The Insider Magazine

Sex, Rock-And-Roll Cock And David Cassidy

Every twenty minutes that I could get free would be spent with women. In my dressing room, in the lot, in my car, anywhere. This was not out of boredom—this was out of having no life. I didn’t have any time to have a relationship with someone or any chance to cultivate one. But so much overt sexuality was being directed at me, and I was extremely horny.

I never hit on people. I didn’t have to do that, fortunately. People said things to me all the time like, “Hi. Want to fuck?” I always liked that blatantly honest approach. No bullshit, right? Ah, it makes me miss the seventies even now just a little when I think of how wild a time it was. And free; or so we thought.

Sex was just sex. It was there. It presented itself to me numerous times during the course of the day, and I could take advantage of it or not. Pick anyone. Who would you like to meet? Who would you like to sleep with? I was twenty-one years old, my dick was always hard, and they were all so willing. Yeah, I can live with this …

I had many sexual encounters. Did I do anything any red-blooded twenty-one-, twenty-two-, twenty-three-, twenty-four-year-old boy wouldn’t have done if given the opportunity? The most beautiful women in the world are out there, they’re calling you, going, “I’ve got to see you. Please let me see you.” And they would come up to my room.

I also happen to really love women. I think they’re beautiful. I find them enchanting creatures. I find the feminine aspect of their personalities very attractive. It feels good to me. I enjoy being with them. I enjoy their attention. I enjoy giving them attention. The difference between me now and me in my early twenties is I now enjoy giving a lot more than I enjoy receiving. Back then, I was more self-centered. Much more selfish. More chauvinistic.

I loved that women came on to me. In the beginning there were extras who worked on the TV show and occasional actresses. Girls would start coming up to the house, too. And they’d show up at the recording studio, on the road, be all over the hotels—fans. But women. You have to remember, sometimes there would be a thousand people in the lobby, fans screaming, waiting to meet me.

On my tours there were not just underage girls but women who would follow me around in droves—flying, driving, taking buses and trains. There was a whole group of women that would follow the tour; they had our itinerary.

When I say I had sexual encounters with fans, I’m not talking about the young fans who watched the TV show; I’m talking about older, sexual-groupie fans. When some female comes up to your car, with no bra on, a shirt open to her navel, showing off her tits, and says, “Hi”—you know what’s going on .

Some would say, “I’ve traveled miles just to see you.” I’d say, “Oh, well, it’s very nice to meet you. I wonder what you’ve come for. Just to stand in the lobby because you wanted a glimpse of me? I don’t think so. Let’s be honest. What you really came for is …” Yeah!

Or I might say, “You can see me for ten minutes. Do you want to talk to me for ten minutes? Or do you really want to have sex with me? Tell me the truth.” That’s a very powerful turn-on. “Just tell me the truth … what do you really want?”

I genuinely liked some of them. They were women who I got to know, talk to, spend a little time discussing what they were doing. They could tell me what they felt about me and my records, albums, concerts, whatever it was they wanted to talk about. I would listen and have a real conversation with a real person who wasn’t just someone I was working with. It gave me a chance to actually be in contact with the real world through sexuality. Then it was a matter of living up to—after we’d talked a little—their own sexual fantasy.

Fortunately I’ve never had sexual problems. I was comfortable with myself sexually. My father and mother were both open people for their generation, I guess coming from the theater. My dad, at times, was overtly affectionate. I had the impression he was quite a ladies’ man. And his father before him, too. So maybe my fascination with the ladies was partly a genetic inheritance.

“Oh, man, oh, man. You really have been blessed with a rock-and-roll cock.”

Women began to ask me, after they met me, if the rumor about my dick was true: that I happened to have been rather well endowed, they told me. My penis became a sort of legendary, in an underground sort of way. My brothers call me “Donk.” It’s their nickname for me. One fellow even published a book on the Hollywood scene that described me as pulling down my pants, and an impressed female fan gasping, “Oh, man, oh, man. You really have been blessed with a rock-and-roll cock.” Well, I don’t know if I had been blessed with a rock-and-roll cock or not. But I decided that if I had it, there wasn’t any point in just keeping it in the holster all the time. I’d have to let it out. And let it out I did. I also never thought I’d be writing all this private, embarrassing shit about it, either!

