Trust Your Instinct



         Oh to hear the music of our youth, to listen to those wonderful songs and bands after years of not having heard them for whatever reason. Maybe we never bought the album and the radio stopped playing them, maybe we outgrew the music, maybe we just simply forgot about them. But the first time we hear those songs again after years or even decades awakens something in us. The familiar kick of the bass drum, the lyrics that come right back to us, and best of all, the memories sparked by that first guitar riff or crack of the snare. Music brings people together and forges wonderful memories of love, family, and our childhoods. But sometimes, depending on what’s happening in our lives during the resurgence of the hits we used to listen to, unsavory memories can unfortunately take the stead of the once beautiful nostalgia we associated with that one band or that one song. And regrettably for me, that band was 311. 

I had never seen 311 live but in the summer of 2023, I finally did. I had recently reconnected with an old friend, Elizabeth, whom I hadn’t seen in 15 years, and for our reunion we decided on a whim to go see 311 who was playing at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado where we both lived. It was our first Red Rocks concert of the summer so I was excited to get there, tailgate, drink some beverages in the parking lot and catch up with my old friend. Unfortunately she was going through a nasty divorce at the time but I tried to lift her spirits and tell her that maybe we would meet some hotties at the show. I am always hopeful to meet hotties. 

When we were sufficiently buzzed after drinking by my car and inhaling the almost ever present aroma of marijuana in the Colorado air, we started the arduous trek to get to the amphitheater. Red Rocks has never made it easy to get to the actual venue. Unless you have the means to hire a private driver to drop you off right at the gate and pick you up at the same place after the show, most concert goers have to climb a fair amount of stairs up to the stands. I don’t mind because it is one of, if not the, most beautiful outdoor amphitheaters in the entire world, and I live three exits away. 

Elizabeth and I finally made it to the long line of fans waiting to get in. Waiting because the sky had suddenly turned an ominous shade of grey that all native Coloradans know means a storm’s a’ brewing. The week before, Red Rocks had experienced a violent hail storm during the middle of a concert. The hail was so fierce that many people got welts all over their bodies, and a few had to go to the hospital due to broken fingers and toes from the sheer force of the hail on their phalanges and metatarsals. So, the night we were there the venue had proceeded with caution and not let anyone in until the storm had passed.

Elizabeth and I were standing in line with a group of six cute guys who seemed to be in their 30’s and 40’s. The shuttle had dropped us off at the top of the stairs that led to the venue, but because of the rain delay, a long line had formed all the way back down almost to the parking lot. We asked these guys if we could hang out with them in line until the delay was lifted. We introduced ourselves and asked where they lived. They were all from Indianapolis and had come out to Colorado specifically to see 311 play Red Rocks and also to celebrate their friend’s 40th birthday. They were all attractive, but one in particular was the handsomest guy I had seen in ages, around six feet tall, tan skin, lithe body encumbered by perfect fitting jeans and T-shirt. His eyes were so blue they didn’t seem real, like the eyes on a Siberian husky, aqua and piercing. His name was Josh but to my great dismay he was married. Although I was a bit drunk and we definitely had a bit of a flirtation going on, I was loathe to even go anywhere near trying to get with a married guy again. Turns out all of them were married save for the birthday boy whose name I couldn’t remember so I just kept calling him 40. He was also cute in a punk rock quasi feminine way, had a blond mohawk, was very slight in frame, and had both of his ears gauged - not really my type but he had a nice face and warm smile and I was in such a good mood that I decided that later I was going to kiss him although he did not know it yet. 

As we were waiting in line with them, the rain swept in. Luckily I had brought my umbrella and invited them to huddle underneath it with me and Elizabeth. It was rather small, really only meant for one person and it had a broken spoke, which made half of it cave in, but Josh, 40, and one of the other guys in the group joined us in shielding ourselves from the pelting rain. Under the umbrella we chatted about what Indianapolis is like, our jobs, and how lucky they thought Elizabeth and I were to be natives of Colorado and basically live down the street from this amazing venue. 

