Gary and Nuno of Extreme

This guy got my number at a Coffee Bean in Santa Monica.
He’s a sweaty-yoga-class coffee drinker, what I’d call “post-pathetic.”
But, he’s a producer, and I certainly didn’t come to Los Angeles to hang out only with stupid Italians so, “Whatever. Another fucking concert can’t hurt.”

Extreme. Tuesday night at the House of Blues. Okaaaay.
I move from the mirror to the closet to find a dress that matches the accessories of my showery nudity: blue stilettos, Ray-Bans and two gigantic hoop earrings.

Post-Pathetic Producer picks me up. He must be the same age as the guys we’re going to see.
Back in the early ’90s, Extreme was the two “oh, wow” brothers of More Than Words.
In reality, their brotherhood was just a bewildering voice my school girlfriends had created out of their incestuous fantasies.

After a couple of half-smiled beers and a few cigarettes, the lights and the music finally turn the stage on.

For the first minute, I’m in shock:  Jesus, Gary Cherone is the quintessence of sex!
My lips are dying to taste the sour sweat on the fortress of his full-bodied voice. They’d fight against its iron nerves, defeat all those seductive muscles and pierce that impenetrable skin just to reach, touch and kiss his agile cords of notes.

But it’s when the ambience calms down from the hot blooded energy of Get the Funk Out and Decadence Dance, that I really feel Nuno.
He sits at the piano and his fingers make Ghost, an insightful extract from their most recent album Saudades de Rock, fly up in a lyrical, blue melody.

And, when his exotic Hole Hearted sings into my eyes “there’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you,” I’m about to believe his betraying guitar, but an awkward left hand ring disarms my interest. No green card for me, here.

Gary’s hands are free, instead.
Too bad I can’t go meet him backstage, though.
Post-Pathetic Producer cannot see the slut I am; there’s the risk he demands the same treatment for himself, then.
And, in Hollywood, a smart girl never offends a masculine ego.

Another lonely night is the price to pay.
But, imagination doesn’t know boundaries. So, here Gary comes.
My thighs embrace his powerful senses, hold his warm breath and press on his explosive life.

Sorry, but we’re heading to a place where visitors are not allowed.

Story by Liliana Isella.