I mean, okay. So I had a serious sexual appetite. When I was in my early twenties to mid-twenties I was really raging. And as the pressures of my career mounted, I felt like, If I’m not going to be able to go down the street anymore, not going to be able to go to any public places, not going to be able to live life like a normal person—at least I’m going to have sex. If people aren’t going to know me as David Cassidy, fine—at least I’m going to be me in my bedroom. There the real David Cassidy could live; and live well.

And as soon as people started to talk to me, they’d find out I was not that guy on the TV show. I had much more adult thoughts and sexual fantasies. Part of the game became: I can do anything, I can have anyone I want. I mean, come on, who wouldn’t get turned on by that?

I became fascinated with women who really enjoyed the art of giving oral sex. The dialogue became the aphrodisiac. The fact that they wanted me. I felt sexually aroused by their wanting to please me, wanting to satisfy me, wanting to touch me, wanting to be intimate with me.

We’d be in my room, one-on-one. I’d say, “Tell me how you fantasize about me.” I always wanted to hear them tell me. I not only wanted to hear them talk to me about me, but I really wanted to be inside their lives. I’d want to know, “How did you end up in my room? What did it take for you to go out and buy a ticket or come back to the hotel and sit and wait or chase me or chase the car I was in? What motivated you? How much do you desire this person?” This David Cassidy guy they thought I was.

In truth I knew it wasn’t me they loved; they really didn’t know me. It was the image of me, this person that permeated the media. I was trying to find out, What made you idolize this creation? Could it have been something about the real me?

Being a guy with a very healthy sexual appetite—a male in his twenties with a libido that wouldn’t stop—I was trying to realize my own fantasies. As opposed to fantasizing about beautiful chicks while masturbating three or four times a day like a lot of younger males, I got to live out my fantasies.

But for me, the act of sexual intercourse represented a serious commitment, which oral sex did not. I could indulge in the fantasy with talk and oral sex, without feeling I’d really committed myself, in terms of time or emotion. So, not always but pretty nearly always I avoided sexual intercourse in these casual encounters. I even then had to feel a real connection before I’d sleep with them.

To me, the actual act of intercourse seemed like serious business. You took off your shoes, socks, pants—which you didn’t for oral sex. The girl would also have to stay for a while—oh, shit! she might even want to stay the whole night! Which was not something I usually wanted. In addition, with intercourse, you risked knocking her up. Nobody wore rubbers in those days. So I felt I had to be very careful if I actually had intercourse. (And sometimes I was. My friends and I also took antibiotics constantly—our motto was we lived on brown rice, sex, and tetracycline—which we figured would protect us from getting venereal diseases. Luckily I only got one case of gonorrhea and that was when I was in high school.) I didn’t have a lot of intercourse, considering that it was available in such abundance. I still held on to this romantic concept, that intercourse should mostly be saved for more meaningful relationships. Well, okay. Maybe not meaningful. But at least I’d know their last name.

One of the most celebrated groupies of the era, known as Barbara the Butter Queen, came to the arena when I played Dallas. If you were a rock star—or close to one—Barbara the Butter Queen sort of went with the territory. She was a legendary groupie, notorious in the business. She sexually serviced countless rockers of the sixties and seventies. I’d heard her name in connection with Joe Cocker, the Rolling Stones, Donovan, and others. The guys in my band and crew just gasped when they heard that Barbara the Butter Queen was actually coming in to do them all. They were really shaking in anticipation. I was sort of fascinated by the groupiedom of it. I mean in the sixties and seventies you could actually become famous for doing fellatio. What a concept! I think it’s preposterous now, but at the time it was a very amusing thought.

Barbara got into all the gigs she wanted to for free because she would blow all the promoters and she would blow all the guys at the gate. Everybody knew her. She would blow everybody along the way, in order to get to the rock star. So democratic of her.

When she arrived at my three-room hotel suite where we were having a party after the concert, she looked to be about twenty-seven or maybe even thirty. She was no kid. She looked tired, and spoke with a real Texas drawl. She was not a beauty; not even attractive, nor were the two younger girls—her apprentices—she brought with her. She looked us all over, the whole band and crew, and announced, “I’ll take the star, the dark, hairy one, and the guitar player. My girls will divvy up the rest.” She had been through all of this so many times before. She made some small talk about how she thought rock was dead, and she had seen its glory years. By this point, I was not into the situation at all. She was a joke. This wasn’t gonna turn me on at all.

