We just finished a gig at The Troubadour. I put my guitar in it’s case and locked it in the back room behind the stage. The band sort of spread out through the club as if they needed to go network, but we were all there for the obvious. Sex, drugs, booze and Rock and … Continue reading “California Dreamin’ – 1982 to 1984 – Who Do I Look Like?”
We just finished a gig at The Troubadour. I put my guitar in it’s case and locked it in the back room behind the stage. The band sort of spread out through the club as if they needed to go network, but we were all there for the obvious. Sex, drugs, booze and Rock and Roll.
I run into this gorgeous blonde. Like a baby Farrah Fawcett.
“I like that song you played about the bombshell. Who’s that about?”
“Farrah. I wrote it when I was sixteen. I love Farrah.”
The earliest warning sign should have been her next opening line. Jabbing me with her finger, she pointed at her own face and said: “Who do I look like?” I had no idea. The answer she was looking for apparently, was Heather Locklear.
A few hours later and we’re walking back to her place. It’s beginning to spit with rain.
Things started fine. Pretty much like most tipsy post show hook ups back then. As things began to escalate, she made an excuse to go to the bathroom. It took a few minutes to decide on the appropriate level of nakedness to be in on her return but after 10 minutes I thought I should probably check if she’s Okay.
When I got to the bathroom, the door was locked. The light, on. I knocked: no answer. I returned to the bedroom, put some clothes back on. Looked out the window. The rain was now torrential. Home was 20 minutes away. Do I call a taxi? Faced with an impossible situation, I took an incredibly ungentlemanly decision.
“Hope you’re okay. Unlock the door and I’ll get you some water.” I wrote it on a piece of paper found on the girl’s desk, slipped it under the bathroom door and waited a few minutes. When the door stayed locked, I went to her room, got into bed and fell asleep.
A few hours later I’m awakened by the door opening. It’s her. I make a move to get up but she pins me down with a surprising level of strength, strips completely and the most excruciating 20 minutes of my life began. To this day I’ve never met anyone else who has a “don’t touch me with your hands or mouth below my waist” policy. It was bizarre and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. It was just a bronco cowgirl ride to the finish.
When it was over, I got up to leave but she grabbed my arm and said no. She pulled me back into bed, only to roll over and go back to sleep within minutes. Awkwardly, I lay there a bit longer, trying to figure out whether it was worth staying. Eventually I tried to leave again. This time she said no but I ignored her. Besides, it had stopped raining now.
As an act of goodwill I wrote my phone number on a pad on her desk. She asked what I was doing and then laughed when I told her.
Two weeks later, my band is back at the Troubadour. I’m out back having a smoke out back chatting to some friends when over my shoulder I hear it again.
“Who do I look like?”
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