Tasty Girl

By Cathy Roy

Twenty-one year old Eleanor Lindstrom’s life has been turned upside down. She’s been hired as an intern for San Francisco’s top underground radio station in 1978, KTST - Tasty, and is now one of the infamous Tasty Girls. A Tasty DJ, one of the top ten bachelors in San Francisco is chasing after her. Keith Underwood is slick, handsome, mysterious and everything her mother warned her about. Between dating a super stud, attending classes, being a DJ at the Stanford radio station (KZSU), and interning at Tasty – she’s come a long way from Vermillion, South Dakota.

Tasty Girl also explores questions such as: “Is it ethical to run a gambling ring to pay your tuition?”, “How many boyfriends are too many?” and last, but not least, “Can you enjoy better living through chemicals?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathy Roy
• Release date: May 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9780615527185

Cathy Roy

CATHY ROY dreams of living in a beach house and when not working in IT, she works on writing and performing. She started her career as a disc jockey at KZSU Stanford and worked for Polygram Records and Music Annex Recording Studios in the San Francisco Bay Area. She sang back up on one punk record and her acting/movie debut was in Can't Stop the Music -The Village People Movie (don't blink - you might miss her). She is working on her second novel - a historical ghost story and currently resides in Colorado.

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Tasty Girl

Cathy Roy

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Copyright Notice

Copyright 2016, Cathy Roy. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—with the exception of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper or magazine—without written permission from the publisher. For information, contact [e-mail]

This book is a work of parody. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Thursday, Rocktober 5, 1978

Friday, Rocktober 6, 1978

Saturday, Rocktober 7, 1978

Monday, Rocktober 9, 1978

Tuesday, Rocktober 10, 1978

Wednesday, Rocktober 11, 1978

Thursday, Rocktober 12, 1978

Friday, Rocktober 13, 1978

Saturday, Rocktober 14, 1978

About Cathy Roy

Connect with Cathy Roy

Acknowledgments

Dedicated to the memory of: Vince Bruno, Tom (Tuna) Price, James Burako and Gerald (our banker in the sky).

Special thanks for all the inspiration and for always believing in me and the music to:

Gina Balducci, Kate Ingram, Beverly Wilshire, Cory Boyan, Papa John, Stephen Ethridge, Jill Lovell, Tony Kilbert, Eric Lund, Hank London, Hal Balaban, Vernon McNemar, Tim O’Brien, Kelly Porter, Doug McCaslin, Kass Kapsiak, Hank London, Cynde Morris, Polygram Records Staff SF 1979-1980, KSAN 1977 on-air staff and interns, KZSU Staff 1976-1979.

Also big thank you to mentors/advisors/editors extraordinaire:

David Hicks, Carol Krueger, Janamarantha Cote, Joya Cory and RMFW.

Thursday, Rocktober 5, 1978

Some days you’re the dog and some days you’re the fire hydrant. That’s what my Uncle Casey used to say. Considering I was in the bathroom at the top FM radio in San Francisco, trying to pry a birth control device out of my cervix, I figured it was one of those fire hydrant days.

Jane took a deep hit off the joint as she crouched between my legs. She wore black cowboy boots with a long purple skirt and matching top. The ribbons in her flaming red hair were completely matted and hung limply to one side. Her thin wire glasses bent slightly to the right, but looked balanced with the freckles sprinkled across left side of her face.

We were crammed together in a stall. I was holding a makeup mirror out in front of me while she pointed the flashlight at my vagina or as Jane referred to it - my pookie.

Jane went to the University of San Francisco, while I went to Stanford. We both worked at our university radio stations and majored in Broadcasting. A week earlier at Stanford, I had seen a flyer about being part of an FDA experiment for a new kind of birth control. A couple of students had talked me into going with them and being part of a test group for a new device called a cervical cap, a small rubber thimble that went over your cervix. More reliable than birth control pills, and less messy than a diaphragm, was the sell for it. I wasn’t dating anyone at the time. As a matter of fact, it kind of bugged me it was already October and I didn’t have a boyfriend lined up for this year. Usually it was my goal to have a boyfriend by Halloween. By spring it was over, you went on summer vacation and you were back to school in the fall looking for a new romance. I had kept this schedule for most of high school. As a Stanford student, I seldom missed my goals.

When I signed up for a cervical cap, I felt I was contributing to women’s liberation in a small way. The problem was, I had inserted it two days earlier and now I couldn’t get it out. It supposedly worked on the suction principle, but it felt as though it was glued inside of me. I didn’t want to go to the school OB/GYN and have them lecture me about birth control. I called Jane about it yesterday and she assured me we would figure out a way to get it out.

I don’t get it, how do you pee? Jane asked.

Duh, it’s a cap for my cervix, I don’t pee from there.

She decided to go into the adjoining stall and shine the flashlight down at me while I held the mirror between my legs. She handed me the joint and banged into the next bathroom stall.

Maybe you should leave it in if you’re going to have a date tonight. She stood on the toilet and looked down at me.

I’m not going to sleep with him on the first date and even if I did, I still need to figure out how to get this thing out of me.

I put the mirror between my legs and aimed it towards my crotch. My plain white panties hung around my knees. I arched my butt towards the back of the stall. Jane turned on the flashlight. I couldn’t see much.

The light doesn’t help a bit, I told her, peering down.

Okay, maybe I should get on the ground, she said.

I heard her thump off the toilet and saw her hand come under the stall with the flashlight. I took a hit off the joint dangling from my mouth.

