Rock Monster

by Kristin Casey

  In the four-year span between Brad and Joe, I’d had a string of casual flings and passionate infatuations. In the mid-eighties, there was no surer path to an active and varied sex life than employment in an upscale strip club. Attractive customers (to me) were uncommon, but smokin’ hot coworkers, a dime a dozen. The rampant sexual tension bouncing off Sugar’s mirrored walls was regularly acted upon, and few took more advantage than the general manager, Chris Ramos. He had a young, blond, Sylvester Stallone thing going on and once had been an exotic dancer at Houston’s famed La Bare. Before that, rumor had it, a Green Beret in the Special Forces. I had no reason to doubt it. The man scared the shit out of me. He also made me weak in the knees, and I’d been one of dozens of strippers rotating in and out of his bedroom for years.

  My real crush was on a bouncer named Weasel. Just as sexy as Chris, if in a less conventional way, he had long, frizzy hair, a Fu Manchu mustache, and a booming voice to match his larger-than-life personality. Weasel liked to gamble, drink, and fight but was genuinely good-natured, barring any disrespect toward the women in his life. One night a customer made the twofold mistake of insulting a dancer and following it with a flippant “yo mama” remark in Weasel’s direction. The guy was pinned to the floor before he could blink, and his drinking buddy one second later—an innocent bystander who’d done nothing wrong (aside from befriending a loudmouthed buffoon). I’d watched it all from the stage, blood flying everywhere (and none of it Weasel’s). It was hard not to fall for a guy like that. Alas, Weasel himself could not be pinned, and our dalliance was short-lived.

  I’d made lovers of DJs, one club owner, and a fellow stripper or three, but the only one I’d loved was Eileen, a cat-like beauty so far out of my league I sabotaged our relationship six weeks in—before she left on her own and shattered me. I rebounded with Wren, an earthy brunette who came as a package deal with her husband, Lucky. Our polyamorous adventure ran its course in a month, at which point I washed my hands of one-night stands, fuck buddies, and third-wheel situations. Fun as they were (ridiculously, at times), a trail of crumbs only left me hungrier.

  I’d never found it easy to get close to people. Like the boy in a plastic bubble, I both feared and craved intimacy as a vital force that made life worth living and would also surely kill me. At nineteen, I had found a caring therapist right before he moved out of state. The colleague he referred me to seemed annoyed, more than anything, by my ill-defined ennui. I couldn’t help but agree with him and promptly quit therapy.

  Outwardly, my life appeared smooth sailing. In truth, I was rudderless and adrift. Depression crept in, and in a scramble to escape it I enrolled at Austin Community College. Halfway through spring semester, I started dating Charles Trois, a forty-four-year-old artist, musician, explorer, and builder who’d been profiled in National Geographic and Architectural Digest. A sexy, charismatic, green-eyed Italian, Charles was further out of my league than Eileen. Over dinner once a week, we’d talk about life and creativity. He’d encourage me to write stories, read philosophy, and project the kind of self-respect others could reflect back to me. Dating Charles boosted my self-esteem and made me think I could accomplish things. Eight weeks later, I met the soldier, a man who’d truly cherished me (despite the lack of mutuality). Three weeks later, I did one better—I landed my soul mate.

  •••

  After Joe left town, I did what any woman in love would do: research. In the pre-Internet era, that entailed raiding a record store and interrogating our sole mutual friend. According to Vicki, Joe was sweet, shy, humble, and a little nuts. Though not the typical playboy, neither did he lack for female companionship. I was not the only woman attuned to his unique charms, and Vicki’s message was clear: Joe’s a good man, but not boyfriend material. I appreciated her honesty, which didn’t scare me off so much as prepare me for a challenge.

  Joe called as promised, and we had a few sweet and fun conversations. Between times, I played all his records, scouring their artwork and lyrics for the nature of his soul and its compatibility with mine. What I found was profound awe at the scope and quality of his work, as the man I’d met became overshadowed by the genius on my turntable.

