Episode 32: Groupie
Episode 32: Groupie
Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"
As I may have implied, it’s been a long, not so hot summer. And though I won’t get into it now, I needed a bit of cheering up recently which had less to do with Jeffrey and his exploits (more on that later) than it did with me and my not so sordid past. Taking this into consideration, Annabelle, she of the George Hamilton tan and the Eres bikini (thank you rich boyfriend with a house on St. Barts) came by on Saturday night, scooped me out of my Waterworks bathrobe (a fine investment if you want to spend the day in bed with a supersize bag of Fritos) and insisted I accompany her to a party.
Now I may or may not have mentioned that in my tender youth I aspired to be a groupie. I sucked at it actually, because aside from sticking out my thumb to hitchhike now and again, and taking an occasional puff off someone else’s joint, I was pretty tame in my approach to living. I aspired to be the girl who followed the band, and I once did sleep outside the New Haven Coliseum to get tickets to see Bruce Springsteen, but my first concert ever was John Denver and for a hideously long time that set the tone for my entire way of being. By the way, who is “Annie” and why did she get her own song? My guess is she gave Mr. Denver his first Rocky Mountain high.
Still, Annabelle was well aware that for many years I was madly in love with this musician/guitar player who did session work with Dan Fogelberg (yes, I was that predictable) and when I met Jeffrey I have to admit that the fact that he played the drums totally turned me on. (In retrospect, all that incessant banging should have been a clue.) Regardless, I still really dig musicians. Which for anyone under the age of eighteen who is reading right now, is not necessarily to be recommended.
Annabelle knows this, but instead of keeping me at a respectful distance from temptation, she pulled up in her Prius on Saturday night and practically forced me inside. I was too out of it to protest (too much new 90210 will do that to you) and since the kids were at their first sleepover ever (to be continued) I didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. She tells me we’re going to this birthday party, her old friend Penny is turning the big 6-0 (I get hives just thinking about it) and she was inviting anyone and everyone she ever knew. Well, it just happens that Penny was once the quintessential rock groupie of all time and her friends are like a rolodex of rock and roll. Now, though I may still have a thing for a once-removed Kennedy, the HPBD spent most of his summer in Hyannis Port or wherever the hell it is those rich Democrats go. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gonna start stumping for soccer moms from Alaska, but the point is, he had left me alone for months and I was depressed and horny. (To be clear, I was not depressed because he had left me alone, or because of anything my shit head ex had been up to, but rather, due to the state of the world. I am that sort of person.)
Anyhoo, when Annabelle says, “Keith Richards will be there and he’s available,” I say, “Rock and fucking Roll.” No matter that Keith Richards is hardly the antidote to my problems (and the idea of sex with him, I have to admit, scares the crap out of me) when Annabelle says we will be like, the youngest women there I’m all, “Hell, yes, I’ll go.”
So the thing is, in honor of the big 6-0 the rocker chick being celebrated (that’s Penny) wants everyone to come in Sixties garb. Since the Sixties was always my decade of choice (you know, “If you could have lived through any time in history, when would it be…”) it was no stretch for me to pull out my orange and brown Pucci shift dress, throw on some brown suede boots, black kohl eye-liner and hit the open road. (I disregard the fact that I’m pretty sure I haven’t dry cleaned the Pucci since I wore it having sex with Jeffrey the last time we went to one of his snooty college reunions in Boston.) Of course, the first thing Annabelle says when she sees me is, “Isn’t that the Row, Row, Row dress?” (There is a really long story involving Jeffrey’s perverted obsession with the Head of the Charles boat race that takes place at his alma mater — yep, that would be Hah-vahd — every year.) I assure her that though it is the “Row, Row, Row” dress I am over that incident now and am ready for my chance to have sex with a Rolling Stone.
Let me tell you something. There is nothing better than walking in to a party at the age of forty-five and realize within two freaking seconds that every guy in the room is checking you out because lord have mercy, you’re one of the youngest women there. No matter that the men are all wearing Lucite platform boots and look like they’ve just walked off Carnaby Street in London circa 1962, it’s a head rush like you can’t imagine. I walk in with Annabelle, and it’s one of those parties where you suddenly realize that every other party you’ve been to in the past ten years has been a total waste of time. (Of course, you were married to Jeffrey and mostly attended stick up your ass corporate Hollywood events where the first thing anyone ever said to you was, “What do YOU do?” which really meant, of course, “What can you do for ME?”)
