Fuck it, is right—I’ve always felt that way about life, about dares, about doing what I was told not to do. But after it was clear that Heather and I were getting divorced, my motto was Fuck it with a capital F —I didn’t give a flying fuck about shit. That period of my life lasted, I’d say, from the day that blow job blew up my home life until we finally signed the papers in 1995.

I was mad at myself for ruining the best relationship I’d known up until then and I was mad at Heather for not wanting to take time off work for what I thought was the real reason two people get married—to make a family.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I got really loose from the moment Heather hung up the phone on me. I knew I wasn’t going home that night, so I figured I might as well go big. I call Ron Jeremy and tell him to bring the girl who blew me down to the studio with as many of her friends as she could pack into the car.

I was in the studio that night working on Mötley Crüe, the one album we did with John Corabi on vocals. We were mixing that night and Corabi, a few roadies, our producer Bob Rock, my friend and sound editor Scott Humphrey, and the studio staff were there. Four girls show up and one of them possesses one of my favorite traits in a woman: yes, my favorite, a squirter.

The girls come in and lie across the half-million-dollar SSL recording console in our studio and start ramming one another. They are already drunk and they’re splashing their vodka-and-cranberrys all over this expensive piece of equipment while the studio engineers freak the fuck out. These guys are frantically wiping up the booze trying to save the equipment and their jobs without missing the show. They were watching a porno—and it wasn’t on TV and when Ol’ Faithful shot her stuff all the way across the room and into a bowl of fruit, coating the board and everything else in range with her rocket juice, none of us could believe it.*

I knew that in the studio next door Nine Inch Nails was recording The Downward Spiral. I had met Trent Reznor before and I was friends with his bassist Danny Lohner. I knew it was Danny’s birthday and here in front of me was the perfect present.

If you read the credits of The Downward Spiral you’ll see a special thanks to Tommy Lee on “Big Man with a Gun” and here’s why. The beginning of the track is the sound of one of those very same girls cumming. They reversed it and fucked with the tone of it, but if you listen closely, you’ll hear her. I bring the girls across the hall into the Nine Inch Nails studio, lay them out on Trent’s grand piano, and say, “Dudes, set up the mikes, get some grapes, roll the tape, and have a seat. You’re not gonna believe this.” The girls take grapes and stick them in the squirter’s pussy only to suck them out and stick more in. Soon enough, here we go, I can tell it’s squirt time again, so I turn to everyone and say, “Dudes, you’d better duck.” This time Ol’ Faithful hits the wall and everyone freaks. And that was just the appetizer course, because the girls keep playing with her and fifteen or twenty minutes later she’s screaming again, which is the cue for the spew. Woah, hey, woah, here it comes—juice flies everywhere. I had been around the world many times. I’d looked high and low, and finally I’d found another squirter. She was the only other one I’d seen since my first girlfriend. It was a mindfuck of a day, and all I could think was, “You lose some, you win some. I lost a wife but I found another squirter.”

A few days later I moved my shit out of the house I shared with Heather and into a beach house I rented for myself. It cost me seven grand a month and it was right on the sand in Malibu. It was where I needed to go to air my head out and start over. I was in a lot of pain, so fuck it, I lost myself in pleasure to forget about it and embarked on a completely illegal summer. Here’s some evidence from the files: One night I was sitting around with about four buds—all of whom have already thanked me for not naming them here. We had been drinking, we were all fucked up,

so fuck it, I call a porno chick.

When she arrives at my summerhouse of sin, she finds five really horny, really fucked up guys there. She sits and has a few drinks, then a few more, and then one or two more after that. My bed at the time was a huge canopy contraption that looked like an old carriage that Cinderella would ride to the ball in. It was perfect for our purposes. She walks into the bedroom and has us tie her up by her feet, so she’s hanging from the epicenter of the love sled. She’s dangling upside down and can be conveniently spun in a circle to better suck everyone’s dick. She was weightless, free to just go ’round and ’round, take everyone’s manhood, sample the all-you-can-eat cock buffet, and ride the penis-go-round until the carnival shuts down, and everyone on the ride gets off.

One of my shameless nameless bros declares, “I am the ringleader,” and leads us into the fun house by wacking her bottom with my big fat leather paddle. She moans and she loves it. Then, all of a sudden, the circus pitches the big top—and here come the clowns to make her laugh as the ringleader becomes the lion tamer who uses a soft whip to increase her pleasure. She’s begging to be spanked more and spanked harder—perfect for the freakshow.

After the final bows and the spotlights go out, the tent comes down and she bails. Fifteen minutes later the phone rings and it’s her, calling from her car. She says, “Hey, Tommy, I just wanted to call you and your friends and tell you that I had the best fucking time ever. I fucking love you guys! Let me know when the next party is!” We couldn’t wait to invite her back with a few of her friends for a three-ring extravaganza. I love the circus, always have.