GQ’s Chris Heath, one of the best interviewers and non-fiction writers out there, published a rich, lengthy profile of erstwhile Beatle and genuine icon Paul McCartney this morning. Heath manages to draw new and fascinating stories out of McCartney, who’s been prodded into rehashing the same talking points for half a century. There’s talk of acid (McCartney thinks he saw his own DNA while tripping), frogs (McCartney killed some as a kid), and drilling a hole in one’s own skull (John Lennon tried to convince McCartney of its merits.)
It really is worth reading in full. But there’s a story in there about McCartney, Lennon, and three of Lennon’s friends sitting around a living room one night—long before they were famous—masturbating. And we cannot in all good conscience let that slide.
McCartney explains that they were “over at John’s house, and it was just a group of us. And instead of just getting roaring drunk and partying—I don’t even know if we were staying over or anything—we were all just in these chairs, and the lights were out, and somebody started masturbating, so we all did.”
Heath writes that the five started calling out names that might inspire them to enjoy the moment more fully.
“We were just, ‘Brigitte Bardot!’ ‘Whoo!'” McCartney says, “and then everyone would thrash a bit more.”
At least until one of them—the one you would perhaps expect—opted for disruption over stimulation.
“I think it was John sort of said, ‘Winston Churchill!'” McCartney remembers, and acts out the aghast, stymied reactions.
Three weeks ago, when McCartney released a song called “Fuh You,” I wrote that he was “back and hornier than ever.” This was, in fact, untrue. McCartney has been hornier. I regret the error.
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