Cherry on Top

by Bobbie Brown

  A pause as we sized each other up. I wondered if this was a trap. Had he lured me on to his podcast to talk about how I had been a drug addict and focus on all the most uncomfortable parts of my life story? Was he going to Barbara Walters my ass?

  “I’m a Gemini, you know,” he blurted.

  I was relieved. I preferred this direction. “A lot of people don’t really get along with Geminis,” I said.

  “Why would you say that?” He seemed a little offended.

  “Well, sensitive people can get confused by a Gemini because they have a tendency to say things that are mean,” I said.

  “We’re all sensitive, Bobbie,” he said.

  I was starting to pick up on that.

  Eventually we got to the nitty-gritty. The relationship stuff. It was harder than I thought, but I’d promised I would go down the rabbit hole with him, and now here we were.

  “The reason my last relationship ended was because my ex spends the majority of his time with his dick in his hand, taking photos of it. Thousands. For anyone to do that many photo shoots of their own dick when they’re not in porn is amazing to me.”

  Jamie laughed loud and hard. “She’s funny! America, she’s funny. Wait, so what…the guy had a photo shoot?”

  “So many photo shoots.”

  “So much cock.”

  “So much cock.”

  “His cock.”

  “So much of his own cock.”

  “So, what’s he working with? Nice cap on there? Was the angle like down there? Or was it like, pointed from across the room?”

  “Um, up close. A lot of side shots.”

  Talking to Jamie about it was oddly therapeutic. I still had no idea if he was physically attracted to me; what was becoming clear, though, was that I was an object of mild fascination for him. A specimen, an animal at the zoo, an unidentified organism that he was peering at under his microscope, trying to understand.

  “I figured something out about myself, Jamie, and it’s horrifying,” I said. “I have never dated a guy older than thirty-four.”

  “You like to ride that young pony. Can I say that?”

  “Up to now, never older than thirty-four. What the fuck is that?

  “Well, I mean, it’s called honesty. You like what you like. And if you’re a man at sixty in Hollywood, you’re normal to never date over thirty-five. The fact that you’re questioning it is awesome and fascinating. Why shouldn’t you just date people who are thirty-five or younger?”

  So many reasons, Jamie. But talking it through, I realized it wasn’t just the sixteen-year age gap that had messed up my relationship with Josh. Cell phones, data, the fact that we live in the era of the dick pic. Or as Jamie put it, “The Dickening.” The Dickening has taken a sledgehammer to love, made it nearly impossible to trust anyone with a cell phone and unlimited data. These days, for a man to cheat, he doesn’t have to leave the house. Doesn’t need to leave the bed he shares with you. As someone who has been paid a lot of money to share photos of her body with strangers, the entire concept of texting intimate photos of your most private parts to random people over Wi-Fi makes no sense. But for Josh, it was a daily source of endorphins. Sending pictures of his wiener into the Cloud was much more manageable than confronting the reality of a real relationship.

  “Would you consider yourself Cougar Land?” Jamie asked.

  “No! I’m not seeking out younger dudes. But guys my age don’t like me. Is it because I’m not young or stupid enough?”

  “You want to know why men your own age don’t want to date you?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “You might be a little bit of a tough cookie. You’re a cool cookie. But I’m already getting a sense that you’re a jelly cookie.”

  “What’s that mean? A jealous person?”

  “Yeah. And you might be a little bit of an HM cookie. High maintenance cookie. You might be a little bit of an ‘I need attention’ cookie. I’ll tell you why, America. Because you were texting me and then you said something and then I didn’t answer you back right away. And you said, ‘You must be busy. I’ll let you pack.’ And I thought, ‘That’s interesting.’”

  He’s bringing up that text exchange from weeks ago?

  “Because I didn’t text you back in the timeframe in which you are normally used to,” he said, “you chose to exit the conversation in a confrontational way.”

  “What?”

  “You just had to say, ‘I’ll let you go.’ As opposed to—”

  “Just leaving it alone.”

  “Yes. Just letting it be.”

