by Amy Asbury
There was other music out in 1988, but I was not interested in Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” or George Harrison’s “I Got My Mind Set on You.” Nor was I into “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” from the hit movie of the year, Beetlejuice. Uh, yeah, as if it’s that easy. I wanted to break a banjo over that guy’s head.
Music and TV had been my role models for a few years by then, but this time, instead of trying to squeeze meaning out of a Beastie Boys song, I was actually getting some answers. Ratt had a song about a fifteen-year-old girl. Fifteen? Well I would be fifteen in one year! That meant I could start being a real rock chick!
A band called Guns N' Roses started to get really big, and I considered their Appetite for Destruction album a jackpot of information. I took it as my guide to life. Not having my parents’ guidance is really no excuse, because I could have chosen God. I could have opened the Bible and taken my cues from it. My family was still technically Christian and I attended a Christian school. But more than that, I always had a personal relationship with God. I had been privately praying every day since I was eight years old. I had always felt close with God in the past.
This is going to sound incredibly kooky and superstitious, but I am going to tell you anyways. Though I had other Mötley Crüe albums, I promised God I would never buy their Theatre of Pain album (an album I desperately wanted, because I loved the song “Home Sweet Home”). The album cover featured an inverted pentagram, which was used in Satanism. Being Christian, I felt that it would be disrespectful to God and to my religion if I bought that particular album. I know it sounds corny but I didn’t want to break the promise, so I thought I would be slick. I asked for it for my birthday and Karen bought it for me. I thought, Hey, I didn’t buy it, so it’s not like I broke the promise. Well, God doesn’t play that shit.
I had a rabbit named Taffy. She was with me through all of my formative years and was as special to me as a childhood dog would be to someone else. It was she who I went to when I was sad and wanted to cry. I got a lot of comfort out of petting the little baby-soft spot between her ears. One time I was crying to her and a little tear dropped from her eye. Maybe it was just watering, but I thought, Wow…she is sad for me! Anyway, I walked outside to visit her that very day I got the Mötley Crüe record. When I got to her hutch and looked down into it, I shrieked and jumped back. She was lying on the side of the cage, the other rabbits still hopping around her quietly. Her eyes were white. She was dead. My heart broke in a billion, trillion pieces. She was so special to me. She was the best pet I ever had or have had since. I couldn’t stop crying. I thought, It just has to be a coincidence. I was too scared to think it might be a sign or a warning. I shook off the feeling..
A few months later, I went to the rabbit hutch to see the remaining rabbits and there was a random crucifix that I had never seen in my life, laying underneath a pile of fur in that same corner of the cage. I thought…This is just another weird coincidence…right? I know, I know, I sound like a nut. But it really happened and it scared me! I found a random crucifix! I thought I would be struck by some lightning right there in the backyard.
So anyway folks, I completely strayed from all of the things that made me special and unique. Despite all of the hard work I put into creating my sexy image, there was something about it that made me sad. It was not fulfilling like I thought it would be. It didn’t make me magically happy. I dressed like a twenty-five-year old stripper. I wore more makeup than a Folies Bergère showgirl and I was still bulimic, just to top things off with a regurgitated cherry. Any time I was under stress, I left to throw up.
The staff at Middleton was concerned over my appearance and demeanor. There were special church sermons based on the bad influence of rock music, with Mötley Crüe lyrics quoted. I didn’t flinch. I was amused at hearing my nerdy teachers talk about The Seventh Veil on Sunset Boulevard.
We had a class picnic at a park, where I took it upon myself to boldly approach a twenty-something guy with long hair and talk to him. I think I was just trying to show off in front of my classmates. One of my teachers took me aside and desperately tried to get me to slow down. I just remember hearing the eloquent words, “If you don’t watch out, you are going to end up being raped in the back of a van.” It was harsh, but no one was getting through to me any other way. In hindsight, that teacher was trying harder than my parents were to scare me away from the wrong path, so I have to respect that.
My sister and I wanted to see a new film about the Sunset Strip music scene in Hollywood called The Decline of Western Civilization, Part II: The Metal Years. I knew two things about the Sunset Strip. One, long-haired guys in bands were there. Heavy Metal type bands. Two, my mother’s younger sister, my beautiful and hip Aunt Billie, used to hang on Sunset when I was a kid. She wore sophisticated and fashionable clothes; had long, dark, feathered hair, and wore tons of perfectly applied makeup. She was into bands like KISS and was dating a musician, whom she later married. I had idolized her my entire life. She was the coolest person I knew. It was always in the back of my head that her scene was where it was at. She epitomized cool. Aside from that, I had chosen the image of a Rock Chick. The movie was a chance for me to gather information on what I was trying to represent. I knew I needed to see it to have any credibility as a bad girl.
My mother took one of her last stands and was adamant that we not see the movie. She insisted that at fourteen and twelve, we were too young. My father, trying to be our “pal” and on our level, let us go.