One of her girls decided she would take the horn section and the other would take the rhythm section or something like that. The girls were actually very shy; they obviously hadn’t had anywhere near the experience Barbara had. But some trumpet players had brought up a couple of other chicks, who were like hookers, to join in the action. By this point, Steve and Sam (the dark, hairy one) were laughing at the way some of the guys in the band—who were so horny—were looking at all these chicks like, I’ve died and gone to heaven! So grim!

Barbara picked up the phone and called room service. “This is Mr. Cassidy’s suite, room whatever. Can we have a pound of butter, please?” And up came a silver tray with tubs of butter! That was her gimmick—she liked to use butter as a lubricant. I can’t say it was really different from any other lubricant, except for the unmistakable smell. Okay, let’s go to the movies!

Barbara and her girls went about the business of going down on everybody. I would not do anything in front of my whole entourage; I was still much too private a person for that. But I felt comfortable with Steve and Sam. Because we’d been friends for years now and were sharing a house, the three of us went in my bedroom with Barbara. She warmed some butter in her hands, while we started to undress. I wasn’t into her going down on me at all. But Sam had the look of love in his eyes.

She took one look at me and said—trying to flatter me, I guess—“Oh wow, man, you’ve got it all over Mick Jagger.” Then, before I got too cocky, she turned to Sam and said, “Oh wow, man, look at all that hair. I’m in love with you.”

She brought out this butter and put it all over Sam. You know what butter smells like when it’s hot? Steve and I began watching television, she was blowing Sam, and I said to Steve, “Pass the popcorn.” He fell over, dropped to his knees. It was all over for us. Steve and I rolled out of the room. Barbara must have been with Sam for two hours. I finally had to kick them out. But it was hysterical. The whole place smelled like old buttered popcorn. Funky, very, very funky. I didn’t care. I loved the fact that Sam got into it. He was after all my best friend. He, too, loved livin’ the good life.

So Sam and I had a little party one night up at the house in Encino. We played music. A few friends of ours came by. I lived on a street called White Oak Avenue, up by the reservoir—a very quiet residential street, with pretty wealthy people around. And, for added privacy and security, I had an electric wrought-iron gate.

We were all getting pretty drunk that night, as young bucks in Hollywood do, when we heard the buzzer at the gate around midnight. Steve answered it. The rest of us listened as some girl that none of us knew, down at the gate, started talking sex to Steve over the intercom. I remember him saying, “Okay, but do you want to suck it? Tell me how you want to suck it? There are seven of us up here.” We all suddenly got real quiet, then of course we started to lose it.

We were drunk, falling down laughing. Steve and I decided we’d walk down to the gate. The girl wanted to see me, of course, but by this point she felt as if she knew Steve because she’d been talking on the intercom with him. And by the time we got to the gate, she was already down on her knees, her face pressed right up between the slats of the gate. We both pulled out our willies and she did us under the stars, right through the gate.

I think back on it; and it’s crazy. I must have been fucking mad! Had anybody—a stranger, a cop, anybody —driven down White Oak Avenue at midnight, they would have seen this girl giving blow jobs to David Cassidy and Steve Ross through the bars of my gate. We could have all wound up in jail. But once again the Good Lord shined his light …

I guess it’s safe to say that at that time a lot of fans would have done anything for me. I’ll admit I did things that I now think were degrading toward women that I’m ashamed of. Once I got them into my home or hotel room, I found I could tell them to get down on their knees and bark like a dog or act like a choo-choo train, and they’d do it gladly. I think they were happy just to get close to me. It was folly for me. But I know now how totally unconscious of their feelings I was.

I’m not sure I felt worthy of all the adulation I received as a teen idol. You’re always trying to convince yourself that you really are worthy of it. But are you? Come on, no one’s worthy of all that. It’s just a thing that happens. There’s a lot of other guys who were more handsome and talented. I can’t explain it. I happened to come along in the right vehicle, at the right time. Everything was right. Oh, how wrong innocence can be.