When the rain subsided, I am not sure how or why, the conversation took a turn from talking about our jobs and the Indianapolis 500 to the most repugnant sexual acts one only hears about online but I don’t think anyone has ever done, at least I hope not. Sure I had heard of the Dirty Sanchez and the Hot Carl, both involving using one’s excrement as a sexual finale, but then the guys started talking about something called The Dragon Punch followed by Strawberries and Cream. I asked what they were. Strawberries and Cream actually sounded kind of nice. Josh, the hot married guy, explained to me that the Dragon Punch is when a girl is blowing a guy and the guy holds her head so she can’t move or breath until he climaxes into her mouth whereupon his man juice makes its escape out of her nose, like a fire breathing dragon as it were, but not fire, not at all. Then the guy punches her in the face so that her nose starts bleeding and the blood mixes with the semen and turns into a delightful mixture of red and creamy white as it oozes down her face. Strawberries and Cream. Not so nice after all.

I have never been one to shy away from dirty jokes or overtly sexual banter. On the contrary, I have always welcomed it, even encouraged it. The descriptions of these acts made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to pee my pants. We were all laughing and having a good time waiting for the gates to open. I then started talking to 40. He was charmingly boyish for a 40-year-old, I was buzzed, and he was sexy enough for me to tell him right before the gates opened, “I am going to make out with you later.” I hadn’t said that to anyone in ages. It was something I used to do in my twenties at bars. I was known amongst my friends as the brazen one, the one who had no problem going up to guys and telling them that I wanted to kiss them or just doing it. 40 and I had been flirting the whole time we were waiting in line and when I told him of my plan, he looked a bit surprised at my bravado and said, “You are?” 

“Yes.”

The gates opened and we all filtered past the security into the venue. The guys invited us to sit with them which we were hoping they would. It was still light out as we found a row of seats all together in the general admission section. So far, this was one of those magical summer nights when everything was great. Elizabeth and I had met a group of fun, albeit mostly married, guys who were just as raunchy as we were, they invited us to sit with them, and I was determined to make out with 40 despite not remembering his name. 

The opening bands played their sets and the sun melted behind us as the entire city of Denver became illuminated with evening lights. That is one of the great aspects about Red Rocks. Not only is it a beautiful, natural amphitheater, but if you sit high enough in the stands, you can see a 180 degree view of all of Denver and the surrounding suburbs, a free light show that comes with every concert there. Elizabeth and I were sitting together on the left side of the fellas and I told her how disappointed I was that Josh was married. 40 was to my right and we continued chatting about our lives, where he lives in Indy and how he used to be an audio engineer in Miami which I thought was so cool. I told him, “Dude, it’s your 40th birthday and you’re celebrating it with a bunch of married guys? That blows.” He laughed. “I know. But what are ya gonna do?”, he said.

The opening bands were entertaining enough but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too distracted by my drunkenness and this very fun 40-year-old guy flirting with me. When 311 hit the stage, 40 then told me that he was a fanatic and had seen them play at least 50 times. During the show I understood why. They were amazing. I knew some of their songs from the mid to late 90’s when they had a few hits on the radio but I had never bought any of their CD’s. If anything, their music reminded of a time when I used to walk up to dudes and tell them that I was going to kiss them. When they started playing their song All Mixed Up, I recognized it right away by the first strum of the guitar. Hoots and hollers erupted throughout the stands as this was one of their most popular songs. The lyrics came right back to me as if no time had past. 40 and I looked at each other and sang along to the first famous line, “You’ve got to trust your instinct.” That first line may have been the universe warning me of what was to  come.

During the show, I had to pee and turned to 40 and asked him if he too needed to go, which he did. “Let’s go together! I won’t be able to find my way back so wait for me,” I said. He took my hand and led me through the crowd to the bathroom. I hadn’t had a man hold my hand in years. Even though I had just met him, having 40 guide me by the hand, making sure I was ok sent a wave of sexy confidence through my body, something that I also hadn’t experienced for years. When I finished, I walked out and saw him standing away from the restrooms by some bushes. “40?” I said. It was dark now and I couldn’t tell if it was rightly him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said. 

“Why are you standing all the way over here?” I asked.

“You said you were going to make out with me, right?” He asked. I was a bit taken aback as I had usually been the aggressor in these situations and the opportunity to kiss him hadn’t arisen as of yet, but this was as good a time as any.

“Oh yeah! Let’s make out!” I said, and with that we wrapped our arms around each other and kissed deeply and passionately for at least a good thirty seconds. I was pleasantly surprised. The majority of men I have kissed on a whim or drunkenly at a bar or event have always tended to shove their tongues in my mouth with the ferocity of a hungry anteater, wiggle them around without so much as closing their lips for a split second leaving me with a wet, slobbery upper lip and chin. But 40, he knew what he was doing, just the right amount of tongue and lips, so good that when we pulled apart from each other, I said, “that’s all?”

