Ezra Titus

1966 – 2009


When I was very young, my father said, “Never trust
straight people. Straight people are sick.” –

When I was 24, I finally went into NYC to meet
my accountant. With no skill whatsoever, I’d become
one of his most successful clients, and he offered to
take a friend and I out for drinks. I brought my bass
player, Nick. We were in a band called “Inflictor”, and
you couldn’t hope to meet two young men more
socially unacceptable than we were. We got into the
city early and went to a few strip-joints, to flirt with the
girls and slide a few dollars into their garters.

By the time we met my banker, we’d already
guzzled about fifty beers, and we were laughing as
we entered The Fifth Avenue Gentleman’s club,
wearing Megadeth T-shirts with hair three feet long.
They almost threw us out, but Joe, my banker, stood
up and called us over to his table. At first, I thought
he was a waiter and said, “I’m meeting someone. I’ll
have a beer.” I was embarrassed when Joe
introduced himself. The man I’d only known by his
voice over the phone was there, short and thin with
gray hair and a gray suit. He was tight and clean, with
just a bit of a nervous twitch around his lips to hint at
his true self. He was obviously appalled by my


appearance. He hadn’t known what to expect, Nick
and I knew this, and were too drunk to care. The
discussion was vague, full of small talk, and we came
to no decision regarding anything of substance. Nick
and I wanted to leave as soon as we could, return to
the strip-clubs and continue our mission there.

Finally, the “meeting” was over and Nick and I
headed back to the underbelly of New York, counting
our cash and thinking about whether we liked
blondes, Puerto Rican girls, Euro trash or what have
you. We spent hours ogling the topless women of
Times Square and commenting on their physiologies,
laughing and drinking until we were ready to drive
On the way back to the car, we stopped at a
porno shop to get a little souvenir of our trip to NYC.
We laughed as we browsed the collections of porn
videos, pointing out especially outlandish pictures
and titles like, “Gigantic Anal Whores” and
such. “Look!” Nick said, “A ‘German Discipline’
section … It’s this whole aisle.” We chuckled, looking
at the covers of movies like “Stalag 69” and “Ilsa,
Harem Keeper of The Oil Sheiks”. We had never
seen so much funny shit in one place, ever. Then, as


we started looking at the movies in the “Hardcore
S&M” section, we suddenly stopped laughing. In
shock, we found ourselves looking at pictures –
pictures that looked very authentic, of girls with
cigarette burns all over them. There were people with
their bodily orifices crudely sewn shut, dripping blood,
and people hanging by hooks driven through their
cocks or girls by their tits. Nick and I agreed, it all
looked real, and it didn’t seem so funny. But the thing
neither of us has ever forgotten was that, as we
browsed through the section in horror, there on the
cover of one video was Joe, my banker, hanging
upside down by hooks through his balls and getting
fucked up the ass by a seven foot tall transvestite.
Nick and I were breathless. The guy we’d just met,
who had seemed so much more acceptable and
sober than we were, was there on this video cover
doing something we’d never even thought of until we
saw the picture. Nick and I agreed, it was horrifying.
One couldn’t just look at the strippers and pimps and
know who was really on the wrong track. The people
who were truly sick could be anyone; a next door
neighbor, a real estate broker, any “normal” looking
person, innocuously passing you by on the sidewalk.
For us, it was a sobering revelation that took all the
fun out of the day. Nick and I rode toward our


hometown in silence for a while before I finally
said, “That’s fucking freaky man.” Nick said, “I know.
It could be anybody.”

Now, Times Square has changed. Mayor
(((((Juliani))))) created a strange ordinance,
mandating that a strip-joint could only be located
within a block of a church. The more financially sound
strip-joints immediately put up churches, like, “Johnny
B. Goode’s Church of Guitars” right across the street.
The less fortunate went out of business though, and
the video stores have to have a “Family” – non-porno
section in the front. One thing hasn’t changed though:
Straight guys in business suits still show up at urban
dungeons to pay $400 for a whipping before they go
on to their deluxe, corner offices. So, next time you
see a clean shaven man or woman in a business suit,
don’t think of them as being superior to you until you
consider this: They all become different people after
5:00, and that sharp looking professional could really
be just about anybody. In fact, the straight ones are
usually the most decadent of all. Just imagine them
strung up on some torture wheel, getting a flaming
enema or whatever. Then, you can treat them like
everybody else.