"Damn Mia, that’s one of the best it’s ever been."

    Steven let out a sigh as he climbed off me. When he was finished having sex he always climbed off you right away, leaving you like a felled beast that has been dealt the deathblow and left to die. But he never minded if you crawled up onto him and cuddled into the crook of his neck. So I did. I got up. The breeze outside coming in through the sliding door was cool against me. We’d been sweating a lot. I lay there next to him, running my fingers over his skinny little body. How could this little bit of man be so...so..everything? He was a wonderful lover, an incredible musician, and when the cocaine was plentiful and the alcohol was flowing, he was agreeable and good. Beads of sweat in his hair shone like diamonds in the moonlight, like the very stars embedded in the night sky. I remembered a passage from Romeo and Juliet. ‘And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with the night, and pay no worship to the garish sun.’

    "You’re very quiet tonight," he said, the last of his sexual adrenaline dying down. I snuggled into his neck, into that patchouli smell.
    "It’s the summer breeze," I replied softly. It’s singing to me."
    "Does it sing better than me?" he asked playfully. You could hear the weariness in his voice quite well.
    "Never. Never in a million years, Steven."

    I let him sleep with that as the last thought on his mind. He had been so busy for so long. He needed a break. They all did. Heh. They all needed a break from the road, from Elyssa’s bitching and moaning, from the managers and other dangerous creatures once encountered while traveling. But Steven said that breaks were for no one. Not right now. They were wrapping up here in New York, at the Record Plant. Steven was talking about all these great lyrics he had come up with. He said "The bastards didn’t believe me, so I went downstairs and started writing them on the wall. Prophetic, eh?" before cutting himself a line and pouncing on me like a wild cat. Sex, coke, rock and roll.
    I looked over at him, those soft, wild brown eyes closed in sleep, that gypsy-black hair straggling across his pillow. He smelled wonderful. Even the sweat of the stage lights and the groupie kisses were as sweet as perfume, like the night jasmine that bloomed in the vacant lot not far from the hotel. I never dreamed in a million years that it would end up this way.

***

    I met Steven in Boston. They were playing The Box, a place that in the 60s was The Psychedelic Circus. Home to fine English dandies picking up pretty little American girls and beautiful American boys. Steven came out looking like a rag bag in clothes that they would have laughed him out of there for ten years ago. He strutted into the place like he owned it. There were a million people that came in this place night after night. Somebodys. Here was an absolute nobody walking in, dressed like the Haight-Ashbury itself. I wondered if his balls could even fit in his pants.
    He was small and skinny as ever, with the tiniest little waist and lips like Mick Jagger had. Very sensual, those lips. Much more so than Mick’s. He also had an aura about him that shone very red and full of sexual energy. A walking orgasm. The other girls giggled and stared, pointing their fingers and whispering. "Who the hell is that weirdo?" I asked much to the confusion of the girls. A girl named Kitty looked at me like I was born yesterday. "That’s Steven Tyler, the singer from Aerosmith. He’s gonna be a big rock star."

    This was news to me. I had been in Boston for about three months and had never heard of Aerosmith or this deranged circus clown of a lead singer. I was from California, the place where all the good things happened. Frisco and it’s love-ins, free stores and LSD sugar cubes that were as plentiful as the warm sunshine and good sex. But as all things do, the sixties ended. At Altamont. The Stones got to leave in a helcopter. I wasn't so fortunate. Some guy named Ducky that I had caught a ride with left. Maybe fucking, maybe so stoned out of his mind that he thought that the flesh was melting off of his bones. Either way, when the rain came, I was in a bus with a roof, a bongload of good weed and people who never bothered to ask why I was there. I let them take me away. I’d been across the country and back again thrice already when we stopped to pick up some people on a turnpike in Missouri. We hoped they'd share the love that was in this van, and maybe whatever was tucked away in their pockets. Their sign was wet and dripping from the rain. The black ink had faded a bit, but even with the drippy letters you could see the word "Boston." It was good enough for me.
    The place was a college town. It reeked of clubs and bars. I stumbled upon a waitressing job three months ago and stuck to it. I cut my waist-length hair and ditched a few of the more flower-child looking clothes that I owned for sleeker, more 1974-ish clothes. The rest of my paycheck bought me a little hit of this new stuff that the hippies didn’t care terribly much for called cocaine. It stung like a bitch but felt like flying. I could eat, I could snort, and I could lift whatever I could from a pretty college boy’s pocket while he rested in his peaceful post-coital slumber.