  By week two, our rapport was off. Where I’d been engaging and authentic, I was suddenly artless and self-conscious. Joe shared witty stories from the road. I told stilted club anecdotes that sounded funnier in my head. One day he called when my friend Christine was over. She landed a joke just as I picked up, causing me to guffaw into the receiver. Christine cracked up, triggering a fit of nervous giggles so strong I couldn’t manage a proper hello. At first, Joe was amused. He quickly grew frustrated.

  “Sorry, sorry… I’m okay,” I said, regaining my composure. “I can talk now, I swear.”

  “It’s cool. You girls have fun. I’ll call back another time,” he said and hung up.

  Weeks passed without a word. When I realized he’d moved on, the shock sent me reeling. I withered and withdrew, at home with my cat, with loud bouts of sobbing that his feline brain couldn’t grasp. Seven days later, I pulled myself together and threw out every reminder of Joe—records, cassettes, doodles of his name inside bubbly hearts on my phone pad. When I was done, I went back to work—my number one, fail-safe haven.

  •••

  When I’d joined the Sugar’s family, I was a highly sexual, insecure teen whose tough-chick image was falling apart at the seams. In a mad dash to earn an entire month’s rent, I’d stumbled into the unlikeliest redemption. Stripping not only saved me financially, it provided a much-needed space to explore my identity and the power of female sexuality.

  If the mid-eighties phenomenon of “upscale gentlemen’s clubs” was a newly discovered universe, then Sugar’s was the mother ship calling me home. At its forefront were my three favorite things: dancing, men, and money. What wasn’t to like? I was paid to dress up and show off to generous men in a rarefied era of decorous hedonism. Eighties customers kept their hands at their sides, relinquishing control to a teenager who’d never been in control of anything in her life. To my mind, in celebrating my sexuality they celebrated me. It was an intoxicating environment that, right or wrong, largely defined me.

  •••

  Back at the club, I threatened the life of any DJ who dared play “Rocky Mountain Way,” then went about my business. I drank and danced and talked and laughed; for eight hours a day I managed. The remaining sixteen were tougher. I wasn’t any more alone than I’d been two months earlier, and yet I felt the void much more strongly.

  I needed a change of scenery. I went to Houston for a stint at Rick’s Cabaret, known as the classiest club in the country. The weekly commute was a drag, Rick’s customers were a bore, and Houston humidity was nothing short of Dante’s Inferno. I told myself it was worth it. Rick’s dancers were the cream of the crop and I liked the prestige, if not the stress of measuring up. Among actual Penthouse Pets and professional bikini models, I strived to stand out. Instead, I became my own worst nightmare—average—and quit one month later.

  With a renewed appreciation for Austin, I decided it was time to check out local venues. I’d been on a blues kick all summer and was enamored with a swinging East Coast band with a world-class saxophonist. They happened to be scheduled that week at Antone’s, Austin’s legendary blues bar. I invited an older couple to join me—my customer Chet and his open-minded wife, Nina—whose dowdy, white-haired company got me past the bouncer, as planned.

  The band played on a low stage to a smattering of patrons and empty tables. I zeroed in on the sharply dressed singer. Having barely glanced at their cassette insert, I’d pictured him a stereotypical bluesman—aging, weathered, and either bony or fat—yet that was not the case by a long shot. The man behind the mic was devastatingly sexy and it stopped me in my tracks. I’d caught his attention too, judging by the ripple in his otherwise-smooth performance. Our eyes met with a spark that rooted me in place and made him flub the
lyrics, almost imperceptibly—only by one word—and yet there it was: a surge of chemistry so strong it knocked the breath out of me.

  I didn’t feel like we were destined to marry, but we were damn sure meant to do something.

  As I pulled up a chair, Chet informed me that he had to get Nina home early, so after a round of beer he’d drive her home, then return for me.

  I waved him off. “I have another ride lined up.” Chet looked confused—Are you sure? I glanced at the singer and smothered a grin. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  When my companions left, I took a seat at the bar. On a break, the singer came and sat two stools over. He turned to me at the same time I swiveled in his direction, and without a word, we broke out laughing. A nod—as I saw it—affirming our connection, a sign we were in sync on this chemistry thing. In his laughter I heard, I feel it, too… I’m in, let’s do this. If I were wrong, it hardly mattered. It was happening regardless, I knew.

