The Obligatory T-Rex Title

Written for the threesome challenge at the Pink Floyd slash community at LJ. Oh yes, it is cracktastic...


Roger Waters was always a bit of a grump. Some suggested that this was due to the size of his impressive c-o-n-k. Others blamed it on his creepy glass eye. A small minority attributed it to the fact that he hadn’t grown up with a father figure and a few in-betweeners thought that perhaps his heart was simply two sizes too small.

Roger’s problem, however, lay in the fact that he had fallen desperately in love with a certain beautiful, round inanimate object. Each morning when he woke up and every night before he went to sleep, all he could think of was his lovely gong. How deep his love ran…the feel of the cool brass beneath his fingers and the sharp metallic taste when he ran his tongue down its length. Unfortunately the relationship was basically platonic – those of us who’ve harbored these sorts of feelings for percussion instruments are all-too aware that they’re almost entirely devoid of love-holes. Lord knows that we’ve tried any which way we can to copulate with these unresponsive beauties but it always ends the same way. This made Roger very sad and frustrated. He took this sadness and frustration out on his poor gong, beating it mercilessly and occasionally setting it on fire but still his heart ached.

One evening, David came a-knocking at the door of Roger’s hotel room. When there was no response, he tried the knob and found that it twisted with ease. Peeking inside, he was quite shocked at the unexpected sight: Roger had dragged the gong all the way up to his room and it lay splayed out across the bed. The bassist himself was on top of it, dry-humping the helpless instrument frantically.

“Roger!”

Shocked, Roger looked up to see his greasy band mate standing in the doorway equally aghast.

“Don’t look at me!” He hid his face in his hands and howled in anguish. “DON’T LOOK AT ME!!!”

“Well,” David crossed his arms. “I knew you were sick, Rog, but I’d never have thought you capable of gongrape. For shame!”

“It brought it on itself! Always looking so big and shiny and impenetrable. Look at this from my point of view!” He cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing in here anyway?”

“I came up for a jolly good porking.”

“Oh? I never knew you were a poof. Imagine that.”

“Anyway, you’ll never get anywhere with the gong like that.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

David suddenly channeled Otis Redding “All you got to do is TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS…YOU GOT, GOT, GOT, GOT TO TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS!”

Roger was now too terrified to even move. David shut and locked the door before hopping astride the gong with the disturbed Roger, who he pushed away. He lazily splayed himself over it and began to caress it with his cheek.

“Baby, you know I love you…and I’ll never leave you.” His expert fingers ran along the smooth edges. He could feel his joystick hardening already, though the gong remained unresponsive as usual. With deft movements he began to roll his hips sexily against the brass, placing sloppy kisses over every inch of surface he could reach.

“I think my method was better. Yours doesn’t seem to be making any difference.” Roger observed dryly. David looked up abruptly.

“Quite right. I think I’ll take your pink torpedo instead.”

And that’s just what David did. And it made Roger very happy indeed because the guitarist proved a very effective meat-sleeve and he forgot all about the gong…almost. Whenever a certain T.Rex song about banging a certain percussion instrument came on the radio, Roger felt those familiar stirrings in his loins. For that reason 1971 was a very difficult year and one filled with endless games of pocket pool. This inspired a very introspective period in Roger’s life and gave birth to the concept of Dark Side of the Moon. Remember this each time you listen to the stirring sounds of “Eclipse”, and reflect on how gong-induced masturbation inspired it.