Anyhoo, at this party, the guest of honor is all done up like a teenage Marie Antoinette, the guys are checking me out (the Pucci is definitely working it) and within ten seconds the legendary Keith Richards is by my side. Of course, the minute I’m next to him, any reservations I may have had are totally gone. “Who’re you?” he says and I laugh and say, “Whoever you want me to be,” which is typically stupid but he could care less and instead offers me some kind of vodka drink, which I promptly swig down. “Can I have another?” I ask him and he says, “Baby, you can have anything you want tonight,” which is so sleazy and wonderful that I can’t stand it. Annabelle, who’s standing next to me in her E-Bay purchased Biba mini and Chloe boots (there’s only so retro she can go) can’t stand it any longer either. “If you don’t have sex with him, I will,” she threatens me and I know she’s only partially kidding. “Dan Fogelberg be damned, I should have had sex with him thirty years ago,” I tell her and she rolls her eyes, adding, “Thirty years ago you were afraid of your own shadow and he was a junkie,” all of which is probably true. “Plus you were fifteen and still wearing a training bra,” she reminds me and when she says that there’s not really anywhere else that I can go. (The idea that you could “train” your boobs always fascinated me. Like they were these independently-minded creatures you could coax — or more often than not in my case, someone else could coax — to bend to their will.)
I sidle up to Mr. Richards. He’s wearing skin tight bell bottom pants that are striped and make his legs look like Gumby and his hair is pulled back off his forehead with a headband that is all psychedelic and wild. “I love this party,” I yell over the music (it is, of course, very loud) and he grins and says, “Baby doll, this party loves you.”
Now, it’s all Annabelle can do to keep from spilling her wine, she’s laughing so hard but the lights are dim — we’re in the backyard of the Groupie’s house and there are no real lights, just paper lanterns in the trees and it’s well after dark so mercifully, no one can see. “How do you know Penny?” I ask him, referring to the guest of honor who is dancing alone in front of the musicians. “I fucked her for thirty years,” he grins at me and I can hear Annabelle is snorting red wine up her nose. “Stop it!” I hiss at her under my breath, not that anyone can hear me and she says, “Don’t ask anyone else that question, Penny has slept with basically every person here!”
It’s then that I realize that Annabelle’s friend the Groupie has had more than her fair share of sex in her novel-worthy sixty years. I look around the yard. Keith notwithstanding, most of the men look like they’re circa The Band, “Up on Cripple Creek,” but they’re rockers, the lot of them, which regardless of their age and general shagginess, is still a real turn on. “I wonder if it’s too late for me,” I muse out loud and Annabelle chuckles. “You’re too uptight, E,” she tells me, “I don’t even think Keith Richards wants to mess with you.” “You’re so wrong,” I tell her. “Men love to deflower a prude. It’s like being a virgin, only better. Anyway,” I continue, “I danced on a pole and got tatted. No worries, I’m good to go.”
Just then, one of the musicians at the mic starts to play “Happy Birthday.” The Groupie couldn’t look happier in her corset-enhanced Marie Antoinette garb. She’s doing this kind of slow motion, acid-trippy dancing to the music and then someone yells out, “We need all the guys who Penny has had sex with to come help carry the cake!” “That’s one big cake,” chuckles Keith Richards and sure enough, maybe fifty rockers surge up to the front of the room. The cake itself is white and pink and covered with spun sugar and roses and belies the image of a woman who has more or less fucked her way around the world.
Keith Richards is pressed against me. I’m pretty sure he has a boner, but it’s also possible that it could be an actual bone sticking out of his oh, so skinny leg. Either way, I’m not so sure I want to have sex with him now. Plus the way he’s looking at Penny makes me think that even though they’re not together any more (I asked him) they’re gonna be tonight, for sure. There’s so much music being played and pot being smoked (it is “The Sixties,” after all) that I’m kind of in a haze. There is an open mic and one after another, all of the Groupie’s ex-lovers (most of whom are famous musicians who I know I should recognize) come forward to play a serenade. Annabelle is standing next to me laughing and flirting and all of a sudden I see that she’s got her beautifully manicured hand on Don Johnson (he of Miami Vice and Melanie Griffith) — I see that she has her hand placed deliberately on his leg. (Yes, I was at a party with Don Johnson. I can’t tell you how deliriously happy that made me.)
“You don’t want to sleep with Don Johnson, do you?!” I hiss through the music and Annabelle laughs and says, “How about you do Don and I do Keith and we call it a day?”
Whether we had the sex or not I’ll leave up to your imagination. But I have to admit, all of a sudden I felt incredibly privileged to be there. And the moral of the story is this: If you want to be a groupie, follow your over-forty bliss. Life is short and love is often even shorter but if you ever have the chance — sex with rock and roll icons will make you feel young and breathless and like your John Denver, Dan Fogelberg past is justifiably a million miles away.
Comments
Post new comment