Dirty Rocker Boys

by Brown, Bobbie; Ryder, Caroline

  This was all too much for me—all I knew was that I was tired and wanted to take a bath. Tommy said I could use his bathroom, which had a huge Jacuzzi.

  “That sounds amazing! Thank you, Tommy.”

  “Of course! I’ll be downstairs in my studio if you need anything.”

  I lay in the tub, submerged in bubbles, and closed my eyes. The roar of the Jacuzzi jets was soothing, and I inhaled the soft scent of vanilla votive candles. My muscles relaxed and my headache disappeared. Finally, some peace and quiet.

  “Hey, babe!”

  I screamed and opened my eyes. Tommy was crouching next to the tub, holding two shots of Jäger, his head inches from mine.

  “Wanna party?”

  “No! Get out of here!”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, pouting, leaving the room, downing both shots.

  I was starting to realize that Tommy’s inviting me to move in had less to do with his good heart and more to do with his hard dick. He constantly came into my bedroom at night, trying to talk to me, or inviting me to go out with him. Every time, I said no. When I got phone calls, he would act jealous, like he was my boyfriend. To complicate matters, while I was staying with Tommy, Nikki Sixx, his bandmate, had started calling me, inviting me over to talk about his fashion line, which he wanted me to model for. Wisely, I refrained from mentioning anything to Tommy, but curiosity got the better of me and I went to Nikki’s house to find out what he had in mind. Well, let’s just say it wasn’t fashion. As soon as I arrived it was clear Nikki was not sober anymore. Instead of talking clothes, he wanted to hang out and party. So I got high in my way, and Nikki got high in his, while I read his tarot. When he tried to snuggle up to me, I made my excuses and left. What with having already dated Tommy and kissed John Corabi, I was in danger of hitting three-quarters of Mötley Crüe—a dubious accomplishment if ever there was one. (Nikki got back with his wife, Playmate and Baywatch star Donna D’Errico, shortly after that.) Meanwhile, life back at Tommy’s manor was devolving from cathartic to chaotic. Taylar (who was now eight years old) had arrived, and the two of us were holed up in the guest room that would become our Alamo. I told her I wasn’t sure how long we would be staying with “Dad Tommy” this time, and she didn’t seem too perturbed—it turned out she too was under attack.

  “Mommy, Brandon won’t stop following me around,” she whispered. Tommy’s eldest son had developed a crush on her and was as clingy and demanding as his father, apparently. When Taylar said she felt sick and had to lie down, he would lie next to her saying, “I feel sick too,” staring at her with googly eyes, which grossed Taylar out (she was not into boys at all at this point) and caused Dylan, the younger son, to fly into insane fits of jealousy. I was running from Tommy, Taylar was running from Brandon, and Brandon was running from Dylan, who would inevitably be trying to hit him with a shoe. It was madness.

  HIDE THE WEENIE

  After a week or so of chasing me around his house, to no avail, Tommy finally got the hint. Insulted, he took revenge by inviting random girls over to stay the night, parading them in front of me, perhaps in a bid to rouse some kind of reaction.

  “Um, don’t mind me,” I would say, knocking on the door in the morning, tiptoeing past Tommy and some girl in his bed, so I could get to my sweaters, which remained in his closet, at his insistence.

  Then Tommy made things really uncomfortable: “No Weenie in the house,” he announced. Weenie was my dachshund, and after Taylar, she was my main squeeze. Tommy said Weenie could stay in the garage, which was not cool with Weenie, who was used to cuddling up in bed with me at night. Taylar and I would sneak Weenie in to sleep with us every night and hide her under the covers until morning. Then Tommy found out (Dylan, we believe, was the informant), and told us Weenie now had to sleep in the car. It felt like Tommy was just being mean, and it was bringing back bad memories of our breakup. Two weeks into our roommate arrangement, I sat Tommy down to talk.

