Dirty Rocker Boys

by Brown, Bobbie; Ryder, Caroline

  “What a dork!”

  “I know. Talk about tacky!”

  Sharise was my biggest supporter. She too was going through her own problems, and she would divorce Vince Neil the same year I divorced Jani. Sharise and I have led parallel lives in that way. While Jani was quitting and then getting back into Warrant, Vince was getting fired from Mötley Crüe. Sharise and I were both mothers, and Sharise’s little girl, Skylar, was the center of her world. Sharise and I talked almost every day, and she was anxious that I start moving on from Jani as soon as possible.

  “You know, it might be too soon, but I do know someone who is dying to see you, Bobbie. And it isn’t Bret Michaels.”

  “Who?” I asked, curious.

  “Tommy. He’s saying he’s in love with you.”

  Now this was an unexpected turn of events. Had it been anyone else in the world, any other rocker in Hollywood, I would have said forget it. But Tommy Lee, my teenage crush, my Prince Charming on a Harley? I had been planning on taking some time out before even contemplating dating. But for Tommy, maybe, I would make an exception.

  I was at Club Ugly, a club night that Sharise had started at a venue called the Dragonfly in Hollywood. It was the place to be on a Thursday night. Everyone who was anyone was there. Johnny Depp came in one night and ended up getting together with Sharise. (“He’s into clowns,” she told me the next day. “Creepy!”) Danny Boy from House of Pain, and my dance buddy Jay Gordon were regulars. Now that I had separated from Jani, Jay was all up in my grill, but I was not down.

  “Sex changes everything, and I don’t want things to get weird between us!” I told Jay on the dance floor. “You’re wrong, sex will make our friendship even better,” he yelled back. “Listen, Jay, stick around long enough, and I might cave in,” I conceded. “But you’ll probably be waiting a long time!”

  “Nice chaps, Bobbie Brown!” I turned around to face Tommy Lee, who had snuck up behind me. Yes, I was wearing chaps, with a leotard underneath. It was a hot look back then. And Tommy seemed to appreciate it. He said he wanted to sit down and talk. He told me how he had broken up with Jennifer months ago. I told him how Jani and I were over and how it was for the best. We talked about how we are both Libras—his birthday is on the third of October and mine is on the seventh. We talked until the club shut down.

  I was driving home when my cell phone rang. It was Tommy. We had said good-bye outside the club not five minutes ago.

  “Hey, Tommy, what’s up?”

  “I just wanted to tell you you’re the fucking shit; you’re the hottest woman in the world. I’m screaming it out my car window, right now.”

  And he was. I heard him screaming my name, yelling how hot Bobbie Brown was.

  Then he came back on the line.

  “Bobbie, I’m going to go home and jerk off while I think about you.”

  Whoa. Tommy wasn’t playing coy. Later that night, my phone rang again. It was Tommy.

  “Bobbie!” he groaned.

  “Tommy, are you okay?”

  “I’m coming!” I heard groans as Tommy Lee shot his load. “Oh fuck yeah, I just came.”

  I hung up the phone. What the fuck? Tommy was the nuttiest guy I had ever met.

  Tommy started sending me flowers. Huge bouquets, a different one each day. My girlfriend Annie came over for lunch and was startled to see so many roses and irises and orchids everywhere. “Who died?” she said, wading through them. “Wait, these are from Tommy? Ooooh, the plot thickens. Tommy, Jani, Tommy, Jani . . . which one will she pick?”

  “Shut up, dude.”

  That night, Tommy called—he wanted to take me out for dinner. I said okay, still a little unsure about how to deal with his dramatic gestures of appreciation. He showed up in his red Ferrari and flashed me that smile . . . Tommy had it going on, and he knew it. He was hard to resist. We went to a Greek restaurant, threw dishes in the fireplace, and laughed our asses off, as usual. The restaurant had a rooftop garden, so after dinner we stood out there in the wind and took in the views. The Santa Anas were blowing, hot winds that the Spanish call “devil’s breath” or “murder winds.”