It’s bizarre but true that, once I became really famous, virtually the only real contact I had with humans was with women who’d want to have sex with me. They’d come into my inner sanctum for a little while and we’d talk. I’d talk to them about the simplest, most mundane things. They’d say, “Oh, you wouldn’t care about this, I work at this job.” Blah, blah, blah. But I did care. They became my last connection to the outside world. It was like, “Oh, what’s it like? You sit behind a desk? Tell me what it’s like,” I’d say. Because I never knew that. I didn’t live that kind of a life. So I’d ask, “Where do you go for fun? Do you go bowling? What do you do? What’s it like when you stand in line at the bank?” In a sense, they became my connection with the real world.

On tour there’d be all these girls hanging around the hotels. The guys in the band and the roadies—guys who were there to assist me in one way or another on the tours—would pull in girls who were looking for me. Sometimes those guys would tell the girls they’d have to have sex with them first if they expected to ever meet me. That was the deal. I learned later, there were plenty of girls who were glad to comply. When you’re dealing with rock and roll and with young chicks in heat with their hormones really roarin’, I suppose it never changes.

On the road there was plenty of sex for every member of my entourage who wanted it. I mean, it really got stupid. I had a guy traveling with me who had only one job to do—to hand me my guitar when I needed it for one number in my concert and then to take it back from me after I’d finished that number. I can remember this one huge outdoor daytime concert where I reached the point where I was supposed to do the number with the guitar. The fans were screaming and yelling, eager for me to get on with the show. I was going, “Thanks, and now for my next trick …” while I’m looking around frantically for the guitar. Nothing. Nowhere. Finally, way off to one side, I saw this guy who was supposed to be handing the guitar to me.

He’s on the open back end of a truck, facing in, his pants down around his knees, his white ass hanging out; he was fucking some chick from behind. I screamed over to him. I mean, he had only one job to do in this show and he couldn’t even do that! Why? Because he was fucking some fan of mine—in the middle of my show! He couldn’t even wait until it was over. Okay. David might have needed his guitar then, but my equipment man had his priorities. And you want to know something? I didn’t fire him. Because that’s how loose things were. With everybody who toured with me, the concern for them seemed to be, “How much can you get on the road?” I’d come back to my hotel suite from doing a gig and find one of my security guys naked with some chicks in the Jacuzzi; he’d told them they had to go through him if they wanted to meet David. There was a lot of that. It pissed me off when that happened. I felt taken advantage of and I hated them taking advantage of a fan’s desire to get to meet me.

Sometimes it became a contest between a couple of the guys in my entourage to see how many girls they could pull for me. They thought they were impressing me or something, or somehow proving their masculinity by rounding up a lot of girls quickly. But for me, it usually felt terrible. Empty. What was I supposed to be, some sex machine servicing the groupies of the world? It was uncomfortable, feeling I had to live up to others’ expectations that I be some superstud if I was a star.

I can remember one night, I just felt awful; I didn’t know what to do. These guys had rounded up seven different girls. They had them waiting for me, undressed, in the outer room of my hotel suite, and they’d send them into my bedroom at ten-minute intervals. I mean, after ten minutes, one of these guys would knock on the door and order the girl, “Come out, please.” And then send in the next one. Sexist. Sleaze. I hated it.

So you want to know what I did with them in my hotel bedroom that particular night, with one naked girl after another parading in to see me?

Nothing.

I mean, I was lying on the bed naked, totally prepared for sex. The girls came in to see me one at a time. Most, I have to tell you, were fairly unattractive to begin with. And whatever self-confidence they might have had when they left their homes earlier that evening to go to my concert seemed to have been stripped of them in that outer room, along with their clothes. Whatever facade they might have had of being clever or cool, baby—that was gone.

I can remember the first girl coming in, awkward and uncomfortable, standing nude at the foot of my bed saying, “Well, uh, hi. I, uh, guess you sort of know what I’m here for.” Yeah. I got that. And then suddenly it hit me and I was totally turned off. I thought of my roadies out there in the other room, so proud that they could get these seven girls up here like this. Was I supposed to have sex with all of them? Was this supposed to be fun? I felt, somehow, emasculated by the whole situation. I felt like a sleaze myself.

I’m sure there are some of you out there who are reading this book who might strongly disapprove of promiscuity, who will say I “used” women. You’re right. I did. But it wasn’t always clear to me who was really “using” whom. I was frequently the one being pursued by fans who wanted me much more than I wanted them. I sometimes felt I was losing myself by giving myself to strangers.