  We spent his break getting to know each other. Abe was affable and suave, with a gift for easy banter. He had mobster good looks, killer cheekbones, and a voice so slick it made my back arch. He was playful, mischievous, and downright cool, sipping on plain soda water. He was enjoying the tour and Antone’s low turnout didn’t faze him. It was all about the music, he said. The band was his full-time gig. They’d have to hit the road come morning, in town for one night only. By the time he retook the stage, I was squirming in my seat. I had never wanted a man so badly.

  When the show was over and the equipment loaded, Abe sat at my table where I moved onto his lap like I owned it. “I came here with friends and don’t have my car. Do you have one or shall I call us a cab?”

  He laughed, caught off guard by my boldness. To be honest, I was too, but there was a preordained union to arrange and no time to waste. Abe finagled a ride from Kim Wilson, The Fabulous Thunderbirds’ singer. Ten minutes later, we were in my apartment ripping each other’s clothes off. We had the kind of sex I’d only glimpsed before: primal and mindless, fueled by something bigger than us, bigger than humanity, the cosmos, and all of outer space. This was dawn-of-time sex. We were gods; we were animals. We were fucking mythological.

  With daylight came the cruel honk of Kim’s VW bug, but Abe and I were still at it, separating long enough to reach the front door, then attaching again like magnets. One last desperate connection before the final, agonizing split. I slumped in the doorframe, watching him fly down the stairs, tucking and buttoning as he went. Kim looked on from the driver’s seat, wide-eyed and chuckling. Abe reached the car and turned to wave goodbye. I tightened my robe and ducked inside, still quivering.

  I knew chemistry well. Like a wayward friend, it appeared at my door without notice in varying degrees of promise. The thing with Abe was off the charts, and I saw it as a karmic gift. Love was a lie and I’d lost faith in it, but I had this—the consolation prize of raw, wild, passionate sex.

  •••

  By September, I’d filed Joe away as one of life’s many inevitable disappointments. When Vicki mentioned her plans to meet Rick out on tour, my wound reopened. I tried to hide it, but she saw through me and jumped into action, calling Joe to personally sweet-talk him into flying me out with her. It worked. I was ecstatic but on Vicki’s advice would wait to talk to him in person. The next thing I knew, we were on a plane to St. Louis, then traversing the terminal to meet the boys at their gate.

  When Joe emerged from the jet bridge, a calm came over me, just to be near him again. Five seconds later, I was back to square one when two pretty young blondes appeared, sandwiching him in their arms. Vicki and I exchanged a look as Rick hurried over. I steeled myself. The girls couldn’t have been sixteen years old, which meant there was either a simple explanation or a really, really bad one.

  It was a little of both.

  Apparently, Joe had been drinking when Vicki talked him into inviting me. He’d had Kevin arrange my flight, then forgotten all about it (the really, really bad part). At the previous night’s gig, he’d impulsively invited two young fans to St. Louis (the simple part, from a rock star’s perspective). With the promise of a separate hotel room and enthusiastic permission of their parents (who were even bigger fans), the trio had set out for St. Louis.

  The girls’ adventure began and ended with a tense limo ride to the hotel, where they went straight to their room and booked a flight home. Rick confided that they’d felt awful for me. If Joe did, he kept it to himself, pretending he’d assumed I’d be cool with the girls’ company. I wasn’t upset about the girls as much as I was embarrassed to have fallen off of Joe’s radar. I played it cool to save face, partly for Vicki’s sake, without whom I wouldn’t be there in the first place. I couldn’t bring myself to ruin her trip, and when Joe realized he wasn’t in the doghouse, all awkwardness disappeared. Poof.

  I wasn’t a control freak. I prided myself on that fact. If a meaningless good time was what Joe had in mind, who was I to force things? Twenty-four hours in a presidential suite with a fun, sexy rock star? Let’s do this.

