I spent a lot of my time in New York working in the music industry, chasing rock stars.
Isn't that what you do as a recent college graduate in the big city?
I auditioned for the first season of Rock of Love starring Bret Michaels and was kind of sad I didn't get cast (til I watched the show and realized I wasn't blonde or strippery enough).
I was seduced by an opera star, kissed by an up-and-coming songwriter, and by a member of Matchbox 20.
I threw myself at Kid Rock (yes, I did) at the company Christmas party.
I acquiesced when the lead singer of a popular indie band, in a chance encounter, asked me if I wanted to go somewhere and make out for a while.
And I spent a lot of time cheering on the love of my life as he played bass in a band that never quite made it beyond the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
It was all very exciting.
Over the last couple of years, following a dry spell that lasted nearly two years, I've come to love and appreciate The Nice Guy, who is able to pay attention to something beyond his own instrument. But by now, most of the nice guys in the world have been snapped up by somebody else, while I wasted time on those undeserving rock stars, and now I may be single forever.
I think I've altogether missed my opportunity to have a real relationship.
For some reason, I keep trying.
But recently, I relapsed with another rock star. I spotted him at a local bar, and went in for the kill. I'd been a fan since I got to third base while one of his music videos played on MTV. I'd been backstage at one of his shows before, but never really met him. My hand outstretched, I shook his and introduced myself.
And next thing I knew, he was coming home with me.
It was all very exciting - champagne, strawberries, whipped cream, Dusty in Memphis - until he made some perfunctory attempt at getting to know me, asking about prior heartbreaks. I resisted his line of questioning, trying to keep our encounter light and sexy, as we certainly were not on a path to a real relationship, but as he persisted, I revealed probably more than I should have.
He then said the cruelest thing I have ever heard in an intimate setting: "There's a sadness about you that's not really doin' it for me."
He announced his flaccidity, and I smiled, trying not to look sad.
He then criticized me for "trying to play with the big boys," which I can only imagine means something about engaging in casual sex with celebrities.
After he left, I realized he was right. I wasn't cut out for fantasy sex, catering to a man's every need, my needs being ignored. I am not a porn star.
I just wanted to get close to someone I'd admired for nearly 20 years. I didn't expect him to love me. But it would've been nice if he were just a bit...nicer to me.
I'd never make a good groupie. I just feel too entitled to love, affection, intimacy, caring, compassion, passion, desire.
Even if I never get any of those things, I still feel entitled to them.
And I think if I'm ever going to get them, it's going to be from a real person, not from a rock star.
A Question of Reality
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