    The clown was followed then by four more. A tall one with crisp, cool blond hair, like the leaves of autumn that you almost never saw in California. Then came another blonde one, with a young face that, despite his obvious high, was fresh and sweet, with babyish hazel eyes. Behind them was a short guy with long almost reddish hair that hung over his face. Heh. They had longer hair than I did. They were all looking a bit freaky in their Kent Street clothes, their long hair and for the short one, the long muttonchop sideburns. Like a mangy version of the Stones, especially with that big lipped freak in the corner. "Where the hell is Joe?" the tall one asked the others. Well, there were some names now. Steven and Joe.
    Perhaps he was waiting for his herald. Perhaps he didn’t want to fit in with the rest of this crowd of misfits. But whatever the reason, the one they called Joe came in through the door, cool as a cucumber. In fact, cooler. Like a glacier walked in the room wearing tight leather pants and an open denim shirt. Wow. I can’t remember, but I’m sure that my mouth must have hung open very wide-he was that handsome. His eyes had a cool, almost smug look to them. This man, I thought, knows damned well what he has and knows how to use it. Above the tight pants was a wonderful chest that peeked out through his shirt, long hair that was black as India ink, and eyes as brown as deep, rich earth. You could grow flowers in those eyes. Any woman who met that gaze must have been just as hypnotized as I was. I guess I had stared too long, for what came next jarred me into reality.
    "Got a problem, sister?" someone screeched. Some little blond had come in with Mr. Cool. Short, with long blonde hair and tight leather pants as well. They matched. She reminded me of my grandmother’s Pomeranian-small and annoying, and looked like she could bite your ankles off. The other guys looked at her and rolled their eyes. Obviously she was not popular. "Joe, can I get a drink?" she asked him, sweet as sugar. He nodded a cool approval while the others went right past me and onto the stage. My eyes followed Mr. Cool-Joe, my mind corrected-as he walked past.
    Then the ankle-biter looked at me. Joe was forbidden territory. That was something that I got right away as she barked "Screwdriver. NOW." I forgot that I was here, still carrying my tray and wearing my apron. I could already see that this was not going to be fun.

    So I brought the cheap cocktail to the ankle biter, who grabbed her drink off the tray without a second look and tipped me by dumping loose change on it in a silvery handful. I could see why she wasn’t the most popular person in the world. Steven-yeah, that was his name- looked at her in disgust. He was on my side. They set up as people began to straggle in for Happy Hour, just wanting to get a drink, not caring about the band setting up onstage. The tall one, Tom as I found later, looked a bit hurt. But Joe, Mr. Cool, just slung his guitar low over his hips and wailed.
    The mood changed when nine o’ clock rolled around. The place began to jump with hormones and anticipation of whatever these Stones clones were planning on playing. I had heard a few licks from Joe’s guitar, a drum solo by the short guy who’s name was Joey. And baby face- his name was Brad. Not a bad little group. They looked okay. Sound? Well, I guess I’d find out. Kitty left early and Marc, the manager, was left shorthanded. So here I was stuck in this ugly club with these (mostly) ugly guys serving drinks to ugly customers. I should have been out cutting a line right now. This had better be good.

    The light went down a bit and the crowd of a few hundred sounded like a crowd of a few thousand. You’d think that they were seeing a real band. Steven came up to the microphone, which he had draped in scarves for some reason and began to sing confidently over Joe’s guitar. "Good evenin’ people, welcome to the show...got somethin’ here I want you all to know..." Simple? Yes. A bit trite? Perhaps. But beyond that, they rocked. The cocktails at the Box were never mixed slower, never served slower than the night that Aerosmith came to call. Because all of us stopped and stared and danced and had a grand time. And I could see why Kitty looked at me so strangely. Oh yes, they were gonna be BIG.
    Marc told me I should get their requests for drinks. We had sold so many that we should return the favor. They all ordered a beer, except for the bitch, who barked out the order for another screwdriver. "Since when are you a member of the group, Elyssa?" sneered Steven. Ah, so she had a name. Elyssa. Joe cast a look to Steven that made his message clear. Steven was to shut the fuck up. ‘Blow me’ Steven’s look shot back. I took her order anyway, not wanting to come between the two. Heh. If I had known then what I had known now, I never would have brought that second screwdriver.