“Oh there will be more,” he said. But I knew that he wanted to get back to watching one of his favorite bands of all time and so did I. But that kiss was one of the best I had had in many moons. And then I thought, Indianapolis. Of course. Of course he lives in another state because why would anything work out for me? Why would the universe make this the start of a fun, romantic relationship brought on by a rain delay and the hot humid air of a Colorado night? I’ve been very unlucky in this regard. I’ve always connected with guys who live in other states or other countries or who are married, or gay, or have ED, or PTSD, or ADHD. Later I would find out just how bad my luck actually was.

The concert continued and we all danced and sang along to the lyrics. Elizabeth and I decided to leave a few songs early which is always good practice at Red Rocks as to not get stuck in a huge line of cars trying to get out of the dirt parking lots and make their way down the windy mountain roads towards Denver. I wanted to stay but Elizabeth had some health problems and I didn’t want to push her. Before I could even think about it, Elizabeth asked 40 for his number. I was surprised he didn’t ask me himself, but we were all drunk, stoned, on shrooms, and some of us on Molly so no one was really thinking that straight. I hugged 40 and bid him farewell and a happy birthday thinking I would never see him again.

The next morning Elizabeth texted me and told me she had been texting with 40 all morning. She wasn’t flirting or anything. She was doing it for me. She texted both of us in a group so that we had each other’s numbers. 40 texted me right away, “Hey cutie!”, which is always a wonderful text to receive. We texted back and forth for a few exchanges reminiscing about the night before, telling each other how great that kiss was and that we both wished we could have continued the evening. He told me he wasn’t leaving until the next afternoon so I had my hopes up that he would invite me and Elizabeth to hang out with his very fun bunch of bros or for him to just ask me to hang with him alone. Alas, he did not. 

The day of his departure he texted and said that he would love to see me again sometime. It had been so long since I had had that feeling, that exquisite feeling that a boy likes me and I like him. Tiny butterflies were flying inside every part of me and visions of 40 and I meeting in Indy or in Denver for another concert or a romantic tryst flooded my imagination. If only someone could bottle that feeling the world would be such a better place. I sent a text telling him that I was a musician and a writer along with my website hoping that he would listen to my music or read my essays, fall madly in love with me and become my boyfriend. 


And then… crickets. 

I did not receive a text from him the next day or the next or the next or the next. The last text I had received was on a Monday and by Friday I succumbed to my latent disappointment and realization that I would never hear from 40 again, but at least I could always revel in the that magical night at the 311 concert and think fondly of it every time I heard one of their songs.

But then Saturday morning rolled around and I heard the always exciting text notification sound, that delightful ding that gives us all hope that maybe it is something or someone awesome. The banner on my locked screen read “A40 from the 311 concert,” Elizabeth later reminded me of his name, Alex, which I had forgotten up until that moment. My whole body filled with pulses of excitement as I tapped the message to open it up.


BOOM!


There it was, 40’s hard dick and naked body filling up the entirety of my iPhone screen with a caption “Good morning from Indy!” I once went on one of those amusement park rides which lifts you very high off the ground, and then when you get to the top you are suddenly released and free fall back down at breakneck speed. That’s what seeing that dick pic felt like. This sweet sweet man who kissed me gently yet passionately, who sent me cute texts the next day telling me how pretty I was and how much he wanted to see me again was one of those guys. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. Why did he send me this? Did I say something that would indicate that I wanted to get a picture of his dick? I wasn’t that drunk. Did one of his friends do this as a joke? Is this even him? Not only did he send it to me, Elizabeth was also on the thread which baffled me even more. I texted Elizabeth immediately and asked her if she had gotten it. She had.

“I’m at a loss for words,” she wrote. “Like, what the actual fuck?” My sentiment exactly except that Elizabeth hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t connected with him like I had, or at least thought I had, so for her it was just some dude she briefly met sending a picture of his junk. “I don’t know how to respond to this. I mean, I’ve never gotten one of these before,” she texted me. Elizabeth got married before the whole smart phone dick pic sending phenomenon got started in the late aughts. I on the other hand had never been married nor partnered for long and had been entrenched in this behavior since the dawn of online dating, so this was unfortunately not my first rodeo. 