  “You know, Tommy, I’m so grateful that you have let us back into your life in this way, but it feels like maybe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” I didn’t want to have to put a chair against my bedroom door to stop Tommy from bursting in at night, which he had done a couple times. Of course I was still in love with him. But it didn’t seem like his feelings had the same depth as mine. I was starting to feel like some disposable dial-a-girlfriend, a plaything to pass the time with. That was something I could never be, especially not with Tommy. His reaction was less understanding than I had hoped. “If you’re not happy, feel free to leave, Bobbie,” he said, as cold as he had been playful just a few days earlier. I was crestfallen at the thought of packing up my life again. But it was obvious, yet again, that Tommy and I just couldn’t be together. It never seemed to work. And knowing how Tommy liked to keep his exes close, I had a feeling Pamela would be coming around again. Except this time she was still a major star with a solid career, and I was a drug addict part-time model looking for couches to crash on. I doubted Tommy would show me any more loyalty than he had the first time he discarded me for her. Why on earth would I want to put myself through that pain and humiliation a second time? I thought. I may have been a fuckup, but I wasn’t a masochist.

  After leaving Tommy’s, me, Taylar, and Weenie stayed at Bobby Hewitt’s house for a weekend, and then I sent Taylar back to Louisiana to stay with my mom. I went from house to house for a month or so and stayed at Sharise’s for a while, and then went back to Louisiana myself. Because my life and all my “friends” were in L.A., I would bounce back and forth, crashing with people in L.A. and then going back to Baton Rouge as soon as my welcome—or my nerves—wore out. Whichever came first. I was living life day to day, hit to hit, waiting for something, someone to save me.

  CHERRY RE-POPPED

  I was still celibate. It was like the Ice Age down there—that part of me felt like it had shut down.

  In some ways, my sexual hibernation was symptomatic of a deeper illness. It was a defense mechanism in response to the chaos that my life had become. I no longer respected myself. I was couch surfing, in and out of various apartments. I was fucking off at work and not prioritizing. I hated not having a home, not having stability, not being the mother I wanted to be, and I hated that I had had so much and lost it all. When you’re carrying around that much self-loathing, it is impossible to feel attractive enough to be genuinely intimate with another person. At least, that’s how it was for me. The part of my heart that trusted men enough to be open to them physically had almost completely atrophied. Guys were still pursuing me, and I knew I was still beautiful. But love was no longer something I could even relate to. In many ways, I blamed love for all the pain of the past five years.

  Amid the darkness glowed a distant light—Dave Navarro. He had the confidence of Tommy Lee and the intelligent sensitivity of Jani Lane. It was a potent combination. He was damaged, more damaged than I, which made me feel safe somehow. I felt like he understood me. Whenever I was in L.A., I spent time at his place, which, for a junkie’s house, was extraordinarily clean and well ordered. In fact, it was very comfortable. The upstairs had a balcony that looked over all of Hollywood. Downstairs was the master bedroom, and when he was coming down off heroin, he would often ask me to just lie with him there because he felt sad. Sometimes we would say the same thing at the same time—it was like we thought the same thoughts. He would have been my perfect boyfriend had we not both been so fucked-up on drugs.

  Dave was still deeply affected by the death of his mother, a beautiful blond former model, Constance Colleen Hopkins, who was devoted to her son. She was murdered by her boyfriend, John Riccardi, in March 1983. Dave, who believed in a lot of pagan iconography, felt that unicorns were representative of motherhood and kept many unicorny things around the house. He even had a unicorn sock puppet, which he was very attached to. One time, my brother, Adam, was waiting for me on the couch when Dave, who was hiding behind the grand piano, pranked him with the sock puppet. “Hello,” said the unicorn, poppi
ng out from behind the piano. My brother nearly jumped out of his skin. The unicorn carried on in a high-pitched warble. “Let’s sing a Prince song! This is what it feels like when doves cry.” A few days later, Dave showed up at my house with the sock puppet. He snuck around the side of my house to my brother’s bedroom window (he was staying with me at the time). My brother heard a tapping on the window and was horrified to see the unicorn was back. Dave had a wicked sense of humor. Had he not been one of the worst junkies I had ever met, I might not have been so hesitant about him. It may sound hypocritical, because I was an addict too, but the needles—they creeped me out.