    They were soon packed up and ready to head out. The gear- drums, guitars, cords and scarf-draped mic-was stuffed in a van that looked like something one of my kind would have been in: A Volkswagen bus, painted in true hippie fashion with big yellow love daisies on the side. While the drummer was clearly disgusted with them, the others just regarded it as part of the team. Except Joe of course, who was too cool to care. I followed him with my eyes, watching as the beautiful behind in those tight leather pants lugged his guitar case in one hand and held his girl closer with the other. Heh. All the handsome ones are always taken.
    Steven seemed a bit let down that the show had ended at all. Well, not completely. A few girls gathered around him, asking for autographs, and proposing much more. He smiled at them, arched his eyebrows in a sort of cute way. Well, I could see what the girls were going on about. I mean, even though he was skinny as a bean pole, and his hair was long and scraggly...he did have that sort of ragamuffin charm, though. And brown eyes. I’ve always liked brown eyes...Well, hell. Doesn’t matter. He had his grinning, giggling harem. And with those doe-eyed, large-breasted options, who is gonna go for a plainish sort of brunette like me?
    Steven, I guess.

    He separated the throng of girls like parting the Red Sea. They were clearly disappointed by the lack of his affection. I know I stared at him as Marc doled out by weekly pay in front of me on the bar. I leaned over, no doubt exposing myself to whoever was there. Hell, maybe just to Steven. With my head turned toward him, I followed Steven down-through the sea of tables and chairs in the stage area, over a little ramp that led to the main bar. Steven walked past me and into the men’s room, not looking at me at all. However, as he passed, I felt a hand slide up my skirt and pinch my butt. So that was how it was, was it? Heh. Maybe all the handsome ones weren’t taken. I followed him in.
    The bathrooms were always very plain affairs, with simple walls and stalls, in no particularly interesting colors. The place had been a restaurant, then a speakeasy, and then it became this hole-in-the-wall that it’s glory days would have frowned upon. But the tiling around the basin was a strange royal blue that has been here for the longest time. Steven was bent over at the sink, and in the mirror I could see him pull a silver cigarette case from his stage coat. It shone in the light like a beacon, like he knew he had the Holy Grail and could care less. I knew in an instant what it was.
    "I guess that’s why they call it a powder room, huh?"

    He turned sharply, hoping to conceal the cig case with his arm, trying to palm it so it wouldn’t be seen. This guy had been busted before, no doubt about it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw me. He remembered his manners then. He held the case up in the light in his hand. "Ladies first?" I nodded. He opened it up to reveal a little mirror stuck to one end of the case. It looked like a compact. Then I saw it: Little plastic bags flattened very small, small enough to fit in with a little straw section and a sharp razor blade. He had a lot of practice, this one. I could get to like him.
    He laid it down on the flat area around the basin, emptying a packet onto the mirror. He cut it carefully, laying the lines down neat as a pin, and very straight. He laid it out before me like a banquet and offered me the straw. I leaned over, watching him watch me. I could see the reflection the mirror. I wasn’t gonna get this for free. And I didn’t mind one bit.
    Jesus. Every time I snort it I remember why I love this stuff. Like God’s breath. It went straight to your brain and stayed there for a while. Oh man...
    I rubbed by nose, like most cokeheads do, when I was finished snorting. Steven looked at me with a knowing smile. He knew what I was feeling. He was about to feel it himself. He bent over the sink while I leaned against the stall, trying to balance myself. I was always a bit woozy after snorting for some reason. I heard the delicate sucking sounds, and I knew Steven had just got a noseful himself. He stood up fully and shot his head back, making sure it was all in. This was good shit, and he wanted to get every last grain he could. He wiped his nose with his wrist and looked at me with the smile of a boy at Christmas. "Good shit isn’t it?" he said gleefully. "This guy Bon, ya know, he has the best stuff. He’s English, so he gets these really heady drugs from people in New York. And there’s always good drugs in New York." he was rambling a bit. I was knocked out by the strong coke, so all I could really do was nod. "Fuck it," he said without warning, and rammed me up against the stall, putting his lips all over me. God, he could kiss with those lips. Even today I still dream of just one more kiss from them. His tongue wriggled around in my mouth; excitedly, druggedly. Whenever he had a snort he became insatiable. I never complained. Our hands were all over each other, my hands all over his back and through his hair, his hands wherever he could put them. He nudged me over to the sink and sat me down, parting my legs. He kissed me furiously, like he despised the game and wanted simply to get his rocks off. His hands were pulling my skirt back when there was a shout from behind us. "Hey, hey!" Marc shouted. "If you two are gonna do it, take off to you own place. I’m closing this one down." He slammed the door as he went out.

    Steven and I looked at each other guiltily. He smiled. "Do you live around here?"

Part 2