Lisa Carver —
NOTE: GG Allin was a disgusting rock/performance guy who liked to shit onstage and chase people. As I liked to pee onstage and chase people, and we both came from New Hampshire, it seemed like we had a lot in common. He sent me letters alternately begging for my dirty panties and threatening things “worst then could imagen.” Despite my creepy lifestyle, even at 19 I was a grammar snob, and GG’s fifth-grade spelling and messy handwriting turned me on – like a prissy socialite getting all excited by the thoughts of the janitor. I sent him naked pictures and kiss marks or, on occasion, a dime and the instruction to “Tell someone who cares.” At the time, my husband, Jean Louis Costes, was in Paris (also doing enemas on stage there!) and I was floating around the U.S. trying to scrounge up the money to go live in France again. I was sleeping on the couch of a “punk house” – a menagerie of junkies, punks, skinheads, bikers and the sweet, gentle woman who took care of us. When word came that GG would be playing Lizmar’s Lounge in New York, nine of us piled into a rusted van and took off. GG was usually banned from playing anywhere, so this was special.
GG was bigger than I thought, swollen and – surprisingly – had the ready-to-retreat posture of a shy person. Lenny introduced us, I said “Hi” three times. GG said a couple polite things then talked with Lenny again. I moved between them and said to GG, “You’re not paying enough attention to me.”
“I don’t pay attention to no one,” he said.
“Well no one doesn’t pay attention to me. What do you say to that?”
“How do you want me to do it?”
“First offer me some of your drink.”
He pulled my head back and poured Jack Daniel’s out of the bottle down my throat. I choked and climbed into his lap. “See,” I showed him, “there are little hearts on my stockings. See, ruffles.”
“Yeah,” said GG, “I see ’em.”
He pulled my dress up, I pulled it back down. He pulled it up again, I ran away. Two hours later, I spied GG surrounded by groupies in the corner. He loudly complimented a female bass player. In my mind at least, he and I were on a date. I kicked a post, finally went up to them and grabbed GG by the jacket, shook him. “I can’t take it!” I said.
“Can’t take what?”
“Quit talking to her!”
“I think she’s good-looking, don’t you?”
“Look at me! You haven’t looked at me once all night.”
“I can’t see you. Put your fucking face up.” He grabbed my face, held it up to the light. “Aren’t you supposed to be in love with me or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Let’s sit over there. Let’s do it, c’mon Lisa, right here on the floor.”
“You know you’re wet. Let me stick my fingers in it.” He pet my legs, I kicked his ankle. “So what’s up with this Costes guy?”
“He’s in France.”
“What’s he doing there, he’s supposed to be your husband. Well, what’s he like? What’s he look like?”
“Aren’t I handsome.”
“Yes you are.”
“Then why the fuck are you with him?”
“Because I like his music and -“
“Don’t you like mine?”
“Yes. He wants me, that’s why.”
“I want you. I want you more than any other woman in the world.” He jammed his tongue hard into my mouth, slipped it in and out, licked my teeth and lips and tongue. He was missing several teeth. I bit his lips, he grabbed my tits with one hand, tried to get the other hand in my stockings. I pulled away and laughed at him.
“You got small tits,” he said.
“Do you fuck?” I asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I fuck. Do you?”
“Well, what do you do then?”
“Stuff. Sometimes I fuck, but only by accident.” That was a lie, of course. I wanted him to picture exotic sex-substitute activities. He was so aggressive in his letters, I figured he must be afraid of sex – I’d have to handle this one delicately.
“Do you fuck Brett?” asked GG. Brett was our mutual friend.
“I have, yeah.”
“Is he good?”
“Do you fuck Costes?”
“Is he good?”
“Yeah, he’s real good.”
“Give me your wedding ring.”
“If you loved me, you would give me your wedding ring as proof of your devotion.”
“No, you’ll just sell it!”
Sean, a troubled, bald youth with a painful crush on me, came over and said, “You’re a real whore, Lisa, you know that? You act ditzy but you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re -” GG took a knife out of his pocket. Sean decided he had something else to do somewhere else. GG cut my dress right down the front, touching my skin with the blade. He cut the dress arms off too. I smiled, thinking, Okay, this is nice. I always wanted to have my dress cut off…Then my friend Lizzie ran over, stuck her face right into GG’s and said in her soothing mother voice, “When you going on, GG? Gonna play or not? C’mon GG, leave here alone. Can’t you see how drunk she is?” Lizzie grabbed my arm, carried me away, wrapped her coat around me. One of GG’s friends came up to me and said, “Are you fucking real or not real? Take off your clothes! Are you real?”
“Yeah, I’m real,” I said, “a real tease! Ha-ha-ha-ha!” Then about six GG fans grabbed me. I spit at them, got one arm free and punched one of them in the face. I screamed that I would kill them all. They let me go, I don’t know why. Someone turned a video camera on, asked me what I thought of GG. GG leapt up and pulled me down by the hair, yelled, “Don’t be fucking talking no shit about me!” He slammed my head into a post. My biker friend Gary and skinhead friend Scottie rushed over and pushed GG off me. Bouncers arrived. GG said, “It’s just a video! Just a fucking video!” A woman wearing a shirt that said “Property of GG Allin” said to me, “You better take care of your face. You wouldn’t be so pretty with scars.” By the time GG went on stage, he was so messed up on heroin, he couldn’t stand up. He smashed a glass on his face, screamed at everyone to let him alone, bungled four or five songs – all from a semi-seated position. Then it was over. I took the way-back of the van on the drive home, because Sean was driving and he was still muttering bad things about me. Well, all in all, I’d say that was a pretty interesting date.
1999 postscript: A few years after our date, GG was jailed for torturing some girl with cigarettes, and then he died of an overdose. Also, I learned he was gay.
Lisa Carver (a.k.a. Lisa Suckdog)