Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (32 page)

Always, some of the public adored me—thwarted rock-dollies who glommed onto my past like it was their very own, girls who told me I spoke their minds for them, guys who wished they had been there; and always, another part of the not-so-adoring public saw a scarlet letter—a raised, searing welt in the center of my forehead. Shame, shame, shame. On a live satellite show to Australia, the scum-host
said menacingly, “How does it feel to be known around the world as a slut?” The world has never liked admitting that a woman can have a live-wire sex life. So when my old friend Robert Plant called from London to say he was giving the book to his teenage daughter, Carmen, so she could see what the glorious rock dog and doll days had really been like, I was pleased and strangely proud.

I spoke to Michael and Nick every day from the road, and their love and support energized me. Fortunately, Nick was too young to take much interest in the PR proceedings, but poor Michael had been subjected to hideous cracks and jibes about his wife, the groupie whore who kissed-kissed-kissed and told. How did he feel about his wife of thirteen years announcing to the world that she had slept with ALL THOSE rock-legend creeps? Always the devil-may-care sophisticate, Michael defended me to the hilt, telling people he was proud of my accomplishments and my blazing, colorful past. He said none of the revelations had been a surprise to him and he had been much, much worse in his heyday. He championed me with a big smile on his face, and I was grateful, but inside I knew he was squirming. Michael was home alone with his unhappy child, while his wife paraded around on
Geraldo
with her knickers down around her ankles, evading questions about the size of his best friend’s dick.

August 14
—
On the big bird headed back to L.A. I didn’t write much on the entire tour
—
so hectic. Swell time with Donnie in Miami
—
we have such a special thing. I feel truly comfortable with him, so much Evian under the bridge. Lovely dinners, hysterical conversations, exquisite rides in his boat late at night under the huge full moon, mist steaming up off the ocean. He had one of his teenage no-ones with him part of the time, but we might as well have been alone. The Harmonic Convergence is occurring on Sunday, and I am ready for a transcendental awakening
.

The minute I got home, even before a nap, Michael dropped the bomb: He had found an apartment in the hysterical heart of Hollywood, very close to several of our former family love nests. He had recently completed a high-budget pilot for Aaron Spelling and had a pot of dough—and a month or two before, he had admitted having “very strong feelings” for the model (could this be love? Aaaaaaggghh!), yet seemed to lack the energy to take the next step. But now he was moving out. This was it.

Weren’t there supposed to be sirens? Somber bells chiming? An announcement on the loudspeaker? A silent alarm, maybe? The next morning before dawn cracked I grabbed Nick and went to a high hilltop in Malibu, along with a thousand other seekers, attempting to still the frizzled cacophony in my head by meditating as thirteen heavens converged with nine hells. While Nick let his tortured spirit float out on that silver chord, like a beseeching kite of light, pictures of my marriage were illuminated on a magic screen behind my jittery eyes: Waiting triumphantly at the airport when Michael left England for me, our engagement announcement over the loudspeakers at Rodney’s English Disco—and the envious teenage glances it caused—twenty dollars to an Elvis employee for a better seat, the first kick at
The Last Waltz
, the look on his face before he left for his first AA meeting, the broken wrench in his eyes when I asked if he still loved me. Oh, my dear Michael.

How to tell Nick? Sit him down over a nice dinner at the King’s Head, fish and chips . . . Nick, don’t just eat the crunchy parts, you
know the actual fish has the protein. Why don’t you at least
try
some ketchup on the chips? No, I don’t know why they’re called chips in England and fries in America, honey. Umm, you know how Daddy and I haven’t been getting along that good? Sure, you can have a Coke. Excuse me, waitress, can we have a Coke? Michael, can you help me a little here? Thanks, Mikie. Nick, you know how Mommy and I have been arguing a lot lately? Well, Daddy has gotten his own place in Hollywood. I need to spend some time on my own. Oh, you’ll see me all the time, honey. In fact, I want you to help me pick out some furniture, I want you to make me an art piece for the place of honor. Right, Mommy? Nicky, Daddy and I will always love each other. In fact, the main reason we aren’t going to live together anymore is because we’ll get along lots better living apart. We want to stay good friends. Oh, honey, don’t cry. No, it’s not your fault. We love you more than life, and always will. Would you like another Coke? Eat some dinner, sweetie. Pamela, I don’t think he’s all that hungry right now.

