Lick and a Promise-Diary of a Rock Star Groupie

by Veronica Moreau

  He looked puzzled. “No, I’m Greg, the sound engineer. BJ called out sick today and I’m filling in. You know BJ?”

  Suddenly I heard a back door creak open. “It’s okay Greg, she’s with me.” My rock star had saved the day again.

  “Oh sorry man, I thought…I didn’t know. It’s all good,” Mike said as he made himself scarce.

  “Sorry about that,” my rock star said, “it’s just…you know how it is. Look outside.”

  He led me to the back of the building into a private garage. There was a black Jeep sitting there.

  “Wait here,” he said and motioned for me to get in.

  I opened the door, there was that smell, his smell, and I wanted it all over me again.

  He came back in a few minutes later with a beautiful guitar in his hands. “Can’t let them pack this baby.”

  He gently laid it down in the backseat, handling it like it was a newborn. He told me how he had had the instrument when he was a kid just starting out in the music biz. As a struggling (and hungry) musician, he had been forced to sell it, only getting $150 for it at a local pawnshop. It broke his heart and he never thought he would see it again.

  Once he made it big, another rock star friend of his in another famous band heard about his story and found the guitar at an auction. As a surprise, he bought the guitar back and gave it to my rock star. He had tears in his eyes as he told me the story and it touched me that he would share something so intimate with me.

  He started up the Jeep and sped pass the adoring crowd that had somehow found out he was in the building and had trickled their way back there to get a glimpse.

  He drove faster than I liked but I imagined all the times he flew on an airplane and survived and assumed we would be okay as we made it onto Route 90 toward Newton.

  Man, he was sexy! The way he kept his hand firm on the gearshift, moving it in and out and all about. I remembered how he had gripped me the night before. As he zoomed through traffic, he smiled, looked at me and said, “You like that?” I guess he meant the speed but who cares what he meant. I had a few more moments with my rock star.

  I thought we were going to his place but instead he took a detour onto an old road that led back to an abandoned house. It was beautiful in a spooky kind of way and I was curious as to why we were there.

  The Jeep made its way over the potholes and mud holes to reach its destination. Old curtains blew in the broken windows and paint fell from the old wooden siding as we approached.

  “This was my grandparent’s house,” he said quietly. “I am in the process of buying it and fixing it up. Gonna take a lot of work. I just don’t have a whole lot of time right now. So I hired a crew, you know. They are gonna start next month.”

  Ah, how sweet. Oh man, he was adorable!

  He sat there for a moment with his left hand in the 12 o’clock on the steering wheel and his right hand on the ball of the gear. He looked at the house with what looked like a mixture of memories and sadness.

  “Okay, ready!” he said as the Jeep took off.

  We flew back onto the highway and I saw the sign for Newton up ahead.

  “Listen,” he said. “Um, look, you know who I am and what I am all about but I don’t want you to think that last night didn’t mean anything to me. I’m not like the other guys in the band, you know.”

  I believed him. I also believed all the trash I had read in Creem, Hit Parader, Rock World and all of the other rock star magazines that I had littering my bedroom back home. They had all said he was a really nice guy.

  He went on to say that the lead singer was a male whore who would bed anything, male or female and he wanted me to know that he wasn’t like that.

  “Yeah, man I don’t know what to say about him. We’ve been friends, brothers, since we were teenagers and fucking off at the Lake up North. He is the vision behind the band but sometimes I think he takes it all for granted. If he fucks up at a show, it not only costs us money but it hurts the fans. These people work hard to buy our tickets and give us the lifestyle that we have and I am grateful for that, the band is grateful. I told him that when he starts taking it for granted, he needs to stay the fuck home.”

  He was referring to the singer’s love affair with heroin. Pot and cocaine were just casual affairs to him but with heroin, it was pure and utter love. His addictions had caused the band a bad rep, which was good in one way to be the bad boys of rock and roll, but in another, it could kill their careers.

  Missing shows, falling off stages and pissing people off was not the best way to make friends or fans and my rock star knew that.

  I just listened.

  “Anyway, like I was saying, you need to know that it meant something to me okay. I could tell you were not like the other girls there that night. You had never been to an after party have you?”

  He looked over at me, I shook my head no, and he smiled like he was proud of that or something.

  “I like you,” he continued, “and I know you may have other plans, but I would like to see again when I get back into town.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that I didn’t live there anymore, I never did really. I didn’t really live anywhere any more but I didn’t tell him that. I just quietly said, “Okay.”

  The Jeep took a sharp left turn and cruised up a slightly steep hill in a wooded area. The houses there were large but not massive and the trees crowded most of them from view.

  We pulled into a driveway on the left side of the road. The right hand side was a steep embankment.

  Before us sat a breathtaking Italian villa surrounded by a heavy woods. A big, castle like wooden door dominated the front of the stucco covered house. A winding staircase complimented the elegant structure of the home.

  The house, although beautiful, was not overbearing in its splendor.

  We pulled up front and got out and he led me up the front stairs. I kept looking around for guard dogs, wives, fans, something…but the peace and quiet was deafening.

