Possibility.

Fear.

Mostly of hurt and rejection.I am just not game enough to put myself out there.I will always feel like the prom scene in “Carrie” in that respect.Always waiting for the bucket to drop so to speak.

Which is why I dwell in my imagination.

Let us go back….Back, back though the swirling stinky mists of rock n roll time…..

When I was the rampaging lead singer of Tourette’s sometime round the dawn of the 1800’s,if I had to room with someone on tour it would always be the alpha bass god,Rosco Deluxe.We stuck together,he and I , he was my confidant and closest friend. I am sure he was happy to see the end of me when the band split up but even though he now resides in Berlin and I in stagnant suburbia,nowheresville,we are still and will always be brothers.

I have no secrets from that lad.Any of you that have lived though a band and excessive touring know that privacy is never at a premium and Lord! Did we talk.He is a surgeon that one,cut though all of my shit with the greatest of ease.I harboured illogical crushes accompanied by damp over-gazed at photographs through much of the duration of the band.Deluxe would roll his eyes and set me straight.

“He does not even know I am alive” I would whiningly lament ,sprawled fetchingly at the foot of Roscoe’s bed at our cranky abode high above Hamburg.

Ross would look up from the soft glow of his computer screen and drawl in that laconic voice. “Babes,we have been over this,I know you are great and I imagine so does he but …”

“But what?” I would ask from the floor knowing the answer but hoping that with the umpteenth retelling that it would sink into my thick skull.

“Meat and three veg!” we both exclaim at the same time and crack up.

Allow me to explain.

The Bass Gods’ rather poignant theory is that I am the absolute business, hands down,bless him.Well that’s how he would start it,listing all my attributes and I would luxuriate in it,wallow.Oink,oink,oink. But as we all know the good things never last.I am then informed that while lads may pine at a distance,flirt on drunken occasion and hang my picture on their wall they will always go home to she who is steady.Good but not too good,smart but not castrating with a monumental vocabulary,pretty but not Slavicly stunning,focused but not too driven.In a craptacular nutshell ,the pussy packing  equivalent of the old staple meal of meat and three vegetables.

Safe,secure,steady and sure.

Which I guess makes me some kind of Mongolian barbecue.

Sigh.

I would protest vehemently that man can not live on bland alone and that I could be all those things too.That if only they would see past it all,blah,blah,blah.

Ross cocked his eyebrow at me like a trigger.

“Yeah,when you are not jumping off stage barefoot in a suit trying to beat up Neo-Nazis in Frankfurt”

“Once! That happened once!!!”

So in my sodden imagination I stayed while the objects of my erstwhile desire had no fucking idea.Not a clue.This has been a lifelong pattern and knowing that I am an acquired taste is cold fucking comfort indeed.

My big brother always tries to make me feel better about it.You know,not being bland enough.Long a dater of shockingly stunning women,a true connoisseur,  he mutters darkly under his breath “Men are terrified of cheekbones!” To tell you the truth,I am not entirely sure what this means but strangely it makes me feel better.

And here I am again….

You get so used to feeling like shit that you are not entirely sure what to do with your fine self when you don’t.Except for buying more shoes….Oh,and staying in bed watching Roman Polanski movies.Then you have pedicures and playing your bass at a volume that sends the dogs next door postal,I would like to think with happiness but being that I am rather heavy handed when it comes to my all consuming love of distortion especially when it comes to walloping out Dave Alexander’s immortal lines at fuck worthy Wembley volume,probably not.

Can I just say that everything sounds and I actually play better in a Dukes of Hazard tee shirt and hot pants?

All I had to do,I have finally figured out, was cut out the cancer and get out of my own way.There it is.Cut the shit and self sympathy and get out of your own way.Face it home-school,you are not missed and you were not even kissed in the last-dire-shit-is-on-fire months so wave bye-bye and let it go….

(“You have to be kissed” he said and I melted.)

I find myself giggling.Yeah,I know right? Big shark smiles for no reason as well. Because I finally got right with myself.I also get to get right in front of Lilli’s lens next week.First real shoot in about a year.

Tempis fuckin’ fugit and so on and so forth. I am hot to trot now.Time to get back in the ring and work my over disciplined ass off.

I will tell you what kills me and takes the cake while I am at it? Don’t mind if I do,pull up a pew.This will digress and take a while….You know,the usual…

Stifled sensualists forced to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous soul squelching catholic education tend to be a mess.Yes, I am refering to moi.I personally, am a sensory overload in thigh high boots.But I temper it you see less the hounds come sniffing round my hem.Catholicism makes everything thing seem oh-so  dangerously dirty and forbidden.I still have to stop myself sitting a novena when I feel ripe with foxy thoughts.Its a low down crying shame really.This is why I am stuck in tumescent adolescence when it comes to the the rare covert-able member of the opposite sex.

Can I just say that I was fucking great at being an almost wife,at being in love.This is not something that I fling around willy nilly, you dig?

This shit is-tell-me-all-about-it-Harry-Winston precious.The mere gossamer thought of it even more so.And I am never going to squander it again.So here are my ravishing loins under self inflicted lock and key while my 15 year old imagination is chugging pony cans of Coors,listening to Ted Nugent, high on prime weed under black-lights and going buck wild on a limited loop of shit-hot possibility and I am loathe to admit,totally impractical fantasy.Look ma! No hands!