This isn’t going to work unless I look at your pookie, she told me.

I could see her squinting up at me. I spread my legs. We both started to giggle.

She shined the beam towards my crotch again. I looked in the mirror and tried to pry open my vagina. The joint was still smoking in my mouth. All I could see was a bit of rubber and lots of pink.

Try getting it out now, she told me.

I put the joint down on the back of the toilet. I tried to hold the mirror steady with one hand and reach inside myself with the other. All I could feel was rubber and it was stuck like glue.

Not working, I told Jane. It’s still stuck.

I dropped the mirror and it clinked on the floor but didn’t break.

Maybe you need to poke it on the side, she said, to release the suction?

I tried poking it, but nothing happened. We could hear the morning deejay sign off; it was 10:00 a.m. We had to go. Jane had a music staff meeting and I was interning for the new deejay that started today, so I needed to go staff the desk in the record library. I’d worry about it later, I told myself as I washed my hands.

My head was pounding, either from a lack of sleep or the combination of drugs and booze from the night before. I was balancing classes at Stanford, working at the Stanford radio station and interning at KTST – better known as Tasty. I was nineteen years old. Who needed sleep?

Walking down the large hallway we ran into Kate, better know as Skatekey, the station music director and our boss. The latest craze was to put ski at the end of everyone’s name, or to simply refer to them as Ski. It also referred to the amount of cocaine that was happening in radio and college: coke, snow, and ski. Kate had turned into Kate-ski and then Skatekey.

Kate was a petite blonde with a southern accent. She wore ripped blue jeans, Keds and a Clash t-shirt. Since we had become interns a few weeks ago, she had singled us out and given us special duties. She offered us Mink Deville tickets for tonight. Jane took one set of tickets, but I already had plans.

I continued to the large record library and sat down. In front of me was the studio where the deejays held court. To my right was another window filled with interns who answered phones. Some of the interns waved at me while others flipped me off. I smiled and flipped them off. Out of 200 interns interviewed, only 20 were picked. We were told only the lucky ones became Tasty-Terns. The desk was piled with records and paper. It was my job to put albums away alphabetically and type up the playlists from the day. They were tabulated on Friday and categorized into Most Played, Medium Played and Light Played. From there, the Music List was devised that Skate-key sent out to industry papers and record companies. Apparently interns were always misspelling the rock bands and getting the songs wrong. Quite a few left when a deejay exposed himself in the studio. Other interns couldn’t take the constant harassment from the deejays. It was looked upon as a right of passage.

On my first day a news guy had looked at me, dropped his pants and pretended to masturbate. I looked him straight in the eye, pretended to yawn, and went back to typing. There had been no other incidents since.

I typed for an hour, picked up a pile of records, sat on my knees and started to file. There were so many visitors in the studio I couldn’t make out the new deejay, but he had a voice like Barry White. Little Feat warbled Time Loves a Hero. I was engrossed in my filing when I noticed a man towering above me. He seemed incredibly tall, but I was on the floor. I was eye level with perfectly creased jeans and knew a great pair of Italian loafers when I saw them. The smell of musk enveloped me. A black man with the chiseled good looks of a European God leaned towards me and said with a husky voice, I’ve been watching you. I was glad I was sitting because otherwise I might have swooned

You may think you have fooled everyone with that quiet routine, he continued,

But I know you haven’t missed a thing that goes on in this station. He smiled. I’m on to you, Elle.

He grabbed two albums off my desk and slid like a panther back into the studio. I sat on the floor with my mouth open. How did he know my name? I got up and called Jane.

Meet me in the closet, I whispered.

The walk-in closet in the news department was used for drugs, romantic rendezvous, and gossiping. It was in the back of the station, where management never wandered.

I adopted a cool attitude and strolled leisurely down the hallway. No one was in the news department. I opened the closet door. Jane was already there. Through the walls, I could hear the teletype and paper piling up in the newsroom.

Jane had a flashlight and mirror. Are we going to try and get it out in here?

Ew, no. What are you thinking? This is different. You are never going to believe what happened to me. The new deejay – I was filing and….

The closet door opened and we both jumped. The same man stood before us.

What are you girls up to? He grinned, stepped inside and closed the door. Doing drugs without me?

He looked at the mirror and flashlight. I looked at Jane. I began to feel red rising up from my neck.

Jane flashed him a thousand- watt smile. Women must react like that to him all the time.

Who are you? I whispered.

It’s Keith, Jane answered. I thought you guys knew each other.

We haven’t been properly introduced, I said. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

Properly? Keith laughed. You don’t really look like you go to Vassar.

He glanced at my t-shirt. I was wearing a Stiff Records t-shirt that Kate had given me. It read, If it ain’t Stiff it ain’t worth a Fuck. My conservative mother would be horrified. I was finding it hard to breathe with him so close. Two in the closet was cozy; three was bodies pressing up against each other. I was very aware of the hard muscles beneath his shirt. My breasts were pressed against him. I felt my heart beat faster. UFO’s Love to Love was playing in the background.

We heard a commotion outside, as a large group of people came into the news department.

Actually I go to Stanford, I informed Keith as haughtily as I could muster.

Great, how are we going to explain this? I whispered to Jane.

Keith unbuttoned his shirt, unzipped his pants, messed up his hair and threw the door open.

Help! These girls are taking advantage of me!

He ran out into the hallway and disappeared. Jane and I stood in the closet while a group of newsmen in tie-dye stared at us, and burst out laughing. I