  “I dare you to rip your shirt open in the wind,” said Tommy as we leaned off the railing of the restaurant roof. My hair whipped about my face. I tore my shirt open, and all the buttons popped off. I closed my eyes and flung my arms out. “Shit, your tits are huge!” Tommy exclaimed. I wasn’t on coke, I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t thinking about Jani. For the first time in years, I felt free. The last thing I needed was to get wrapped up in some guy . . . but I didn’t want to stop seeing Tommy. We had just too strong a connection for me to let it die; I just had to figure out a way to stay in control of the situation, to not let myself fall in love.

  Each time we went on a date, I would bring a cockblocker, a girlfriend whose job it was to make sure Tommy and I were never alone together. The only man I had been with in the last three years was Jani Lane, and the thought of jumping into bed with crazy Tommy Lee was just way too scary. “Dude, am I fucking ugly or something?” Tommy asked a mutual friend. “Bobbie won’t even make out with me!” Despite my apparent lack of interest, Tommy was undeterred. He asked if he could stay the night at my house, and curled on the floor by my bed. “I just want to breathe your air, Bobbie,” he said. “Okay whatever,” I said, brushing my teeth and putting on my pajamas. In the morning, there he was, still on the floor. I told him he could shower if he liked, and when he emerged, skin glistening, a teeny white towel wrapped around his hips, I had to turn away. Sweet baby Jesus. Be strong, Bobbie Brown, be strong!

  Hot as he was, I tried to remind myself of the very good reasons why I should not get romantically involved with him. Namely:

  1. Tommy’s a hound. There were countless strippers, whores, and Hollywood sluts who had been acquainted with Tommy’s assets (video babe Tawny Kitaen, porn star Debi Diamond, even Cher, for Christ’s sake). Being married (to Heather Locklear, from 1986 to 1993) had never seemed to hold him back.

  2. Tommy had to be an STD factory (see previous entry).

  3. Tommy was probably into some crazy shit in the bedroom, and Bobbie Brown was done working hard for the dick. No more showboating.

  I was out of practice, undersexed, and overwhelmed. But Tommy Lee gets what Tommy Lee wants. It was just a matter of time. “Come sit down next to me,” Tommy said, patting the couch one night at my house. It was late 1993, and we had been “just good friends” for nearly four months. I sat down—at the opposite end of the couch. He edged closer to me. I made to stand, and he pulled me back down. “Goddammit, Bobbie!”

  He kissed me, but after a minute or so, I pulled back. Tommy sighed, exasperated. “You must think I’m fucking ugly or something,” he said, shaking his head. “What the fuck? And why is it you always bring a cockblocker every time we go out?” I took a deep breath. “Tommy, it’s just . . . you’re Tommy Lee. I’ve been crushing on you since high school.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m scared. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to please you. I’m just some dork.” Tommy’s brow furrowed. “You’re silly. I’m so attracted to you. I want you so much. And trust me, you don’t have to do anything crazy. Just be you.”

  Tommy started kissing me slowly. The kiss built into something more passionate. Slowly, he undressed me, stroking my skin lightly. I started babbling, revealing my hand. “I’ve been crushing on you for, like, ever, Tommy. I think I gave myself my first orgasm looking at a Mötley Crüe poster.”

  “I love you, Bobbie.” I wasn’t expecting that. Immediately I grew suspicious.

  “Fuck you!”

  “No. I really do.”

  He led my hand down below. Dear God, it’s like a baby’s arm.

  “Holy shit, Tommy . . . I think I love you too.”

  Kissing Tommy felt surreal. Was this really happening, or was I just a teenager again, having a dream? I felt nervous, unsure of myself. Was he going to bite me all over? Did he want to slap me? Did I
have to slap him? Was he going to bust out some nipple clamps and candle wax? But it wasn’t freaky. We had normal, missionary-position sex with him kissing me the whole time and looking in my eyes. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so amazing.” He was flattering the shit out of me. “Look at your teeth—my God, you have the most amazing teeth. I just want to eat your face.”

  “Shut up.” I never was good at accepting compliments. Afterward, I lay in his arms, seeing stars. “Bobbie, I think you and Taylar should move in with me,” said Tommy. “I want to be with you every day. Please think about it.”

  It was game on.

  And the way we expressed our love was with our bodies. Our chemistry was off the charts. We had sex at least three times a day, and we craved each other every second we were apart. The exact opposite of how things had been with Jani.

  One morning Tommy and I were in bed, when we heard banging on the door. Tommy got up and went to the front door, towel wrapped around him, cigarette hanging from his lip.