  He opened the door and the smell of leather hit my nostrils as I made my way to a small landing that lead down into a sunken living room.

  Several brown leather couches decorated the room and the décor was somewhere between Middle Eastern, English gothic and very rich.

  Huge Bohemian pillows were on the cushions, the chairs and on the floor.

  I took a deep breath and tried to take it all in. Where was his wife, the bitch?

  I really shouldn’t call her that, even though he can’t hear me or read my mind. She may be a nice person and tolerates a lot from her husband. How big a bitch would I have to be if my husband was a famous rock star?

  But you know what, at that point, I could have cared less if she was the Wicked Witch of the fucking West. I was in her house, with her husband and if time allowed, I was going to fuck her cock.

  He walked into a well-lit kitchen that had shiny copper pots and pans hanging from medieval looking hooks on a circular rack above the counter. I followed him and he asked me if I wanted something to drink. I said no but could not take my eyes off the swimming pool out back.

  Through the big bay window in the kitchen, I could see the large kidney shaped pool that was glistening with turquoise water.

  “Yeah,” he said, “came with the house. We don’t use it often. She likes to entertain out there but I’m not much on all that.”

  She. He had said it and broke the spell. I have to remember that this is not real, not real in any way.

  He didn’t offer to show me the rest of the house, which was probably for the best, but he did offer me a seat on one of the big comfy leather couches.

  It felt like butter as I melted down into the seat. My God, I thought, what’s inside this cushion, clouds? I had never felt anything so comfortable in my life.

  I wanted to melt down into the cloud filled cushion and be there every day underneath him when he sat down. In fact, I wanted and needed to be underneath him right now.


  He must have felt the same way.

  He took a sip of his iced tea, placed it on an expensive looking coaster and made his way over to my side of the couch. The thing was as big as New England and it seemed like it took him forever to get over there to me.

  He reached over to a side table and opened up a large drawer underneath it. He pulled out a box marked Dom Perignon and opened it to reveal a literal drug store.

  There were joints, vials of coke, pills of every color and a bag of weed but he later revealed it was called “green” which was marijuana laced with PCP (angel dust).

  He said he didn’t do the hard stuff (that came later) and would never touch a needle (sadly that came later too) but was content with the shit he had in his stash box. I was too!

  We smoked a joint, he laid out a few lines of blow, and we snorted a bit. It was as intense as the stuff at the party and again, I took it slow and didn’t want to take in too much, too fast. I was still a newbie in the snowcapped mountains and was just getting used to my skis and I didn’t want to hit a tree head on (sadly for me that came later too).

  We got high then got horny and began to make out on the butter cloud. It had been less than 24 hours but I had missed him, craved him and I knew that wasn’t good. I can’t get involved, can’t fall in love, can’t, won’t, shouldn’t…wanted to though but knew that it was not real, not real in any way.

  He reached down, unzipped his jeans (no leathers this time), and gently glided my hand to his stiff cock. I let out a soft moan and he put his hands between my legs. I was wearing bell bottoms (what else), they were low on my hips, and it didn’t take a team of Clydesdales to shimmy them down to my ankles.

  He began to rub my wet spot then gently led my mouth to his cock. I slowly took his firm shaft into my mouth and tickled the tip with my wet tongue. He moaned and leaned back onto the brown leather cloud which exposed more of his cock from his jeans.

  With my left hand, I cupped his large balls and held onto his shaft with my right. By now, he was no longer in a position to rub me but I was getting wetter by the minute as I sucked, licked and tickled his anxious cock.

  He then sat up and passionately kissed me, kissing me like a man in love (in my dreams) and he pushed me down onto the brown butter cloud.

  He gently entered me as he pushed me farther down into the leather dream.

  As he fucked me, I looked around the room at the lush surroundings. It was like a foreign land instead of a villa in New England.

  I closed my eyes and rocked with the waves of each thrust as his cock made love to me. There I said it…love.

  Just as we both climaxed…all hell broke loose.

  We didn’t even hear the front door open as she came storming into the room. All strung out in her royal blue string bikini. Had she been at the pool the whole time? Had she been watching? Did she want to join us?

  “You fucking groupies!” she shouted. “How do you people find our house?” she screamed even louder. If only she knew, her husband had brought me there himself.

  I barely got my bell bottoms up and buckled and I was out the back door. Story of my life…in the front door, out the back.

  I could still hear her screaming as I made my way down the long driveway. A gold Porsche was now in front of the house and looking back, I realized that my rock star was never really mine, he was hers, or was he? The third one this month?

  Well, I thought…that was before he met me.

  Bonnie and Clyde and the Mormons

  For the first time in the last few months, I realized that I had nowhere to go so I did the one thing I didn’t want to do and I called my aunt Sylvia in Framingham.

  I had walked the mile into town and dropped a dime in the pay phone at the Exxon. She was surprised to hear from me but never really showed much emotion to the humans in her life, never did. She was more devoted to her church and her pets, in that order.

