Kiss and Tell (17 page)

Chapter Twelve

Groupies

S
ometimes women who don’t know Gene and me personally will say to me, “Doesn’t it bother you that he’s out screwing around all the time?” If I say he’s not, I look kind of foolish, like I’m in deep denial or something; if I say, “No, it doesn’t bother me,” I just look like an idiot. But the truth is: if I don’t know about it, then it doesn’t bother me. No one truly knows what goes on except Gene. What I do know is more married people cheat on their significant other than do partners who aren’t married. I know he flirts; he flirts plenty. I see the “suave bolo” thing in his eye. He wants to make the girls swoon, and that’s fine with me. After all, who wants a guy no one else wants? But he has never lied to me, and I don’t think he cheats. I haven’t heard any stories of infidelity, or at least no women have come forward, so speculating is all anyone can do. I choose to believe the best and believe him to be true to me, to our kids, and to our life together. Plus, I don’t ever want to be petty or trivial with what we have, because it’s worth so much to me.

When you’re the girlfriend of somebody famous, rich or attractive, there will always be girls around trying to take your boyfriend. With KISS there have always been aggressive groupies. It’s amazing how many of them are out there; they’re a hazard. There have been times when I’ve physically put myself in front of a girl who was just getting a little too hot for Gene in front of me or the kids. But come on, I can’t be there all the time. Gene handles everything just fine when I’m not around. That being said, there are moments when I feel a certain disrespect, and it bothers me immensely when ex-girlfriends continue to call, visit, hint, flirt, write notes, or all of the above. It’s been more than twenty years, ladies—he’s not coming back!

PUBLICITY SHOTS FROM THE TOM SHOW.

I personally never did that groupie thing so I don’t really understand it. With the exception of Tom Jones, I’ve never been a very good fan. I was always able to make the distinction between sexual cheating and emotional cheating. In my heart I don’t really consider it cheating if you get, say, a blow job from someone whose name you don’t know. I kind of think like a man in that regard. I’m not saying that it would please me by any means if my partner did that. Someone would have to pay, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t end my relationship over it. I would be upset, but not “Fatal Attraction” upset.

Maybe I have this attitude because sometimes in the past I was the one for whom it was just sexual. Or maybe it’s because I’ve seen all the groupies in action, and they really do move from one musician to another. Usually, they don’t want to take your guy and marry him and live with him and have children with him and be emotionally involved. What they want is the excitement of being at the show and nabbing the dick onstage. That’s thrilling. The whole idea is probably not that glamorous the next morning. It’s a notch in everyone’s belt, and then time to move onto the next one. What surprises me is that Gene does not appear to have more children!

As far as Gene is concerned, I know he hasn’t fallen in love with anyone else since we met, and that’s what’s important. In my situation, part of the key to keeping a man in Gene’s position happy is not to keep the reins loose, but to have no reins at all. Reins and cages are for horses and birds. Through the years, when Gene has called me, I’ve never asked, “Where are you?” Sometimes I don’t even know what city he’s in; but I know he calls me every day.

I didn’t consciously decide to live my life this way; my behavior is a natural evolution of my respect for him. From the start, I never had any jealous or possessive feelings about him or our relationship. I’d had the boyfriends with whom I felt insecure and done that whole stupid, whiny “Why are you talking to her? If you want her, why don’t you just go get her?” All those childish games—I just couldn’t do anything like that to Gene. When my emotions and hormones do get the better of me, I’ll try to get reassurance from Gene and tell him what I am feeling.

When I met Gene I wasn’t policing him or keeping a sharp eye out in case he did something. I’ve learned if they’re going to do something, they’re going to do it. There is nothing you can say or do to stop a man from cheating if he’s the cheating kind. If you’re married and you quit giving your partner a sex life and an emotional life and support, you might force him to leave, but I don’t know of any way to force a man to do the opposite—to love you and be faithful to you—if he doesn’t want to.

Jealousy is pretty nonexistent with us. I don’t dwell on it. I don’t like feeling it, and I choose not to. It’s a useless waste of energy, one of those feelings that sucks out all the good stuff from inside of you. When you’re jealous and worried and nitpicking, it drains all the joy out of everything. It’s natural, it’s tempting, everyone’s felt it, but you shouldn’t indulge it, because it can wreak havoc on an otherwise normal, healthy relationship.

WITH GENE AT HIS BIRTHDAY PARTY AT THE SPORTSCENTER BOWL.

Gene and I have always had a calm partnership. Like the one my parents had before the accident, we don’t fight (although I’ve had my crabby moments), and we have a healthy, playful sex life. In 22 years we may have agreed to disagree on many things, but we haven’t had a fight. Gene said once, early on, “Let’s never fight about the little things. If I leave my socks and shoes in the middle of the floor and you don’t like it, I’ll hire someone to pick them up.” He was right; when you pick and pick about little things, you’re probably unhappy in the relationship for other reasons. Instead, you need to pinpoint what’s bugging you, work it out, and let it go. Yes, every relationship has compromises. That’s very grown-up, compromising.