  MY BROTHER, THE MANNY

  Adam had moved into my house in the Valley a few months after I befriended Dave Navarro. After graduating high school, he had come for a visit and basically never left. In return for living at my place for free, he took care of Taylar. He was her “manny.” He would wake up in the morning and take her to school and I would pick her up in the afternoons. When I was too fucked-up to think straight, Adam would pick up the slack. Taylar loved him, and to this day, they remain close.

  Adam knew I was using, but he would never say anything, because he knew how defensive I could be about my addiction. If I was acting up or acting weird, he would just ignore me or look at me like I was insane and not say anything, and that would normally make me snap out of my crazy behavior for a few minutes.

  “I can’t feel the top of my left leg—it’s totally numb,” I complained one day.

  “Well, that could be the result of bad circulation due to drug use. But that’s not what I’m saying it is.”

  He had a way of tiptoeing around me if I was fucking up and just quietly picking up the pieces. He has a quiet strength that is so powerful most people never even notice it. I knew that he loved me and had mad respect for me, even though I often felt like the poster child for what not to do with your life. Not once did he make me feel judged, although it was obvious that he and Taylar had their doubts about this Dave Navarro character I was so enamored with.

  SHOWDOWN

  Something about my closeness with Dave was bothering Jay Gordon. Every time I hung out at Dave’s, Jay would magically show up. If I talked about Dave, he would change the subject. Jay was just my club buddy, as far as I was concerned, one of the boys in my friend zone. I loved to make Jay the butt of my jokes, and would go out of my way to horrify him. He took himself very, very seriously, which of course only made me tease him more. He had this robotic emo look, all black spiky hair. So I would stick gum on his forehead, spit Altoids at him, and throw quarters at his head—anything to snap him out of his poseur-ness. We had an antagonistic brother-sister relationship going on. As such I couldn’t ever imagine being sexual with Jay. Which is why his jealousy seemed strange. Then the penny dropped. He must be in love with me! I thought it was cute. When was Jay ever going to realize that sex with me just simply wasn’t on the cards? Poor thing.

  “C’mon, Bobbie, don’t you want to sleep with me?” said Dave. “Just think how amazing it’s going to feel with me inside you, after five years of nothing.” We’d kissed once, and he had played with himself while we did. Dave was all about self- pleasure, and he really loved to masturbate. This was by far the most intimate sexual contact I’d had in a long time. I didn’t let him touch me, though. I was tormented. How can I go from Tommy Lee to everyone, to no one, to a guy doing needles?

  The best trip I ever had on ecstasy was with Dave. I had done ecstasy a million times, and to be honest, I wasn’t a huge fan. But one night Dave had some MDMA powder in capsules. I shook my head and shuddered. “No, dude. Every time I do it I don’t have that much fun.”

  “Trust me, Bobbie, it’s the best stuff,” he said. Grudgingly, I took the pill and waited for the grossness to begin. As I came up, I noticed I wasn’t suffering the usual side effects. There was no nausea, no wooziness, no heart palpitations. Just an intense warmth and clarity that filled my heart and focused my vision almost entirely upon Dave. He seemed to be glowing. We roared with laughter about God knows what, finishing each other’s sentences. “You’re freaking me out!” I giggled as I started a sentence and he finished it, again.

  “No, you’re freaking me out,” he said.

  “Actually, you’re freaking us out, so go fuck yourselves,” said one of Dave’s friends, who was also hanging out in the living room with us. It felt like the drug had opened a gateway between my mind and his, and I no longer knew where I began and Dave ended.

  That night, after everyone left, we kissed until the sun rose. Dave, of course, couldn’t help but touch himself—he is the most masturbatory man I have ever known. But he did not attempt to touch me. For months, we hung out like this at his house. He never tried to press me into going further with him sexually, which made me feel safe. One night, when we were finally alone (there was almost always somebody at his house), we were on the couch and Dave got carried away, putting his hands up my dress. His familiarity was starting to freak me out. Suddenly, having sex with Dave Navarro was starting to feel like a real possibility. I realized he really wanted to take it there. Do I even know how to have sex anymore? I wondered. Is he going to be turned on by me? My mind became flooded with self-doubt. When I realized that I was on the brink of tumbling into something sexual with Dave, instead of going with the flow, I decided to rob us both of that experience and waste that incredible closeness and buildup we had created.