I know Nick, being so plaintively sensitive, had been picking up the hard-core hell of the situation anyway. And I believed real strongly that you shouldn’t stay together for the sake of the kids, like couples did in the fifties, but it was HARD going. All kinds of guilt raged within me about not supplying the beloved offspring with a solid foundation, holding the family together
against all odds
. It was an agonizing, slow-moving realization that perfect romantic idealism is just so much cotton candy—smoky, sweet-spun wisps in the wind. Take Mommy away from Daddy and what have you got? Fifty percent of America. Maybe more.

September 4
—
Well, my darling husband has found an apartment in Hollywood, and is moving on October one. Many mixed emotions, and I’m sure I don’t yet realize the full extent. I believe I have already done a lot of the grieving and severing during the last five months. My book enabled me to get back some of who I used to be and also to gain a ton of new courage and self-worth. Even though Michael is the one who did all the deeds, I instigated the separation. I’m proud of Michael for going through with it. We shall see what we shall see. Is there another fella for me?

The day Michael moved out, as he loaded his clothes, aftershave, and cassettes into a pickup provided by good old Stevie, there was a decent-sized earthquake that shook the foundation of the house, sending ceramic figurines and pouting African masks clattering to the floor in great disarray. It was perfect, except there should have
been a few lightning bolts thrown in to add a little more drama. Actually, we tried to downplay the dramatics for the sake of Nick, who was less agitated than I would have imagined, getting ready to help Daddy set up his new place. Michael had already taken Nick on shopping excursions, and even I had accompanied them a couple of times to add my feminine-touch two cents’ worth to his bachelor pad. Michael left me just about everything, taking only one piece of furniture, a leather swivel chair that he liked to relax in while watching
60 Minutes
, CNN, or himself on TV.

When all the boxes had been carted out, I waved good-bye and they drove off, Nick sitting on his dad’s lap, plaintive and jazzed all at once. And there I was, alone in the house. Separated from my husband. The big bedroom closet was empty and I stared at it for about half an hour, not even realizing I was bawling my head off. I felt like a teakettle after all the water had boiled away but the flame was still burning my ass. Dry heat. Energy dripped out of my fingertips, what to do? My arms felt like dead stumps as I slowly gathered party dresses, velvet jackets, and Betsey Johnson specials out of the hall closets and into the master bedroom. Oops. Mistress bedroom. I hung the garments one by one, inhaling Michael’s familiar scent. Ghost suits and silk shirts danced with my fancy frocks. I was losing my mind.

October 12
—
So, Michael moved almost two weeks ago
—
the first few days were solemn and weird. The day
before
he moved, the fateful day itself, and the day after were horrors, but the vibe around here is calming down; it’s actually starting to feel good. I’ve “spring cleaned.” Patti and I had a yard sale and I made six hundred. My clothes have space in the closet and it feels very strange. Michael seems pleased in his new pad and proud of himself for getting it together. I know it’s tres important to him as a
human
no matter what else happens. Nick seems okay about it. He’s a bit pissed off, as he doesn’t know the real reasons behind the breakup. He sees his dad a lot; we’ve all had dinner a couple of times
.

The dinners were stilted and forced happy. Trying so hard to prove it was all going to be okay. Nick didn’t look in our faces too closely; I think he was afraid we would crack and fall into little pieces right in front of him. He continued to see his burly, bearded therapist, and I prayed he was confiding in him. Every week I dutifully sat in the waiting room, reading ancient
Redbooks
while the well-meaning
psychologist tried to crack Nick’s ever-thickening shell. He had gone to Montessori summer school; Michael and I thought he would thrive in the creative nonjudgmental atmosphere, but he hated it and was kindly asked not to return. A phantom back at Roosevelt again, he was alienated from kid-kind, except for T.J., who, thank God, came over on the weekends. They discussed Atropos and Lachesis, how they wove the threads of life, and studied Japanese comic books because Nick had decided he was going to be a Japanese animator when he grew up. At least he had a goal for the future, no matter how seemingly far-out-fetched.