  Hm. Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe he was on to something. Even as a child, my mom would tell me, “Not another word!” So I’d walk up to her and crack my knuckles right in her face to let her know the argument was mine. But was this really the reason I was having trouble in relationships? My need to be in charge, to have the last word, to win the fight—perhaps it was a turn-on for younger guys, but not so much for older, more experienced gentlemen. The wheels of my brain started turning. So I’m supposed to be all Buddha now, easy-peasy, lemon squeezy, like Sharise says. But what if that isn’t me?

  “So do you want an LP or an FT?” he asked. “A life partner or a fun time, Bobbie?” I was grateful for the explanation.

  “I think I’ve had enough fun times in my life.”

  “Have you? It seems like you’ve always kind of been relationshipped up.”

  “I’ve had relationships, but I’ve definitely had my party years where I was having fun and didn’t want a relationship. And then I went completely celibate for five years.”

  Jamie’s jaw dropped. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten to the chapter in my first book where I describe how, after Tommy and I split up, I went on a year of revenge-fucking every-one in Hollywood followed by a good five years of nothing.

  “Five years off the D Train?” he asked, fascinated. “And the P Train?”

  “Yeah. Every train.”

  “Wow!”

  “Not even the kiss train. Nothing. No BJs, nothing.”

  “No like, female friends hug you and it’s like, ‘Girl, let’s have some tea. Ooh, let’s watch a movie,’ and then—”

  “Eat pussy? No. I was literally skin starved, pretty much.”

  “Why would you do that?” Jamie asked. “Did you have that much sex that you needed to do that? It’s not healthy. You gotta get hugged. You need kisses. Neck snuggles…”

  I looked at him. I wanted him to snuggle my neck. I wanted him to snuggle my neck on the beach under a full moon. That would be nice.

  He gave me a sympathetic smile. “You were seriously butt hurt, weren’t you?”

  “I was hurt, yeah. Yeah.”

  “This girl right here, she deserves love. She deserves intimacy.”

  What was he trying to say?

  He picked up my book and gazed at the photo of me on the front in tiny denim shorts and bustier sucking on a lollipop.

  “She was a little sex tart, so she came across a lot of plum pickers. The fact that you wore pants today, I was surprised.”

  “Gave the wrong impresh to a lot of men, is that what you’re saying?

  “Yeah.”

  I had given him the wrong impression. I had given everyone the wrong impression. Guys have always expected a certain girl when it comes to Bobbie Brown, the Cherry Pie Girl. They didn’t know the real me.

  “Welcome to being fucking sexy hot. It’s a problem. You’re a hot chick, right? Hot.”

  “Then, or now?”

  “Both. Hot. You’re hot AF. And back then, you were like the poster of hotness. That was your job. You were in the game. The Sunset Strip. When I was, like, fifteen and told my mom I wanted to be an actor, she was like, ‘Okay, be careful of the Sunset Strip.’ So you, as a woman who’s hot, who’s the epitome of it, d
eserve love and tenderness and huggies and kissies and nights in the park and holding hands. But you have to understand: A) what your position is, and B) what pool you’re swimming in.”

  So, if you’re looking for Prince Charming, stay away from the Sunset Strip, is what he’s saying. But I’d already tried that, couldn’t he see? I had changed. I’d stopped dating rock stars because it hurt too much. I’d dated a really normal guy, my handsome Josh who worked in construction and whom I’d loved with all my heart. I thought a regular guy would treat me well, worship me even. I was completely wrong. He wanted to break me down. I really, really didn’t want to cry on Jamie’s podcast. I held back the tears, but I think he could tell we were getting close to the bone.

  “It’s okay, Bobbie. I’ve stayed with girls who have literally stomped on my dick. And I’ve thought, ‘I’m gonna let this this girl fuckin’ shit all over me.’ ’Cause you know what? ’Cause society says, ‘This is what a relationship is, and this is what a good woman is.’ Right? And then, after a while, you get away from it and you realize, ‘Oh…’ And that’s the joke, Bobbie. Just because you’re opinionated, that doesn’t make you strong. It just could make you annoying. I like to be with people who are nice to me. You know what I mean?”