I was both scared and intrigued by The Metal Years. The Hollywood music scene looked so wild. The girls were half-naked hoochies and the guys were…men. They were not boys my age. They were men who expected to have sex. That part scared me, but the rest of the scene looked incredibly fascinating. I was introduced to a new band in the movie called Faster Pussycat. I bought their tape right away. I was also introduced to a club called the Cathouse, which appeared to be the Mothership of the whole scene. It was run by some guy named Riki Rachtman, who appeared very confident, despite not being rock star skinny. He was a Steve Rubell type, a scene maker, the person who chose the beautiful and cool people to assemble at his club. He seemed like one of those guys who would have no problem not letting you in if you weren’t pretty.
I knew I didn’t live too far from the Sunset Strip. I decided I had to go see what it was all about. I would be a fool to not check it out! It wasn’t like I lived in Wisconsin. I lived twenty minutes from Hollywood. It was too intriguing, too intoxicating, too exciting. While I sat in that theatre, I thought…Okay…I am fourteen. I live with my parents. I don’t know anyone who hangs in Hollywood. I go to a Christian school. I don’t drive and I don’t know anyone who drives. How am I going to do this?
I never thought, No way, there is no way I could pull that off, little old me. I was like, I will find out what kind of person gets into that exclusive crowd and I will make it my mission. I wasn’t the type of person to do something half-assed. I was far too manic. I had extreme enthusiasm for any subject in which I was interested. It would have been great if I had found something else interesting, say…tennis. But no, it was Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. If I was to be a true bad girl, I would need to put myself in with the cool people. It might take a minute, but I was convinced I would get there. I kept it in the back of my mind for when the right opportunity arose.
I spent all of ninth grade flirting with the boys in the younger grades, soaking up all of their admiration. They worshipped me and bowed down to my hotness. I was cruising along in my life, listening to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and pouring beer in my hair for highlights, when it hit me. The school year was ending. I panicked. I was going to start high school in only a few months and I still hadn’t kissed a boy. I had avoided all requests for dates. I had done nothing but tease, tease, tease. I was all talk. I preferred being admired from afar. I didn’t want to actually do anything with a boy. I just wanted attention. And now I would be the dork in high school
who came from a nerdy private school and who hadn’t even kissed someone! I would be laughed right off the campus! I was sure that everyone in high school was surely already having crazy orgies. I had to get over my fear and kiss someone. And I had exactly three months to do it. Did I find some nerd to practice on? No. Did I pick a stranger, so in case I was a horrible kisser, I would never see him again? No. I thought to myself, Who do I really want to kiss? There was only one boy who I truly wanted to kiss.
One summer evening, I expertly applied way too much makeup, put on a tight, turquoise blue tank top and a white mini skirt (that had “skorts” underneath, but we won’t talk about that because it will ruin the coolness of my story). I then walked across the street and around the corner and knocked on Jeff Hunter’s door. I had huge balls. They were like bowling balls, coming out of my skorts. There was also quite a big dash of crazy in the mix.
When I first met Jeff in the fifth grade, my hair was in two braids like Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie and I wore a thick pair of glasses. It would be safe to say that this guy would never have considered me. It was also safe to say I no longer looked like that. I couldn’t believe I was on his doorstep. I was knocking on the door of my dream boy. I was scared, but determined- I was pretty confident he would be attracted to me based on the reaction of most of the free world, but there was a chance he would laugh in my face or say he had a girlfriend.
He answered the door. The first thing I thought was that he looked so much smaller than I had imagined. He hadn’t grown! His shoulders were bigger though, and he had some facial stubble, as well as a bit of acne. He was definitely a teenage boy. My heart started thumping hard in my chest when I realized I was looking into those eyes again after three years. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he was chewing. His hair wasn’t as long as I would have preferred; it was only a little past his ears. It was thin, wispy, and strawberry blond. I introduced myself and told him I was in his grade school classes and that I used to wear glasses. It took him a minute, but he remembered me (or at least he said he did). I think his family was having fish for dinner and the house smelled like fish, because I remember he apologized for the smell. I was thinking, That’s coming from my underwear. Kidding, kidding. Anyway, if I remember correctly, we talked for a few minutes and all went well. He was responsive and polite. I had a feeling he was definitely going to overlook the fact that I had showed up on his doorstep unannounced. He said he was going to finish eating dinner, and asked me to come back in an hour or so. Maybe he was going to wait for his parents to go to bed, I’m not sure. I remember being both shocked and pleased with myself for going after him. I was also happy that he was interested and wanted me to come back.
I came back later that night and he led me straight to his room. I don’t remember his living room at all. His room was off to the left of the front door, which was lucky for him because it was perfect for sneaking in a girl. When I got to his room, it was really dark and there were glowing posters of Ozzy and Megadeth and other really hard groups that scared me. I guess those posters were his mood lighting. I thought of how many times I had been warned about the evils of that music at my Christian school. It was kind of thrilling. We sat on his teenage boy bed in the dark and he put on some music that completely threw me off: Eazy E and NWA! Rap! I was thinking, Wait a minute…I didn’t spend years studying how to be a rocker chick to finally make it to your room and then hear some rap! Then I think he put on some Randy Rhoads crap. He loved Randy Rhoads, Ozzy’s late guitarist, whom I distinctly remembered my Aunt Billie partying with (she said he put out a cigarette on a really expensive piano at someone’s house). Jeff finally turned on the TV- some bad movie. That is when we started kissing.