Oh well,them’s the breaks…

Still not,erm, interfering with myself at this point but let it be duly noted that I have rather lofty hopes on the self abuse front for the New Year.That’s about a squillion hail Marys right there…

A-hem.

Its not the fear of feeling it,it beings pretty much anything really,but it is the fear of putting my trust in someone else when I do.Which is why pinning is the only way to fly. (“Please make sure your tray table is secured and that you seat is in the upright position…”) I have always fared better at internalized romance.Miss Emma smirked at my wanton prowling and devil-may-care gratuitous hair flicking the other night and gave me a big old hug. I must have looked like a demented Whitesnake film clip.I am such a tool.It has been so long since I have felt dangerous with my own femininity.Since I even remembered that I had any femininity to speak of. What a fucking hoot.It’s like Russ Meyer has crafted me from beyond the grave.

And it’s safe cause it is mine.I am not going to waste this on some lank haired loser with a Stratocaster.Perish the thought! Bugger off! No! I am going to keep it churning and burning inside like a frosty machine full of molten cherry red fuck in my wah-pedal saturated ( Think Larry Graham in Sly and The Family Stone) over active cranium.

The voice in my head is tuned to drop-A.It thrums through me like a current connected to my cu…well…..it breathes down my long neck,warm and whisky scented.It touches me on all the hot points where my pulse dances fast and visible beneath my dermis.I quietly slide my flimsy black lace smalls off under the cover of the table and shove them in his pocket.Rewarded with a lupine grin I blush like a virgin.

Fantasy rules.I have depended on it my whole life.It saved me,it was and I think is ,all I have.Take it from the girl they used to call “Double bag” in high school.Oh,you are just gonna love this…The preface being that if you were dumb enough to want to fuck me? You put two bags over my head in case the first one broke.From my mouth to God’s ear.Funny huh?

Ha,ha,ha.

I was the oldest virgin I knew.No small wonder that I lived inside my head and I still do.At least the rent is paid up

As David Lee Roth once said “At least they know what I drink in here”

During a much needed and probably the best conversation I have had in the past 20 odd ( in more ways than one,trust me.) months. I was earnestly asked if member’s of the rock elite ever tried to make a move on my leggy self.

I  proceed to choke laughing on my water.Wildly flattered though,it must be said.

Never! I shit you not….

Maybe because I have never seen myself like that.That I don’t rate myself as how should I put it,want-able? High school lingers for a real long time.As do soul destroying relationships that you bet the farm on and lost .I still see myself as one of the boys.

The other party claimed amazement which made me feel all special and drippy inside.

They also looked at me like I was prime rib.

And I am so shocked and colour me reignited and spastically grateful.I have come from being told if I put on weight that I had let myself go to if I was fit that I looked ugly and like a boy.

(!!@##$%$$?????!!!@#!#@?!)

This being just a sample and reason is how I ended up in the wilderness for well over a now lost and sadly lamented year and then some.

Miss Ash tells me that my pictorials are eagerly awaited and wanted sight unseen by magazines and I have to pinch myself.She says that people are awaiting my return,that interest is high.I feel like I should be flinging caterwauling infants into a volcano by way of thanks being that my gratitude is so massive.

And Sing?

Like a fucking bird.In the shower,on the train,in the gym.Perched on the end of my notebook strewn bed ,guitar cradled in my inked arms nutting out the arrangements that I want to wrangle for my album.

Tweet,tweet,tweet.

And to think that I didn’t sing till Blackie put me on that show last summer,that my voice was gone.And even then I sounded like a puppy trying to shit a pot roast cause I was so shattered.This,this feeling? Being able to soar again? Is the ducks nuts! I am purring like a prestige vehicle AND I am in a new band come 2012.

…………..oh…mmm!….ohhhh….OHHHHH!!!! Oh god….god yes! yessss! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

The cerebral and sonic orgasms in lieu of the physical? Honey,I will take my licks where I can get ’em.

I feel like I am back in my body.The training helps like you wouldn’t believe.Elvis bless the serotonin! Wooo-weee! All sweat,blood pounding and just a bee’s dick,there slightest-est pinch of reemerging desire.For what? Just to be.And that is more than enough.

I liberally douse myself in a mist of Chanel Gardenia and spring long limbed into my big white bed naked as a jaybird and squeaky clean after using up every last drop of the hot water.A Moorish witch sprawled on an acre of bazillion thread count Egyptian cotton…..and finally,I dream again.

Tangled in my long hair are ghost fingers,stars,fast cars and Gibson guitars.

Movement saves me.It is imperative.I run for miles to nothing but my beloved Bon Scott saturated  AC/DC.

I shave,pluck,oil,scrub,condition,de-tangle,moisturise,exfoliate,file,trim,buff,gloss,shine,brush,polish,lacquer ,loofah

and

shine

shine

shine.

“Oh if you could see me now!”

I think as I float in the bath,my buff brown bod borne aloft bobbing on ebson salts and good vibes.KISS blasting though the empty house and I snigger like Muttley as I picture the sad sack of scrawny smacked out shit that was drafted in as my replacement.

Ho,ho,ho.

I could not give a shit if I tried.

And with that? I raise my glass to possibility.

Cheers.