  She asked me what I was doing in Massachusetts and I told her the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  I told her that a band of Armenian gypsies had kidnapped me and they threw me out of the caravan when I refused to dance in their traveling show.

  Dumb bunny that she was, she bought it. However, knowing my aunt, she probably really wasn’t listening to me anyway.

  “That’s nice sweetheart.” She always called me that. Sweetheart. I wondered if she even knew my real name. I was born Elizabeth Victoria Bishop but had been called Poppy since I was kid. To make it easy on her, I always referred to myself as Elizabeth around her.

  I have to hand it to her though. I always got a birthday card from her, every year, just like clockwork I would get a beautiful Niece birthday card every November.

  My birthday is in March.

  I asked her if she could come and get me, she hesitated and said that she was very busy working on her church newsletter and could I please call someone else. That was my aunt.

  Who else was there to call? The President?

  I offered her gas money and she suddenly had a change of heart and said she would be there in about an hour. I told her that according to the map, it was only about six inches away but she assured me it would take her at least an hour, depending on traffic.

  So I waited. And waited, and waited. After four hours she finally shows up in an old light gold colored Nova with two hubcaps.

  She didn’t get out, didn’t hug me, nothing, just waved at me to let me know that it was her.

  I got in and immediately remembered the smell at her tiny apartment. Well, let me tell you, the smell had found its way to her car as well. The damn thing needed an exorcist!

  Littered with trash and fast food bags, it was easy to see how she had ballooned to over 250 pounds.

  She explained her lateness by saying that her dog had been throwing up and she did not want to leave him but knew that I needed help.

  Pack your bags, now boarding for the guilt trip!

  I ignored it and asked about her dogs and she said they had gotten too big and her landlord told her to get rid of them. A smaller dog and a black cat had replaced them.

  We made small talk on the ride and after asking about my parents, I told her that they had moved to Mars and my father was now a famous astronaut, and my mother, the star of her own cooking show.

  “That’s nice Sweetheart.”

  She asked about my brother Greg and I told her that he had gotten married and had four kids and they were all living on welfare in a trailer park in Brazil. He was 15. “That’s nice sweetheart.”

  I asked her about my cousin, her only child, and she said what I had expected her to say. “Well, you know Leslie, there is always some sort of drama going on in her life.”

  The last I heard, my cousin, who was 25, had been diagnosed with Leukemia. Yeah, drama! Thank God she was living near her father in Connecticut.

  We arrived at her shitty, smelly apartment and she had trouble opening the door since boxes were blocking the path.

  She said that I had caught her just in time since she was leaving in a couple of days to move to Utah.

  My aunt was a devout and nutty Mormon. For as long as I could remember, she had devoted her life, her faith and her savings to the Church of Latter Day Saints.

  I didn’t know much about the religion but had heard it was a cult, but I don’t know.

  She said she needed to answer a “calling” to move out to Salt Lake City and give her life over to the Mormon Church there since that is where they grew all the Mormons.

  I looked around and had a flash back of the last time I had been there to visit her with my parents. I knew that I would end up on the dirty, stained couch but I didn’t care at that point.

  I asked her about the move out West and she perked up and began telling me all about the church and how much they needed her and practically begged her to make the move.

  Yeah right! I didn’t buy any of but I listened and tried to hear her over the
growling of my stomach.

  She never offered me anything to drink or eat, so I asked her if I could get a bite in the kitchen. She started making all sorts of excuses as to why there probably wasn’t anything in the house for me, since I was so finicky, and maybe I would like to take the car and go out to eat. That was my aunt.

  I offered her to go with me and she said no but pointed out that we had passed a Hot Shoppe a few miles back and I could go there if I wanted. Believe me, by now, I wanted.

  I came back in, she was at her computer, and the black cat on her lap jumped down and practically attacked me when he smelled food.

  The dog came running out too and although a little pee wee, jumped up and down like a jumping bean begging me for something to eat. Didn’t she ever feed these animals?

  I remember as a kid, she actually put plates on the table for her pets and they sat in the chairs next to us and ate dinner.

  She had named them Bonnie and Clyde which was appropriate since they constantly tried to rob me of my loot. I bet you ten dollars if you had given them a machine gun, they would have taken my wallet.

  After I ate, I was ready for bed but had forgotten the fact that my family never slept.

  So, I took a bath in the hard water stained tub and asked for a cup of tea. Oh yeah, mortal sin. My aunt did not smoke, drink, or ingest caffeine of any kind, including tea. Somewhere in the Mormon handbook she was also not allowed to show her arms, especially her elbows.

  She did offer me a pair of her pajamas to sleep in which I took and realizing that my aunt was over 250 pounds to my 112, I almost drowned in a sea of flannel.

  I lay down on the couch and tried to sleep but the blanket she gave me smelled like wet dog and I could swear that I had fleas biting my ankles.

  The couch was directly in line with her computer and I could hear every hen peck note she made. I needed sunglasses to shield myself from the glare of her overhead light that she refused to turn off when I went to bed.

  I never understood why she had not learned to type better than sounding like a hen pecking at grain. She had been a medical transcriptionist for God’s sake! Learn how to type woman!