Back around 1980 or 81, when I was a young hustling' teenager and hanging out at CBGB's, I nailed Ayn Rand.
She was down the block in front of the Palace Hotel, waiting for her chauffeur (I believe if memory serves me, his name was "Hickey") to pick up her morphine. I spotted her and said "Hey Ayn Rand, How ya doing!" I had recently read "Atlas Shrugged" (great book for killing time riding the subways- and a handy weapon for defending yourself). She looked at me (resplendent in my self determination punk rock glory), and told me (in a gravelly old russian accent) to wait in the limo. I took one look at her Octogenarian legs and jumped in back. She joined me, and we spent about an hour riding around midtown Manhattan, her gummy mouth (she had taken out her dentures) "servicing" my fountainhead. As I leaned back, looking at the tall skyscrapers and thinking of Siouxie Sioux's mouth on my rod, I sighed contentedly. When she asked for reciprocation, I responded that "it was up to her to make herself happy, and that I could not be responsible for her pleasure". She wearily looked at me, gave me $50 and sent me on my way. I was able to make it back to CB's for DOA's set.
Rock n roll, ya mofo Objectionists!!!!!!