You know, when I think about my first kiss, I am happy it was with the boy who I had a crush on and all that. But I wish I could tell a story that involves my hair in ribbons and a boy stealing a kiss by the old oak tree. I guess it is because I waited until the summer before high school that my first kiss was nothing like that. Jeff, already fifteen at that time, started grinding on me. Dry humping. We were lying in his bed and I had no idea what to do, I just went with it. My tongue was all over the place-I was the worst kisser. At one point, I felt my tongue go into a little hole on his face. It was his nostril! (laughs) Someone actually told me months later- Hey, you really suck; you have to get it together.
So there I was, in this kid’s bed, laying down in the dark. He started to gently push my head toward his crotch. I had no idea how to do that kind of stuff. I didn’t know what it even entailed. I had to get out of there; I was in over my head. I left hours later on that summer night, with my face raw with stubble-burn. I was scared but also absolutely thrilled: I had my first kiss. And it was with my dream boy. I made it happen. I marched right up to this boy and he was interested. He was interested enough to kiss me. I made out with Jeff Hunter!
I felt on top of the world. I couldn’t believe it. The next day, I called one of the boys from school that used to worship me, Todd Lewis. We had actually become friends because he was into Heavy Metal. He also wore thick glasses and had an afro, so I didn’t find him cute, but he was good to bounce ideas off. I needed to get the scoop on how to do the dirty stuff. I had to figure it out- and fast. Todd explained to me what was to be done, and he only knew from watching porn and looking at dirty pictures. He told me exactly what to do. I lay on my bed and looked out the window while listening to him. I could see the tree in Jeff’s back yard, where he used to have a tree house when we were younger.
With the exception of going to see the hit movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit? with my parents, I spent that summer hanging out with Jeff. I went further and further with him, stopping short of intercourse. I felt uncomfortable with myself. I didn’t like the things I was doing. It didn’t feel right inside, but I told myself I didn’t want to be the one nerd in high school who hadn’t hooked up with a guy. I wanted the experience and was determined to continue with it.
The thrill of landing Jeff wore off pretty quickly. I felt unhappy inside. I had no interest in being myself. I wanted to be what I thought he would like: someone really sexy. I dressed very skimpily, wore lots of makeup and tried to talk real “adult.” I was crushed when he told me he didn’t want me to be his girlfriend. I thought I was doing everything right. I looked and acted like I walked straight out of a Van Halen video; I thought it was every guy’s dream. I didn’t realize that my overly sexual behavior kept him from ever respecting me or really getting to know me. He treated me as I portrayed myself: some hoochie. I was this close to putting out my arms and shimmying at him like Pat Benetar, in my short, cut-off Guns N’ Roses T-shirts, tiny miniskirts, and my light grey Vans.
My mother did her best to stop me from moving too fast. She kicked my bedroom door open on more than one occasion. I was caught in many compromising situations. Some days we weren’t allowed to see each other, so Jeff hid in my closet. Other times I snuck out my window. I left my lights on and kept the music blasting before sneaking out. One time I turned on my hairdryer before I snuck out and my sister had to climb out of her window, and in through my window, to go and shut the hair dryer off, to make it look like I was in there doing my hair.
Jeff introduced my newly thirteen-year-old sister to his fifteen or sixteen-year-old buddy Mike Ferris. He had a mullet, buckteeth and a job at a dildo factory (yes). Mike fell instantly in love with my sister and showered her with roses and love songs on his guitar. He was goofy and clumsy, but had a good heart. My sister secretly called him “The Clums” once she got sick of him. They used to make out in her room for three hours straight. One time I got a tape recorder and put it under her bed. After a half an hour, my voice came on and said, “You’re too younnnnng…you’re too younnnnng,” like a man in a haunted house. I was kind of hurt that Mike liked her so much and Jeff was only interested in me for some action. But that is the way I behaved and what I put out there. My sister was relatively innocent and was acting like herself. I should
have taken notes from her.
After a while, my mom started to bond with Jeff. She said he was climbing over the fence in the back yard to go to his friend Stephen’s house one day, when he slipped and slammed his nuts onto the fence. He couldn’t even move he was in so much pain. She helped him down and gave him ice and all that. After that they became BFFs, to my dismay.
My dad invited fifteen-year-old Jeff in for a beer a few times, trying to be cool with him. I thought I would like that, but I didn’t. I didn’t want my dad to stop me from seeing him, but I was also confused that he wasn’t trying to protect me more. Jeff revealed to me that my dad went over for a talk with his dad and they smoked a joint together. My dad told his dad to make sure his son didn’t get me pregnant. Get me pregnant? He didn’t even tell him to try to prevent his son from having sex with me? It was as if my dad gave his blessing for this kid to plow me. Luckily, I never gave into actual intercourse, but hell, if I had, it would have been okay with my dad. Thanks, Dad.
