A DREEM DATE WITH GENE SIMMONS

A DREEM DATE WITH GENE SIMMONS

Darcy Diamond

“I want to join the Kiss Army!” I pleaded in the house phone of a ritzcheesy West Hollywood hotel.

“Do you like pain and tire chains and Hostess Twinkies?” the rusty voice queried.

“Yes. Yes, oh yes.” I volunteered.

“Then come on up and I’ll show you my clippings and private girlie folio and we can speak Hungarian,” invited Kiss’s blood-spitter, Gene Simmons.

I found out later that he does , indeed speak Hungarian. Later, he even admitted having a secret crush on Zsa Zsa Gabor. He can say “My name is Gene” or “My name is Sylvester” in either Transylvanian or German. And I always thought when they said he was a linguist, it was a sly reference to his slinky tongue.

Gene kissed my hand and offered me a Fresca.

“How do you do, Cal,” I burbled in all my nervousness.

I could tell that this here fellow was plenty tall, though he hadn’t yet stood up, by the way his legs were wrapped three times and tucked underneath the couch.

There were magazines of the trashiest kind splashed about as you might home decorate with throw pillows: CREEM magazines, Howard The Duck comix, and lots of photos of Kiss.

Gene suggested dinner. I fit him in my Volkswagen. He had to remove his platforms to get in.1 We were on our way through the glitzy and smutty streets of Hollywood. 1 made him put his shoes in the trunk and his tongue in the glove compartment for the short ride to the Japanese joint 1 had picked out. It’s a place where cops on the beat patrol regularly go to get “Foo To Go,” so I knew that Gene would like it.

“Don’t you think we sound like Slade?” Gene asked, trying to look less leggy as he oozed onto the padded carpet sprouting from underneath the “Teppan Table.”

“Not exactly,” I replied. “My sister says you sound like her vacuum cleaner when the exhaust gets clogged up. Why are you looking at me that way, Gene?” .

Gene barked like a dog, shook his tail, and downed three tropical flowers from the centerpiece.

“I love touring. Yes, touring is the answer. We’re well-liked in middle America. In fact, don’t ask me what’s going on in New York. Ask me about the gals in Sioux City.

The girls in Wisconsin! Yep, in the Midwest, those robust women; their mzfsses aren’t quite shriniesses like say the New York ladies. Where’s my food?”

The sashimi arrived and saluted at Gene. They asked to join the Kiss Army. Gene declined comment and lubricated his cuticles with soy sauce. “Shhhreeeiikkk! Pass the raw fish, my sweet,” he beckoned. Then his alarm went off.

You see, Gene wears a hunting trophy of sorts on his wrist. Where some men would flaunt antlers on the wall, Gene has a chrome-plated tarantula the size of Muhammad Ali’s fist sitting on his hand for all the world to see. The spider’s creepy silver feelers pulsated every time Gene’s antennae reached for the Won Ton soup.

He’s got a beeper connected to it. He wouldn’t say what it was connected to, but from the coversation I heard, it’s likely that Gene’s using some political powers to advise the White House. As the beeper beeped, Gene .slipped ostentatiously underneath the Teppan Table and spoke:

“Yes Jimmy. Four backstage passes, and one for Chip, too? No, Rosalynn should go with Sonny, I’ll handle that.”

After the surreptitious call, Gene tried to buy my silence by plying me with 12 gallons of saki. Things got a bit hazy after that. 1 remember Gene diving into the Japanese rare fish aquarium and singing under water.

Then I lost my head. I went with Gene to his hotel. I was a fool. I was young and reckless. I let him have his way with me. We danced. We laughed. And that was just months ago. Just last week, I somehow gave birth to a fifteen-year-old son. He looks just like Gene, although my sister says he’s the spitting image of Ricky Ricardo. I had to send our teenager away to San Rafael, so the neighbors wouldn’t talk. He’s in high school, our son is, and his teachers say he does fine in wood shop. Just like his dad! Gene’s gonna send for him someday. He might even send him bus fare to New York and let him see Dad without his makeup.

© 1977 CREEM Magazine, Inc.