his listeners.

The one thing I took away from the interactions I had with him was that he was someone who was involved in the scene for all the right reasons. His humility and enthusiasm were the type that could only be found in someone who was doing what they truly loved to do. The word ‘genuine’ has never been more applicable than when referring to Martin.

********************

When I heard that Martin Streek was dead, that he had taken his own life on Monday July 6th, I was absolutely stunned. The sense of loss was so personal. He was such a part of my youth; his voice and the music he played inextricably linked to more memories than I can even call to mind.

I’ve learned since Monday that I’m not alone in feeling this way. Read any comment thread from any of the articles that have been written about him since his passing; read any of the comments from the Facebook group that has been setup in his memory (now boasting well over 12,000 members); you'll se that almost every person has the same thing to say about Martin:

“You were the voice and soundtrack of my youth”

This sadness doesn’t just belong to me; it also belongs to the thousands of other teens who grew up in the GTA in the early to mid-nineties. We may not have always known it at the time, but we were all in it together, united by Martin through our shared interest in music.

Building a scene, or being part of one, is like building a sand castle. There’s no ultimate purpose to it and you know that the tide will eventually come to wash it away. The point however isn’t found in the purpose. The point is simply to care to build it with others; the fun and reward is given through the activity itself. Martin Streek helped to build the foundations for the alternative music scene in this city. He invited us all to come out and play every weekend and the fun was in finding each other. I cared so much about Martin because he cared so much about the things I loved most. Or maybe it was the other way around.

It's hard to express how important someone like Martin Streek was to all the people out there like me. How do you say thank you to someone for introducing you to so many things you love?

I will truly miss you Martin Streek. You were the best of us.

BREAKING: LOCAL AREA SATANISTS FORCED OUT OF NEW JERSEY DUE TO LACK OF VIRGINS

AP -- A steady horde of New Jersey area Satanists have been relocating themselves out of the state this weekend in what some are describing as a mass exodus. John Leckey, a local Satan worshipper who has been practising the dark arts since the Devils Stanley Cup win in 96', had the following to say

"We knew this day would come, in fact we thought that it would've happened sometime in the 80's. It's really an evil miracle that we survived out here this long."

Leckey's comment of course refers to the recent news that Brenda Facinelli, age 15, gave it up to her boyfriend of 2 months Skip Monaro in the back of Skip's Iroc-Z on Saturday night, officially making New Jersey the first virginless state in America. This of course is a terrible blow to all New Jersey area Satanists as it leaves them without a single virgin for purposes of sacrifice.
When asked if she was aware of the fact she was the last remaining virgin in New Jersey, Ms. Facinelli, a Hoboken resident, replied with surprise

"Really? I thought that Kimmy Donaghy was still a virgin. I didn't know she was datin nobody."

It was then explained to Ms. Facinelli that the teen in question, Kimmy Donaghy age 14, had also recently lost her virginity to Skip Monaro in the back of his Iroc, though neither would acknowledge the fact they were dating at the time. Ms. Facinelli reacted to this news with shock before calling Kimmy 'a slut' and vowing to 'expose' her over Twitter.

Lost in all of this side drama is the very human story of how Satanists are dealing with having to relocate to other parts of the country where there are still virgins remaining. Scott Meyers, a devil worshipper and Bon Jovi fan, expressed some of the difficulties facing the modern Satanist

"You know it's just been getting harder and harder. Ever since they started releasing Sex and the City on DVD there have been fewer and fewer virgins almost everywhere. It's near impossible to find any liveable cities that still have virgins these days – even the tweens seem to have a laundry list of ex-partners. "

When asked if there were any strategies he had been using to locate areas with a suitably high virgin concentration Meyers explained that he and other Satanists have been selecting prospective relocation destinations by cross referencing relevant demographic information

"Basically one of our high priests Guul-Taal, well actually his real name is Gary, he’s a software guy who’s really smart with computers, he’s using some program to find cities where Jonas Brothers sales are particularly high. We figure those spots are our best bet for sustainable living. Either that or cities where EMO music is really popular. "