  I did. I really knew exactly what he meant.

  He looked at me and smiled. “People ask me sometimes why I do so much comedy. And I’m like, ‘’Cause comedy’s always been there for me. Comedy is like the one woman in my life that’s always been accepting of me.’”

  I was starting to finally understand Jamie. The distance he maintained made sense now. Bobbie the Bulldog, who always had to have the last word and got pissy when she didn’t get an immediate response, was probably a reminder of all the women who had pissed all over him before. Bobbie the Bulldog was a strong, opinionated bitch who would stomp on his dick, and/or annoy the hell out of him, given half a chance.

  He had lost faith in love, as had I. And there we were, both experiencing the strange moment in life where you’re not old, but you’re not young any more either. Where you can’t step back into the innocence that got you hurt in the first place, but you’re not sure how to step forward. Could two such jaded people possibly get what they needed from one another in a relationship? I wasn’t so sure any more. All we really had in common was our damage, and the strong, implacable sense that only comedy could fill the void.

  Maybe that could be enough, for now.

  Baby’s First Bomb

  I had landed another show at the Comedy Store, and it was sold out. I was ignoring Jimmy’s advice and still writing a new set every single time I performed. I was sticking to my theory that coming up with a brand-new routine every time was my “brand.” It had worked for me so far, and tonight, my seventh show, I should have been feeling lucky.

  As usual, I’d been up all night writing my set and hadn’t taken the time to catch up on sleep during the day. I hadn’t eaten, either, except for a few pieces of shrimp. Backstage, I downed two martinis, which I thought would settle my nerves. I stared at my notes, but the words floated around the page like vague acquaintances. I heard the host onstage introducing me with a declaration of my talents so flattering, so hyperbolic, I wished I had some kind of poison dart to shut her the fuck up. There was no way I could live up to that intro.

  Applause indicated it was time for me to take the stage. I stepped up and took the mic, a full front row of people stared at me expectantly. All I could taste was fear and shrimp.

  “So I’m driving fifty in a thirty-five, and this guy starts tailgating me. I remember thinking the lights on the top of his car look cool. Next thing you know, I’ve pulled over and am having the rudest interaction with this guy. He asks me, ‘How high are you?’ And I say, ‘No, officer, it’s hi, how are you?’ He orders me to get out of my car. ‘You’re staggering,’ he says, and I go, ‘You’re not a bad looking fucker yourself.’”

  I really didn’t want to be here tonight. I was a train about to hit the wall and everyone knew it. People shuffled in their seats. Suddenly it was too bright, too loud. Even my friends standing at the back looked afraid. We all knew what was about to happen. I was about to bomb.

  “Uh, so I do yoga twice a week. By yoga, I mean I bend over to shave my legs, but even that’s too much, and I’ve reached the age where my mind says, ‘I can do that,’ but my body says, ‘try it and die, fat girl.’ Even a loud fart throws my back out…”

  Like a girl’s first bleed or a boy noticing his balls are hanging lower than yesterday, bombing is an inevitable rite of passage all comedians must endure. But, as it happened to me, I couldn’t help but feel sad that this had to happen in front of so many people. Innocent strangers who had paid twenty dollars in hopes of having their spirits lifted. Why make them suffer too? I needed this to be over, and not just for my own sake.

  I talked faster and faster, rushing through my jokes like they were items on a shopping list. My poorly delivered gags blurred into one long bad joke that made no sense. The taste of shrimp and vodka martinis rose up my gullet as I raced faster and faster, tripping over my words.

  “Hey, did you know that sometimes a lack of love from your parents leaves a hole in your heart only dicks can fill and, like, the hardest thing in the beginning of any new relationship has got to be learning how to fart quietly again?”

  In my head, crowds in the Olympic stadium cheered as I crossed the finish line—Bobbie Brown, fastest comedian on earth! Then, I saw him. Jamie. He was there, watching me.

  “Okay, thanks, sorry, bye!”