  The penthouse encompassed the entire top floor, and I oohed and aahed over the luxury. The boys snorted lines at the massive dining table. I helped myself to the minibar, and Vicki took pictures of us all with her Nikon. Joe staged silly poses with Rick and romantic poses with me. He ordered room service, but I was too excited to eat. I didn’t realize how drunk I was getting.

  The boys left for sound check while Vicki and I dressed. We arrived later at will call to find our backstage passes missing, but the staff refused to send a message backstage, and my drunken snark did nothing to persuade them. Vicki pulled me outside, taking charge in her usual way, until we found a rear entry through the alley. Incredibly, it led directly into Joe and Rick’s dressing room. We burst upon them moments before showtime and were greeted with cheers and hugs. Those guys really loved cheering for shit. It was weirdly contagious.

  Back at the hotel, in our separate bedroom, Joe walked me through another offbeat scenario. I was happy just to be with him, even blindfolded and tied, naked, to a chair.

  I’d been wondering all day what to expect that night. More mirror weirdness? Tenderness? Passionate sex? Instead, I had my first bondage lesson.

  Alrighty then.

  I was nothing if not open-minded, especially about sex. I’d had twosomes, threesomes, lesbians, gay men, one-night stands, and bought-and-paid-for sex. One of my lovers had been a crack-smoking cross-dresser who’d introduced me to the joys of the Anal Intruder Kit, but that’s as “alternative” as I’d been. Ignorant of BDSM, I was intrigued…in theory. Because, again, things never really seemed to get going.

  To me, sex was about touching. Not so damn much talking, teasing, and taunting.

  Say please, he instructed. When I did, I’d be pinched, caressed, or presented with things to kiss and lick. It was like a party game, if somewhat befuddling. (I just really didn’t get the tease-and-denial thing.)

  When Joe left the room, promising to return, I tried to find the uncertainty erotic, but mostly it was boring. At one point, I thought I heard the door open, but when nothing happened, I assumed I’d imagined it. (Months later, I found out Joe had sneaked Rick in for a peek, but by the time Vicki told me, it was too late to get mad at him.)

  Late that night, I was hit with an excruciating urinary tract infection. Joe, frantic, turned to Vicki for help, who saved the day again, ordering me into the tub with a cup of room-service vinegar. Soon I was symptom free and able to sleep. When I awoke, Joe ordered breakfast, but I couldn’t eat a thing, only sip on a “hair of the dog” Bloody Mary.

  I had such fun being part of our little group, lounging in the spacious living room, joking around, and climbing over furniture to freshen drinks or retrieve food from the dining room table. It felt privileged and intimate, like a double-date destination vacation. Vicki read aloud from the newspaper a positive review of
Joe’s show. Joe wandered off, and when he was out of earshot I asked why the review had called him self-deprecating.

  “He is,” Vicki said. “He’s known for it—publicly, anyway.”

  I still knew very little about his public image but felt the puzzle expanding. My feelings for Joe were pretty straightforward, but nothing about him was. He had an abiding sweetness and childlike innocence packed in layers of outrageous baggage. From underage fans to bondage games, cocaine binges, and memory lapses, it was a lot to take in…not that it mattered. I didn’t expect to hear from him again.

  Mirror in the Bathroom

  Joe didn’t waste any time asking to visit me in Austin. “It’s short notice, but is tomorrow okay?” He actually sounded worried.

  “Are you kidding? You can come today.”

  At the airport our vibe was off, but that didn’t faze me. Off was the new normal, apparently. Thus far, Joe had been silly, romantic, scattered, and dominant. So now he was sullen, so what? I’d been navigating sullen all my life. I didn’t take it personally—from Joe, anyway—and to prove it, I kept up a mindless chatter the whole way home. Joe sat slumped in the passenger’s seat, silent except for one mumbled request, which I addressed with no questions asked. No sooner had I parked in front of a neighborhood record store than his mournful gaze alerted me to my mistake. “Oh!” I half gasped, half laughed, embarrassed to have misheard him, and sped to the liquor store he’d requested.