  “You’re doing my wife!” screamed Jani, standing on the doorstep. “In my house? Who do you think you are?”

  “Jani, c’mon, you guys are over. What’s your problem?” said Tommy, keeping his cool.

  Jani got up in his face.

  “So how do I taste, asshole? Because each time you eat her pussy, that’s my dick you’re tasting.”

  “How do you taste?” Tommy licked his lips and thought about it. “Actually . . . delicious.”

  Jani stormed off, horrified. For the rest of that day, he bombarded Tommy’s cell phone with calls and messages. Eventually Tommy picked up.

  “How could you date my wife? I thought we were friends, Tommy.”

  “Well, if she didn’t insist on fucking me until my dick was sore, it might be easier to leave.” Tommy was the perfect asshole and his crass bragging hit Jani right where it hurt: his ego.

  “You’re evil, Tommy,” said Jani.

  Right after that, Jani changed his voice mail message to a sample of a Beck song. “I’m a loser baby . . . so why don’t you kill me.” It broke my heart every time I heard it. But I was in deep with Tommy. There was no going back.

  Even after Jani and I divorced in 1993, Jani constantly tried to win me back. His attempts to seduce me always fell flat, though. I would go to his house to pick up child support, for instance, and he would open the door butt naked and scamper to the bedroom, assuming, for some reason, that I would follow him. But I was no longer the needy Bobbie who begged Jani for attention. I had moved on. “Where did you go?” he would say, calling me later. “I went away, Jani. You know that.” Life with Tommy was so easy, I couldn’t believe I had ever put myself through the strain of being married to Jani Lane.

  Everything with Tommy was hilarious. It was nonstop jokes. Which of course made me love him even more, because if you can make me laugh, that is eternal. Jani had always thought he was funny, but his humor had been dorky to me. Tommy’s humor was sharp, though, really hilarious. We laughed so much, we had to figure out a way to kiss and laugh at the same time, seeing as those were the two things we seemed to do most. He would grab my face while we were cracking up and start kissing me while our mouths were open. Sounds gross, but it was cute. Maybe you had to be there. Either way, it looked kind of similar to what Tommy would be photographed doing with Pamela Anderson, not too long after.

  Tommy, like all the rock guys I had been with, would fly me out to meet him on the road at any given opportunity. One time, we were at an airport newsstand, and Tommy got all excited. “Hey, babe, I didn’t know you’d done Playboy?” He was holding up a copy of that month’s issue. “What are you talking about?” I said, peering at it. “Dude, are you serious?” It was Pamela Anderson on the cover—not me. He looked more closely. “Oh, shit, babe, I’m sorry. You guys look kinda similar.”

  “You really think so, huh?”

  “Babe, I just made a mistake. I think she looks like RuPaul, anyway. What’s up with her eyebrows?”

  “So now you’re saying I look like RuPaul. Great.” Sometimes Tommy was his own worst enemy.

  WARNING SIGNS

  They say that when it comes to abusive men, the signs are usually there from the get-go. The hard part is accepting it. Tommy and I were at the Roxbury, and I could not believe what I was seeing: he had Sharise’s brother Gary by the throat, pinned down to a table.

  “Don’t talk to my fucking woman!” This was some caveman shit.

  “Tommy, let him go! That’s Sharise’s brother!”

  Tommy looked at me with wild, jealous eyes.

  “What are you, a fucking whore?”

  As soon as we started sleeping together, I became property of Tommy Lee, like it or not. He wanted me with him all day and all night, and any motherfucker with a penis who dared come within a mile of me better watch his back. Even my friend-zone boyfriends had taken note of Tommy’s possessiveness and were keeping their distance. But how was Sharise’s brother to know? Tommy was starting to remind me of my father, the way he would trip out without any warning.

  In the limo on our way back to his place, I told Tommy I was having doubts about moving in. “You really flipped the fuck out back there. That’s some loony tunes shit, you know that, right? I have a daughter, Tommy, I can’t be taking any chances.” Tommy said that he loved me and swore that it would never happen again. Ah, those famous last words.

  THE DAY THE EARTH MOVED

  “Holy shiiiiit!”