  I raced for the side stage and barfed up those martinis and shrimp.

  •••

  “Tonight wasn’t your night, was it, Bobbie?” Jimmy said afterward. I shook my head dejectedly.

  “I should just quit, shouldn’t I? I hate this feeling! I hate disappointing people, letting myself down, letting people down! I’m always letting everyone down!”

  He listened patiently while I unloaded my shame and embarrassment. “I just thought I was breaking barriers by writing new shit all the time,” I continued. “But it’s exhausting, man! It’s hard to do!”

  He smiled at me, Yoda-like. “Exactly. You like to dive in, don’t you, Bobbie? You have all this confidence, all this hubris, but sometimes it doesn’t work for you. You got burnt.”

  Story of my life.

  “Next time, you’re going to get more rest the night before a show. You’re going to be more prepared, and maybe not put so much pressure on yourself to always come up with something new. Dig deep. Perfect something, Bobbie. Then you’ll never have to feel this way again.”

  I nodded, sniffling.

  Jamie was waiting for me outside.

  We sat down at a table. I felt close to him, not quite Bradley Cooper/Lady Gaga status, but like he was a mentor I had a crush on. Like I could confide in him and maybe we’d make out later.

  “I don’t know how I feel about this comedy thing anymore,” I confessed. I rambled on, wallowing in my negativity and bruised ego. “It’s too late for me, isn’t it? I don’t have what it takes.”

  “Let me ask you this, Bobbie—do you love comedy? Because if you don’t, then you probably shouldn’t pursue this life.”

  I nodded.

  “But if you do, write yourself a set. Not just an okay set, a killer set.”

  He gave me an encouraging “pull yourself up by the boot straps” kind of smile. “Listen, Bobbie, how many people, after having the career that you’ve had, after everything you’ve been through—how many of those people get to be a stand-up comic to boot? This is the most difficult sport out there. Stand-up is going to open up so many doors for you, Bobbie, if you stick with it. If you can do stand-up, you can do anything.”

  If it hadn’t been for Jamie, I probably would have walked away from it all that night. Instead, I left the Comedy Store determined to double down. And in a sen
se, I was relieved. I’d done it. I’d bombed. I’d hit rock bottom, and it was out of the way now.

  The only way left was up. Right?

  Blast from the Past

  Mötley Crüe Set ‘The Dirt’ Premiere Date

  Seemingly unfilmable biopic will arrive

  on Netflix next spring

  —Rolling Stone.com

  Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars, and Nikki Sixx were all over the Internet, excited about their new movie, an adaptation of their band’s bestselling biography, The Dirt. Vince Neil was so pumped, he used thirteen exclamation points in one Tweet.

  “Wow!!! Just left Netflix offices. Just saw The Dirt movie!! Fuckin’ awesome!! Can’t wait for everyone to see it! Released March 22!! Yea!!!”

  —Vince Neil, Twitter

  Sharise was being featured in the film, which takes place during the years she and Vince were married. When she told me that Leven Rambin, the hot actress playing her, wanted to get in touch with me, I wasn’t much in the mood to be helpful. The guys in the band were enjoying a second wave of fame thanks to the movie, but what about us, the ex-wives and fiancées? When was our story going to get told on Netflix or Hulu or Amazon? What we had to share was just as wild, just as fun, and just as watchable.

  “So why does she want to talk to me?” I asked. “Is she researching Tommy Lee’s sexual preferences as well as Vince’s?”

  “No, Bobbie,” said Sharise. “She read your book, and she loved it. She wants to make a movie with you!”

  Soon afterward, I found myself sitting in my living room with Leven, a refined blonde Texan in her late twenties with success is in her blood: her father being the owner of Houston’s largest real estate firm and her grandfather being a former president of Texaco. She was making waves in Hollywood and looking for the perfect follow-up project to The Dirt.

  Leven explained to me that as soon as she got the role of Sharise, someone had given her my book and suggested it could help with her research. It’s not like Sharise was given much of a voice in the boys’ book, but she was a huge part of mine.