I felt like a tender sponge after Michael moved out. If somebody touched me too hard it felt like a bruise was being called up out of my brooding bloodstream, mottled and blue, physical proof of the heartsmash inside. At the same time a goose-bump sense of euphoria was blooming, and part of it was freedom from my own addiction to making sure Michael was happy. Putting his feelings before my own had contributed to so much spleenful discontent on both sides. Somewhere down deep I felt he
owed
me for making me hurt so bad. On top of all the sticky guilt I made sure he suffered, he must have felt I owed
him
for taking him on his own private trip through Walt Disney’s Fantasyland one too many times. On a cosmic level, however, I now realize that our loved ones are our teachers, and sometimes the private lessons almost do you in.

As I had many times before, I started to write down my dreams every morning, trying to be my own analyst piecing together the subconscious puzzle, poking around for the answer when I hadn’t even had the balls to ask the question yet.

November 1
—
I’m in a huge American car, pulling into a big empty, very clean garage
—
a professional auto shop. Chris Hillman is the mechanic, and he yells at me to “turn the tape down!” I get furious with him, gun my motor, and feel like running him down. Chuck Connors appears
—
strong, old, tan, and leathery
—
representing manhood. He asks if he can take me to dinner, very casually. His fingers are very tanned and strong
.

November 6
—
I was at a trendy party, and Richard Gere and I went into a dark den-type room where we proceeded to have major sex. The only real clear moment was when he came in my mouth. It felt like an explosion, and I thought it was a huge amount of semen, but it turned out to be just a few drops
.

November 9
—
I was in the tub with no water, spiritual rituals going on in the background. The tub was decorated with symbols, and as I sat there the whole world started shaking and I began praying out loud
(knowing
the prayers would work) “The power of God in me knows perfect safety,” etc. All of a sudden I’m with Nick on a metal beam in Tokyo many stories in the air, and we’re attempting to get down. The building crumbles under us from the earthquake, and our first jump is successful. I know we will make it
.

November 20
—
I am sitting on the couch reading a magazine, and Michael comments on how ugly my double chins are. I look down and see rolls of fat
.

November 22
—
Nick and I are sharing some sushi out of a tin holder, offering some to Michele Myer as a good vibe to her spirit. We held the chopsticks high in the air
.

November 29
—
I made sleazy love with Prince. It was
really
real. I was in
his
room
—
red, red lights, hidden glitter, sultriness. He had his shirt off
—
skintight spangly pants. We were friendly and chatting, and it turned amorous. He took out his dick
—
really big and beautiful
—
and rubbed it all over my tummy and came buckets. I remember thinking, I’m sure he can come again. I started porning out
—
fingers in ass and pussy. He was standing in front of me at the foot of his bed, beating off
.

How shocking! A combo of carnal delights, blubber paranoia, Chris Hillman in coveralls, and The Rifleman with leathery hands. At least I had a little God power in there, which showed me I was thumping along on the right track. Bong, bong, bong!
Saved
by the spiritual bell.

Thank heavens I had all my girlfriends to remind me that life was grand—even with all its high-flight ups and deep downs. Patti, who was long past grieving over Donnie, took my heartblood pressure and prescribed a dose of Vitamin F (fun, fun, fun!). She dragged me along to a full-on Hollywood bash, two hot-to-trot single babes out on the town. Since her split with Donnie, she had come under the spell of several hunks of stuff and was currently pursuing one of the best-looking men who ever breathed. He was an actor, half Indian with long ebony hair that was way shinier than mine would ever be, no matter how much Nexxus Humectress I worked through to the
ends. He was supposed to be attending this particular soiree, so I had to doll up as hard as she did to trail in her hellbent stardust.