  How?

  “Okay, I’m going to try this. Jay, don’t move. Just do what I tell you, okay?” Having friend sex with Jay was the last thing I wanted to do. But I did it anyway. I couldn’t bear the thought of being an out-of-practice sex loser with Dave, so I figured I’d oil up the wheels with Jay. And boy, was it nothing to write home about. In fact, it was over as soon as it started. You must understand, I hadn’t had sex in so long, it was like cranking up an ancient machine and hoping that it still worked. It felt mechanical and strange, not romantic at all, and about eleven seconds in, I was done. I rode Jay like a bicycle, letting off five years’ worth of steam, and then hopped off when I was finished, glad it was over with. “That was fucked-up, Bobbie, I feel totally used,” said Jay afterward. “Well, sure, Jay,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Think of it as a favor to a friend.” Delighted that my girl parts still worked, I hopped out of bed, and texted Dave, telling him I was coming over.

  “Where are you going?” said Jay, looking annoyed.

  “To Dave’s,” I said. I hadn’t even showered. But I had just had sex for the first time in five years. The famine was over. Time to go.

  “Well, I’m coming with you,” said Jay.

  “Sure, babe,” I said, distracted.

  I walked in the door to Dave’s house, with Jay on my tail, right behind me. “Bobbie, it’s going to be so amazing when we’re together,” said Dave, pulling me close and kissing me as soon as I walked in the door. He too felt that our time was drawing near. “I’ll be your first man in nearly five years.”

  “First guy in five years? Make that five minutes,” Jay chimed in, grumpily. Dave looked confused, and then angry, and then disappointed, as Jay blurted out what had just happened between us.

  “Wow . . . okay,” said Dave.

  “Wait, you don’t mind, do you?” I asked him.

  Dave had never said that he wanted to have a committed relationship with me or anything like that. He had never said that he was in love with me. So I assumed he wouldn’t mind about the Jay thing. He was a rock star. And rock stars don’t have feelings. Right?

  “Well, congratulations, Bobbie,” said Dave. “I hope you both had fun.”

  We had been hanging out for seven months straight, but after that night, everything changed. He became very detached and unemotional. He wouldn’t return my calls or my texts. It was surreal. I wondered if Dave Navarro had been some guy I just dreamed. But no, he was just another guy I had fallen in love with, exploding into my life and disappearing in a puff of smoke, much like the others. Fuck.
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  At least I still had the ever-devoted Jay. One night, he was massaging me on my bed; it felt good to be touched by someone I trusted. “If you ever want to try that thing again . . . let me know,” he said, grinding my shoulders with his thumbs. Even though I was pining for Dave, I was more open to Jay’s suggestion than I might have been before. “OK,” I said, coyly. “What’s the harm.”

  The first time Jay and I had slept together, I had not given him any opportunity to prove his prowess as a lover. This time, he insisted on taking the lead.

  “Just lie there, Bobbie, and don’t move.” He started going down on me and I winced, feeling self-conscious. “Jay, c’mon, you really don’t have to.” He looked up from between my legs, annoyed.

  “Bobbie, you need to just fucking relax. I love doing this and I don’t care if it takes hours. Now shut your trap.” I had never really been into oral. That night, I learned why. Because no one had ever done it right. I would always pretend to be excited while thinking, Let’s just get to the fucking point. But that night was the first time I had an orgasm through oral sex. Jay went down on me for hours, making me come three times before even entering me. It was like a whole new world. Now I understood why he had lots of girls in his life; he was blessed with a silver tongue. I couldn’t wait to try it again with Jay, even though we were, of course, just friends.

  The next day, I felt stronger, renewed. But Dave was still refusing to respond to my messages and apologies. Fuck him, I thought, suddenly angry. I was sick of being treated this way.

  Hey, Dave, it’s okay that you’re blowing me off, because I’m seeing someone else anyway, I typed into my phone, feeling triumphant.

  Dave wrote back immediately.

  You’ve been seeing someone all this time? You lied to me?

  My heart pounded. Oh, shit. What had I done?