I kept looking at the picture hoping it wasn’t him, that this was some weird joke that maybe went along with the Dragon Punch and Strawberries and Cream discourse we all had laughed about at the concert. But there was no denying it, it was him. His face was semi blocked by his phone, but the guy in the picture had a blond mohawk, the same eyebrows and the same ear gages as my former sweet 40 had. Having gotten so many dick pics in the past, I had the sudden urge to angrily text him back something nasty like, “Gross, this is fucking disgusting. Who do you think you are that you think we want to see this?” But I refrained. I knew guys like this. They only want a reaction, like those pervs in trench coats that used to go around flashing unsuspecting women, but online. Whether they see it or not, just knowing someone is reacting on the receiving end is what satisfies them. No decent guy sends dick picks, especially to women he knows. It’s one thing to get unsolicited dick pics from douche bags on dating apps who I have never even met nor spoken to, but it is quite another to get one from a man that I have met and even kissed. This situation had actually never happened to me.  

My heart saddened as I chalked him up to yet another egomaniac who thinks all women want to see his manhood even though everyone knows that the unsolicited dick pic is the bellwether for a total dirt bag except for the guys who send them. Countless articles, podcasts, interviews, and psychological studies have blatantly stated that women do not like to get photos of dudes’ boners. But every man who sends them thinks he is special and women want to see his. The hubris of these guys never ceases to baffle me. Not to mention that 40’s pubic region was shaved smooth, which I hate. Men who shave their junk look like little boys and that grosses me out.

I didn’t respond to his text nor did Elizabeth. For 24 hours neither of us heard from him, and then the next morning another text from dick boy, “Sorry if I offended you all.” This actually took me by surprise, that he apologized. This had also never happened to me, an apology. But still, I had no desire to text him back and give him the reaction he so desperately craved. Another 24 hours went by and then I got a personal message from 40 that read the same thing as the previous text to me and Elizabeth, “Sorry if I offended you.” I softened a little. A least he apologized but it was too late. He has shown me the type of guy he was and I didn’t want anything to do with him, or so I thought. 

Over the next few days I told a few of my good friends about the now infamous dick pick and they all said the same thing, “Ewww, gross, what a piece of shit, don’t text him back.” And I didn’t. I didn’t text him back, but my curiosity was champing at the bit. Why did he send that to us? What did he expect us, me, to say to that? “Nice cock? OMG, you are huge!” Probably. Finally after talking to one of my best friends and telling her of my curiosity of the psychology of it all, she gave me some very straightforward advice. “It’s obviously bothering you. Just text him and ask him why he sent that to you. You know you want to. Men are stupid. He probably thought that you would think it was funny or something because you all were talking about Dragon Punching and stuff. Just text him. What have you got to lose?”

So I did. I sent him a very civil text saying that it was offensive and inappropriate that he sent that to us, and that I was confused because he was such a sweet guy at the concert, why did he do that? He immediately answered and apologized again. I asked him what kind of reaction he was looking for, and then he said exactly what my friend had told me, that he thought Elizabeth and I were raunchy cougars and thought we would get a kick out of it. My friend was right, men are dumb. That made no sense, that just because Elizabeth and I had engaged in dirty, humorous sex talk meant that we would want to see a zoomed in photo of his turgid penis. I wanted to keep inquiring, see if I could learn more about his true motives but he seemed to be getting annoyed at apologizing so much and he most likely didn’t know why he did it either. Men like that don’t have a lot of insight.

I should have left well enough alone and just ended the conversation, but I also crave attention from time to time, and this was one of those times. I was lying in bed, it was late, and nothing good was on Netfilx. I hadn’t had any sort of sexual banter in quite a while so at the very least it was entertaining if not inappropriate. I thought, “Ok, he apologized. Maybe this was a one time thing and it will never happen again and we can continue to text, fall in love, and go to a 311 concert for our anniversary.” I may say men are dumb, but in this situation there was another front runner in that category. Me.

The texting continued. He told me he was bored in a hotel, drunk and lonely on a business trip. There’s really only one way this conversation could have gone from here, and I let it. I should have trusted my instincts and not encouraged him and although not drunk, I too was bored and kind of lonely. The texts escalated into some pretty naughty sex talk, mostly from him. I was merely along for the ride, and then…


BOOM!