Gene and I have always told the truth to one another. I’ve always been very clear about what I want, which has never been exactly what he wants. But I haven’t loved him less just because he doesn’t think the same way I do. I like the way he thinks, he likes the way I think, and we like each other just as we are. We had to figure out a way to work around our differences, because to me, Gene was the big prize. Not because he is a celebrity, because I’ve been there, but because he is sober, smart, and he loves me. He was and is an honorable man with a kind heart and, oh yeah, like I said, he loves me. That’s big.

He’s really great in the sack, too. Remember the candles, the bath, and the food at our first encounter in New York? That was nice—great, in fact—but I don’t need it, which is good, as I’ve never seen it since. What I do need is attention when I need it, and Gene knows how to give it. He is, without a doubt, all man, all the time. The kind of man who’s brave and shy, conceited and humble, manly and barely in touch with his feminine side. Well, there is no feminine side, but there is a soft side. He’s adventuresome and traditional and predictable in a spontaneous way. He can find ways to surprise me in bed that I least expect, yet I expect it from him. I expect that I will always be pleasantly surprised by the way he touches me; handles me; and always, always makes sure I’m happy before he is. This unselfishness warms my heart and everything else.

At almost six feet tall I feel small and feminine when I’m with Gene, and while he clearly replaced a lot of my lost love from my father, he is in no way paternal to me. He’s a slut, and I like it that way. He’s a cheap and easy lay, ready at the snap of my fingers. He’s proud of that, and that’s okay with me. He can throw me around and leave me limp. Let’s face it, it’s good to play dirty. I will let you in on a little secret—that tongue! It’s my second-best friend, and folks, it’s not the size—but the speed that counts. Five speeds! He loves the fact that I feel weak-kneed in the bedroom, and he feels that’s the one place he can get me to shut up!

I was well aware of what was available to me in terms of men at the time I met Gene. I had been out and about in L.A. It was pretty slim pickings from the pool I was swimming in, and I learned that it’s very rare when a relationship comes along in which your feelings are reciprocated. One or the other is working too hard, trying to feel it; faking it; or settling. Gene and I did none of those things. I didn’t feel like he was the last man I was ever going to meet. I liked him; I liked everything about him. His looks grew on me. I didn’t look at him that first night at the party and fall over saying, “Wow.” But as we grew closer what he was became very attractive to me. I appreciated him—his honesty, his loyalty, his initiative, and even his flaws.

So that’s why I don’t get petty with Gene, ever, because it isn’t worth it. If he flirts with another woman, groupie or not, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a man, why wouldn’t he look at a beautiful woman? What do I want, a eunuch? I’ll look at a handsome man, and Gene doesn’t bug me about it, because it’s just a fantasy. I have the hots for Tom Jones, to put it mildly. I love him, I want to eat him up. But I wouldn’t ever really do anything if I had the chance, because then this wonderful feeling I have for him would be gone. Nothing could live up to what’s in my head. In my mind Tom Jones would just look at me and I’d have an orgasm. And you know in reality he’d have to work at it, like very other guy. Nope, not going there; not going to spoil it.

My obsession with Tom goes way back to my childhood when we used to watch him on television. When I was 18 and working as a waitress at the Four Seasons Hotel in Ottawa, he played there once. I watched him and I wondered, could there be anything sexier than that? I was taking a break in the café when he came in for breakfast with his bodyguards. I almost fainted dead away. As he walked out I couldn’t even glance in his direction. He was going past my table and I looked down at the floor, because if I raised my eyes any higher his crotch would be right there in my face. I was at eye level with Tom Jones’s crotch—the stuff of my dreams. (Well, not really—I dream about his mouth.) I kept my eyes on his boots, which, coincidentally, were the exact same kind of boots Gene was wearing the night I met him, and still wears to this day: pimp boots, I call them.

I was staring at Tom Jones’s high-heeled boots, thinking,
Oh my God. Oh my God. Please don’t say anything to me because I’ll die.
He stopped at my table; I was sitting there, wearing my little tiny black cocktail dress, getting ready to go back to work. I don’t remember what the guard’s name was, but Tom looked over and said something like “Hey Joe, she’s a pretty one, isn’t she?” And still I could not even look at him! The guy was like, “Yeah, yeah, come on boss, we’ve gotta go.” I finally raised my eyes and saw a big belt buckle, and was overcome.
Oh my God, look down, look quickly down.
I will never forget it.

Cut to five or six years ago. Tom Jones was playing at the House of Blues. I said to Tracy, “We have to get in, because I have to see Tom Jones!” We got backstage passes from Ted Field, who is the father of my sister’s children and the founder of Interscope Records, Tom’s label at the time. Tracy was happy to come along and share my experience. She doesn’t carry the same torch for Tom, but she knows how brightly mine burns. She remembers how, when we were kids, I used to watch him on television, and knew the words to every single song—wait—just like a groupie! I’ve never had this kind of reaction to anyone else. I don’t care about any other celebrity, musician, anything—but Tom Jones just does it for me.