  There was a huge boom, as though God was pounding the biggest kick drum in the universe. Then it felt like someone had picked up the house and was shaking it. Books and furniture flew through the air. Water cascaded as our pool cracked and its contents drained into the neighbor’s yard. There was a terrible creak as the kitchen separated from the living room.

  The Northridge earthquake occurred at 4:30 A.M. on January 17, 1994. A magnitude 6.7 quake, it was the largest and costliest natural disaster in United States history, killing nearly sixty people and causing more than $40 billion in damages.

  When it happened, Tommy and I were crashed out on the floor of my bedroom in my house in Tarzana, about seven miles from the epicenter. I had just had my boobs redone.

  “It’s fucking Armageddon,” I screamed, clinging to Tommy.

  Tommy and I were sleeping on the floor because my surgery had made it too painful for me to climb up the ladder to my high, loft-style bed. I heard my mom screaming down the hall—she was in town to help me out after my surgery. But she hadn’t bargained on this.

  “What the fuck was that?” said my mother, who never curses. She was holding Taylar, who was grinning like a kid on a roller coaster. “Wheeee!” said Taylar as the house continued to rock and tremble.

  “That was an earthquake, Mom, a big one! Welcome to Los Angeles.”

  “That’s it—I’m never coming back to this fucking town,” said my mom, cursing for the second time in her life.

  The four of us sat in the car in my driveway for several hours, afraid to go back inside because the aftershocks were so huge. We had no idea what was going to happen to the house, the city, even the state. All the power was out everywhere, and people were freaking out, tripping balls. “Mom, take Taylar back with you.” We couldn’t stay at my house anymore, so Tommy and I booked ourselves in at a hotel in nearby Woodland Hills. The house, which Jani and I had bought just before we split, had never really felt like home anyway. I started spending all my time at Tommy’s place, and he started looking for a home for us on the beach. It felt like the universe was conspiring for us to be together.

  My mom took Taylar back to Baton Rouge with her for a few months while I dealt with the aftermath. It was not the first time she would take over parenting duties for me, and would not be the last. Whether it was earthquakes, heartbreak, or drug addiction, my mother, Judy Ann, would always be there for me and my daughter—holding our hands, reassuring us that everything would work out in the end. And now that I’d found Tommy, even she believed that I mi
ght have gotten a second chance at happiness with a rock star.

  Chapter Eight

  HE’S MY TOMMY LEE

  There are all kinds of stories out there about how Tommy Lee met Pamela Anderson. Some say they met at a New Year’s party while he was high on ecstasy. Some say they met when Tommy licked her face at a club. The truth is, I introduced them. Sharise, Tommy, and I were at Bar One, a club on the Sunset Strip near Beverly Hills that Vince Neil had part ownership of and occasionally rented out for porn shoots. Pamela was at a table with an acquaintance of mine, a club promoter named Billy Atkins. The three of us were passing through the crowd, and Billy grabbed my arm. “Hey, Bobbie, you know Pam?”

  “Of course. Hello, Pam.” They invited us to sit down at their booth and have some cocktails. “So aren’t you going to introduce me to your guy, Bobbie?” said Pamela, looking at Tommy. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

  “Tommy, this is Pamela Anderson. Pamela, meet Tommy Lee.”

  I didn’t think anything of it. Pamela and I had known each other for a few years, from working on Married . . . with Children and seeing each other around Hollywood. Now she was famous as C. J. Parker on Baywatch, which had become the highest-rated TV program in the world, thanks, largely, to her. Magazines had been comparing the two of us, sometimes calling me “the new Pamela Anderson.” Yes, we had a similar look—tousled blond hair, sexy pout, silicone tits. We weren’t twins, though. With my motor mouth and down-home attitude, I was all slacker meets Valley girl, whereas Pamela had that white-trash Brigitte Bardot thing going on. Our personalities, especially, were very different. Pamela was coy and always played her cards close to her giant chest. I wore my heart on my sleeve and was incapable of doing “cute.” I was the goofball tomboy to Pamela’s aloof vixen.

  We had already had some professional run-ins—back when I was with Jani, Hugh Hefner had offered me a Playboy pictorial and I arrived on set only to find that they had canceled the shoot at the last minute, for “political” reasons. I caught wind that Pamela, who had been on four covers, was not happy about her doppelgänger Bobbie Brown inching onto her turf. But I wasn’t one to hold on to a grudge.