An unsolicited video of him jacking off. It was only his junk in the video and a faint screen in the background showing a porno of an actor going to town from behind on an actress. “I cum a lot,” he said. “See?” And he did, a Vesuvius of man fluid, which has never really turned me on, but when men send me unsolicited pics or videos like this, I tend to err on the side of sarcasm to counter their swollen egos. So I texted, “Meh, I’ve seen bigger loads.”

“Ouch,” he wrote. Then, trying to keep up with my rapier wit, I wrote, “Did you put that porn on your expense account?” Not even a laughing emoji did I get from that rather clever quip. 

“That’s an old video,” he wrote. I thought, “how many jack off videos does this guy have in his arsenal? A lot probably.” So I wrote, “How many jack off videos do you have in your arsenal?”

He then sent another video, this time, live. “Here. This is from just now, just for you,” he wrote. How romantic. All jack off videos look the same to women - a dick, a hand, an ending. There isn’t much deviation. However, I was intrigued with 40’s bravado and reluctantly agreed with him that he does in fact create an unusual amount of product. And this is when things got really weird.

“I like to use toys also,” he wrote.

“On yourself or with someone?” I asked. I could feel my better judgement trying with might to reel me back in.

“On myself. I have a toy that I can use hands free. It milks my prostate.” First of all, milk should never be used as verb, especially when used in the context to which he was referring. The only time it should be used as such is when talking about cows. But I was somewhat curious and asked if he had to strap it on or what. I suppose I just wasn’t thinking. Of course it was something that goes straight up his ass. 

“I can send you a video if you want,” he wrote. I could not type fast enough hoping autofill would speed up the process. “Not tonight, thanks,” I wrote. But I was too late. He did not take heed to my response because at the exact instant my text read “delivered,” I got not one, but two videos of him using his hands free toy. I tried to delete them right away but when you click on a video in an iPhone text, it starts playing immediately. I couldn’t look away even though I knew I should have. There he was, his full face and body in view, my sweet, blond, mohawked 40 from the 311 concert fucking himself in the ass with a suction-cup blue dildo stuck to the wall of his shower, and he was indeed hands free, and wearing what appeared to be protective glasses, which made sense considering the sheer volume of fluid ounces he was able to milk out of himself. 

Myriad emotions pulsed through me. I was so conflicted. In one way, I was completely disgusted, repulsed and feeling somewhat violated. But in another way I was kind of turned on. What an odd sensation wanting to dry heave while simultaneously being aroused. Maybe I was the freak in this situation, but it’s not every day a woman meets a straight man who is comfortable enough with his sexuality that he freely admits to liking and participating in ass play, which most men I have been with steer as far away from as possible for fear that if they like it, it must mean they are gay. I have never understood that. Just because a man likes ass play doesn’t mean he’s gay. That’s like saying that just because I kiss a guy at a concert, I want to see a video of him engaging in ass play.

As I watched the video with bated breath, so many questions were circling my brain. Why would he send me a video of such graphic proportions in the first place, and why would he include his face in it? In this day and age of the internet, nothing is safe from being uploaded and spread across the entire metaverse for all the world to see. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to use Snapchat or another disappearing texting platform. Jack off videos just showing his dick, fine, that could be any man’s dick. But this video showing his face, his body, and his unique tattoos confirmed that this guy did not give a shit who saw it. I kept watching with wide eyes and a repulsion akin to when I watched that scene in Hostel where the guy slices that kid’s Achilles tendon clean though. 40’s hands on his knees rocking fore and aft on his toy moaning and groaning and saying, “Fuck yeah, baby.” Baby? Had he made this video for a former lover, or was Baby his pet name for his toy? The moaning and groaning was kind of hot. I am way more auditory than visual, which is why I get turned on watching male pro tennis players. There is something so sexual about listening to them grunt as they whack the ball with all their sweaty, manly strength. I love Wimbledon. But the squishing wet noise of the obviously lubricated toy going in and out of him ruined any excitement I could muster from his sexy groans. Faster and faster he kept at it until the culmination for which, because of the way his phone was positioned from below, looked like 3D white laser beams coming straight at my face. Maybe that was his cinematic vision whilst producing the video. Whatever the reason, it definitely worked for shock value.

I didn’t bother watching the other video. The first frame looked exactly like the first frame of the video I had just viewed, 40 backed up against his shower wall ready to rumble. 