Like there was this one fan, a blonde of about nineteen or twenty, who used to wait at the TV studio gates for me, evening after evening. After a while, she must have figured out the way I often drove home, because one evening she flagged me down some distance from the studio, pleading how she’d missed her bus, she was nervous about hitchhiking, and could I please just this once give her a ride home? I recognized her from the gate at the studio, of course, and I said if I gave her a ride, I’d have to give rides to every girl who waited by the gate. But she kept pleading fervently, begging me, practically in tears until I finally agreed to give her a ride. She said she was headed in my direction, anyway. I told her I was really beat; I’d gotten no sleep the night before; this was just a lift, nothing else. She told me how she was from the East, and was an aspiring dancer. She said that when she’d first seen me on TV, she didn’t know what it was about me but she knew she had to meet me. And now she was in California, and she wanted to get to know me. I told her there were a lot of people who thought they wanted to get to know me, but it simply wasn’t possible for me. When it came time for me to drop her off, it took five minutes to get her out of the car because she kept saying she just wanted one kiss from me, and I kept saying, “Look, I don’t even know you; I don’t want to kiss you. You seem like a relatively sane human. Now just go, okay?”

After finally getting rid of her, I drove over to Western Studios in Hollywood for a long recording session. When I left the session—it was after one in the morning—that same girl was there again. I don’t know how she’d known where I was, but she said she’d been waiting by the recording-studio door for several hours to see me and could I please give her a lift home.

I said, “What you’re asking me is silly.”

She said, “Okay, then I’ll have to hitch home.”

“At one-thirty in the morning? In Hollywood? You can’t do that. Oh, shit. ”

I reluctantly let her get in my car again and asked her where she lived. It was over in a low-rent area. I started driving her home. We hadn’t gone more than a couple of blocks before she began unbuttoning her shirt. I couldn’t help myself now, folks; I just wanted to look at her enormous breasts. They were beautiful. I put on the brake and sat there staring for like ten seconds in disbelief. From her bucket seat, she lunged at me, over the gearshift lever. We were getting entangled. I was sweating profusely, almost peaking, you know, and thinking, Oh my God, some cop could come along, and I’m in the middle of Fountain Avenue, jumping some groupie I’ve just met today. I felt like I couldn’t hold back much longer, either. But somehow I got her home first. We pulled into this big garage behind her apartment building, and there—in her parking stall in this garage—she was all over me. She sat on the gearshift knob. She sat on me. And I just, you know, I just let her do whatever she wanted. Physically I had no resistance to offer. I’d been up for forty-eight hours, I’d sung all night after filming the TV show all day. I still had on my TV makeup, which was running, because I was so sweaty.

After a few days, she began turning up at the gate again, and she wrote me letters for years, recalling that one night as if it had been a very important night in her life. I talked with her briefly once more, but I refused to give her any more rides home because I knew what would happen if I did. And the truth is, I hadn’t felt good at all the day after we had had sex. I had just felt kinda used, low, and demeaned.

To tell you the truth, a lot of the times sex with strangers had become boring. I had sexual encounters with a number of women with whom there was no emotional connection, no romance. Maybe sometimes they were getting off on being close to a star, but for me it was often like masturbation, even if another person was involved.

Once, Sam brought a girl home with him who turned out to be a real nutcase—she was obsessed with me, although she lied about it. It became a rather difficult situation because Sam thought she was in love with him, and it turned out she had a fixation about me. But she lied to him to get into our world. She used him, but he really dug her. That was fucking awful.

He met this girl on one of our tours. She was really dirty—I mean literally, dirt all over her hands—but there was something about her. You looked at her and she just reeked of sex. And Sam fell for it, big-time. I mean, she really got under his skin. He brought her around. Showed her off. Then she got drunk one night, out on the road, and started crawling into my room. Banging on my door, crying. I wasn’t interested; I certainly hadn’t in any way invited her. A couple of my guys grabbed her and took her down-stairs. Sam couldn’t look me in the eye. He tried to rationalize the situation, saying, “Well, she was drunk.” He felt duped, and hurt. I couldn’t blame him.

I said, “Yeah, but she was crawling to get into my room. That tells you something.” He was really hurt by it and a little angry at me.

