Groupie

In 1965 I went to a Kinks concert. I loved music but I wasn’t willing to sleep out to get prime tickets so I was prepared to sit right up the back. My two female friends and I got dressed up in our tiny mini skirts and chose not to wear bras because, quite frankly, at sixteen, we did not need them. We lined up to collect our tickets and a man came up to me and asked me where I was sitting. I told him and he shook his head. ‘The band will want to see a pretty girl like you enjoying their music,’ he said. He pulled a ticket from the inside of his jacket and held it out to me. ‘Care to be a little closer?’ I took the ticket and turned to my friends. They were waiting to be given one too, but the man had already left. The way they looked at me suggested they weren’t expecting me to take the ticket. I never saw them again. So I’m in the middle of the front row and I’m screaming at Ray Davies, the lead singer of The Kinks. I am extremely familiar with his expressions because he is plastered all over the walls of my bedroom. I’m so comfortable in his company that when he points at me and beckons me up to stage I manage not to get hysterical. And then I’m sitting on a chair on sage and he’s singing You Really Got Me into my eyes whilst the crowd loses its shit. After the song, a bouncer collects me and I am expecting to be returned to my seat, but I am not. Instead I am handed a glass of French champagne and given a handful of multicoloured pills. ‘Take the green ones now,’ the bouncer says, ‘the purple ones when you’re leveling out, and the yellow ones before you go to school tomorrow.’ The rest of the night was a psychedelic, series of flashes. Flash! I’m in the band’s dressing room and they’re competing for my attention. Flash! Ray Davies wins (he was always going to). Flash! Ray is kissing my neck as he drops me home. Flash! Lola was a man. The next morning I woke up feeling for the first time that I had a purpose on this planet. I was born to be a groupie. The question I am asked the most is, ‘why?’ My answer is because I love fucking, rock and roll, and free shit in equal measure. And if you could find a way to get the things you want, and make a living out of it … need I say more? When you’re on a plane, cramping it up in economy, know that I am doing coke in first class. When you’re at a concert trying to see over the dickwad in a hat, know that I’m doing coke side of stage, flirting with the guitarist. When you’re doing coke, know that I’m doing coke too … better coke. Pure coke. Coke that makes you wonder if your face is still there. Coke that would have you suddenly fascinated in motherhood. Coke that changes your life for the better. Even the day after. When people ask me which rock star I enjoyed screwing the most I am unable to recall only one. There are three that immediately spring to mind. The first was Jimi Hendrix in London at some point in the mid-sixties. Round about the time the picture was taken of him setting his guitar alight. We were in his hotel room doing heroin, to come off all the diet pills, that we took because of all the joints, that we smoked because of the acid, that we popped because … we could. Jimi and I were bored with making out in front of his band so we moved into the bathroom for a bit of privacy. With us we took, Jimi's favourite acoustic guitar, a bottle of whiskey, and a candle because the lights were too bright. We took our clothes off and made love in the shower while Jimi whispered gently into my ear. Afterwards he brought the guitar in and sang me a song. The water deadening the strings in a way I’d never heard before. It was special. Glorious. You would think James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica, would’ve put me through a wall. You’d presume he’d treat fucking like he would his music; hard, fast and over in three minutes, but he wasn’t like that. There was no denying he was hit and miss … after a couple of bottles of spirits and a carton of beer, who wouldn’t be? But during sex he was a wonderful communicator, making sure he was pleasing me, checking he wasn’t too hard, or too soft (which was often the case), and he would never come before me. Kind of like a gentleman holds the door open for you, ‘after you’, he’d say, and then he’d come explosively. After, he’d trot off to the bathroom get some toilet paper, and lovingly wipe me down. Then he’d spoon me as he slept. He was one for nightmares. James seemed terrified of sleep. Then, of course, was the luscious John Lennon. I’ve never been a Beatles fan to be frank. I find their music generally sentimental but so did John. He was more of a Stones’ man. John and I would fuck away whilst he sang Painted Black and bitch about Paul McCartney. John hated Paul before it was popular to do so. The other thing about John was the size of his wang (his word not mine) John’s wang would roll out of his trousers like a snake awakening from hibernation. There was something luxurious about his cock. Looking back, his wang reminds me of Baz Luhman … handsome, always over dressed, and a little pretentious. I for one do not sleep with drummers. But that’s not a rule … because I sleep with drummers. It’s complicated. When they fuck me in four four, they keep wonderful time, and their fingers are so quick and delicate. It’s when they start showing off that I get bored. Drummers find it difficult to go longer than 30 seconds without adding a drum fill … or a rim shot … or a paradiddle. Syncopated sex is very difficult if you’re not a particularly talented percussionist. It just feels random and out of your control. And sex is about a meeting of bodies and an understanding of what they are there for. The list of rock ‘n’ rollers I regret sleeping with is short but pertinent. To start off the list is Bono in 1980 in Prague. But that was to save myself from The Edge. I really dislike his pathetic pleading eyes … and he never takes his beanie off. Also, any guitarist that uses more than 4 pedals is not going to be of any service in the sack. There is a personality disorder that I can’t quite put my finger on with anyone that tecched up. That kind of information sits in a part of their brain that always comes first. That much information cannot be bypassed. Although the rest of my regrets pale in the blinding light of Bono they should be mentioned; Phil Collins (short man syndrome), Brian Eno (tall man syndrome), Bob Dylan (he moans during sex like he sings), Liam or Noel Gallagher (no need for extrapolation here), Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen (too happy), Katrina from Katrina and the Waves (too sad), and Bananarama (too much banana not enough rama). In 1989 on the eve of my 50th birthday I received my first rejection. Bret Michaels from Poison was backstage at a Nirvana concert in Seattle and I deemed myself high enough to give it a go. I leaned into him and whispered something complimentary about his penis even though I’ve heard from friends that it looks like a pterodactyl on fire. He pushed me away and called me grandma. This was particularly depressing because he’d just finished screwing a billiard table. I left the dressing room we were sitting in to cry and contemplate retirement. I found myself in the loading dock with my heavy mascara running down my face. There were footsteps behind me, so I turned and saw Kurt Cobain standing there, with his blonde messy hair about his head like an aura. ‘How do you know when a lead singer is at your door?’ He asked. I shook my head. ‘Because they can’t find the key and they never know when to come in.’ I grinned. ‘What do you throw a drowning bass player?’ He asked me. I shook my head. ‘His amp.’ I laughed. ‘What do you call a guy who hangs out with musicians?’ I did nothing except wait for the punch line. ‘A drummer.’ ‘You better not tell Dave Grohl that.’ Kurt smiled, took me in his arms, and held me.