“Too graphic?” He texted.

“Yes,” I wrote. “Plus, I just told you I didn’t want to see it.”

“OMG, I am so sorry. Now I feel bad for turning you off. I don’t usually reveal this side of myself to people. I just feel very comfortable with you.”

If I had a dollar for every time someone has said these exact words to me I’d be a lot wealthier than I am now. People for some reason feel very comfortable telling me dank, dark secrets about themselves, which I suppose is a blessing and a curse, that I give off a sense of openness and non-judgement, but with that comes the super freaks. However, this guy was playing me. A person who sends a video such as this, you can be sure feels extremely comfortable sharing all sides, inside and out, of himself with anyone. So his platitude meant nothing to me.

Why I didn’t end the conversation after he sent me the videos was beyond my scope of self awareness at the time. I think I was in too much shock from what I had just witnessed.

“Well, goodnight hun,” he wrote. “I’m beat.” Made sense. As far as I knew he had jerked it a minimum of two times that evening. We ended the conversation and I lay there in my bed contemplating what had just transpired between me and this person I hardly knew. I drifted off to sleep followed by vivid and disturbing visuals of his video on a loop in my head all night long.

The next day I received another message from him. “Good morning hun, how’s your day going?” followed by yet another jerk off video with the caption, “thinking of you.” Where did this guy find the time to jerk it so much, especially while on a business trip? Locating the right porn clip, angling the camera just so, not to mention the cleanup for which 40 had a lot of cleanup to do, seemed very time consuming. He sent me a few more texts about how he wanted to see me again and what he wanted to do to me when he did. And then he finally asked to see photos of me. I couldn’t believe how long it took him since this request is usually one of the first in sexting exchanges, so I sent him a text reading, “Here is a pic of my pussy,” followed by a photo of my cat, Bobby. He sent me a laughing emoji. I may have been an exhibitionist in my twenties during the pre-internet era, but sending anything other than innocuous photos nowadays is a hugely precarious endeavor. Apparently 40 did not get this memo.


And then… radio silence. 


I never heard from 40 again nor did I reach out to him. Even though he intrigued and nauseated me simultaneously, I knew that nothing good would come from corresponding with a freak like him. And make no mistake, I am not exempt from getting freaky. I’ve done my fair share of weird shit, but the freak scale is a spectrum, and for me 40 was too far outside the range of freakiness I could handle, not because of the act itself, I don’t care what people put in their asses on their own time, but because he chose to capture it as a keepsake video and send it to a woman he had just met. Who knows, had I gotten together with him again, maybe he would actually have tried the Dragon Punch and Strawberries and Cream on me, so I am pretty sure I dodged a very big bullet.

I am a romantic at heart and have always wanted to meet a man in a cute way as many of my friends have told me about how they met their husbands or partners. I had one friend who did meet her husband at a concert. I had another friend who met her boyfriend while sitting next to him on a plane. And of course I had read numerous magazine and web articles about people meeting in grocery stores, on vacation, in the library. But nothing has ever worked out for me that way. All I wanted was to kiss this very sweet guy at the 311 concert and at the very least leave it as a wonderful memory. But not for me. No. I don’t get that. I get the freakshow who after a few sweet hopeful texts sends me unsolicited videos of him ramming his ass onto a blue dildo suction cupped to his shower wall and then jizzing right onto the camera lens. That’s what I get. Not flowers, not poems. That. Why couldn’t he have sent me a video of him playing with a puppy or eating cotton candy or hugging his grandma? Is it a coincidence that his favorite band is named after the police code for indecent exposure? I think not.

So many bands remind me of wonderful times. REM reminds me of summers at my grandparent’s lake cottage, The Outfield reminds me of keg parties my freshman year of high school, Duran Duran reminds me of skating at the local roller rink. And then there’s 311, which used to remind me of my last year of college, my first year as a ski instructor, and kissing boys in bars. But that fateful night at Red Rocks changed all of that. Their song was right. I should have trusted my instinct right up until that last video when things became crystal clear and I realized the error of my ways for encouraging the dialogue with this nut job, and until I have an opportunity to forge new, less disturbing memories to disrupt the current ones burned into my brain in all their repulsive glory, 311’s music will henceforth be associated with 40 and his hands free magic milking toy, squishing noises and all.