Some girls tried to go through the band to get to me. The guys in the band often wouldn’t want to let those girls get away. And so I might not even meet them. In the end, we had a name I coined: “Squeaky Clean”—which was me—“and the Dirty All-Night Boys.” (In fact, I wanted to make an album under that alias, Squeaky Clean and the Dirty All-Night Boys. Steve and I were going to do some of the stuff from our garage-band days—all that really hard, stoned-rocker stuff I loved before getting trapped into the Partridge Family bag.)

It hardly mattered that the guys in my band may have had wives or steady girlfriends back home. It’s a perverse existence being out on the road. The musicians could be really great at home, but as soon as they walked through the airport metal detectors, they’d turn into animals. I’d watch their behavior go from “Bye, honey,” as they’d give their wives goodbye kisses, to sitting in some hotel room filled with fans, with peanut butter on their dicks.

There were some younger fans who followed us around who made it clear they were interested in me sexually, and some were quite beautiful. But I was well aware of the difficulties Elvis and others had had, due to involvements with underage girls. And I was also concerned about the possibility of inflicting trauma on someone who was just too young. I learned how to say no gracefully.

It was not always easy turning down those temptations. I can remember one fourteen-year-old who wanted to have sex with me, but I wouldn’t do it. I felt like such an old square, declining her offer. She was a virgin, and one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. I told her I didn’t want to be the one to take her virginity. “Save it, baby. Your time will come soon.”

She said, “I wasn’t going to do it with anyone until I was at least sixteen, but I want to make love to you. I want to sleep with you.”

I said, “You don’t know how difficult this is for me to tell you, but I can’t; I just can’t. It’s too creepy.” And of course, I didn’t. She wrote me a long, really lovely letter later. That was as great a temptation as I have had.

I had some male groupies, too, who’d hang around the hotel or wherever I was, waiting to see me. Some transvestites, some gay guys. I always liked seeing them. They were always all right. Amusing. If I was ever stopped by them, I always found them interesting. I never treated them any differently or thought about them any differently than any female fans who might hang around. I’d say, “Would you like an autograph,” or whatever—you know. I guess many of them fantasized about sleeping with me. Who knows .

Part of the bizarreness of being a teen idol, a rock star, and a TV star is becoming the focus of people’s sexual fantasies—both male and female. I used to feel flattered when I’d hear that a friend had gone into a gay bar and heard that half the guys said they’d slept with me. I thought it was funny. I’ve always figured it’s a compliment when someone says they’re attracted to you. Gay friends would say to me, “Hey, I hear you’ve been spending a lot of nights at the Rusty Nail,” a popular nearby gay bar. Right! As if I had the energy or the time to go out to any bars after work! But there’d be that kind of gossip. There’s a great line I wish I could take credit for but I think Dustin Hoffman said it first: “I knew I’d made it as a performer when I first began hearing rumors I was gay.” It means you’ve penetrated people’s sexual fantasies.

And as my fame grew, I became even more reclusive. I was barely out of my teens, being told I was some kind of demigod with a responsibility to millions of kids. I was told I had the largest fan club in history. Bigger than the Beatles, bigger than the Monkees, bigger than Elvis, bigger than all of it. You’re the deal, kid. The big brass ring.

How do you respond to all of that? Well, I went into a shell. I hid myself, who I really was. I hid my sexuality. I hid my personal life. I had some fear that if people really got to know me, they wouldn’t love me as much. How would they really feel about me if they really knew who I was? I wasn’t this superhuman I was being built up to be.

For a couple of years during the run of The Partridge Family, I went to see a psychiatrist every Monday night. I wanted help in dealing with stresses that were too great for me. I was particularly bothered by my inability to form lasting friendships with women.

How was I supposed to really meet anybody? Where was there an opportunity? I couldn’t go to a bar. I couldn’t go to a restaurant. In my working environment, I worked with essentially the same people day after day. Occasionally there’d be a female guest star on the TV show. But what were the odds that the female guest star would be someone you really wanted to go out with? And usually they’d already be either married or involved. So the only people I really got to meet were actresses or extras on the show or people who would somehow occasionally get on the set, even though we had a closed set.

The only way that I had human contact was through my few friends, Sam and Steve and a couple of other people, but mostly through them.

But it’s an uncomfortable thing to say to a friend, “Hey, pal, go find me some really attractive women I can sit and talk to. And get to know. Or even just sit and relax and rub oil all over ourselves.” Yeah, right. So that became the frustration .

Dante Mariana

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