Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

by Des Barres, Pamela

  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.

  III

  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.

  I decided to show off my triceps and abductor muscles. Why sweat and strain and not give the world a glimpse? I wore a very short, slink-snug rust-colored panne velvet job with cutouts in the middle; Patti had on layers of frothing black lace. We were a pair, for sure. We had been there for ten nonchalant minutes when I felt like I was being intently watched. I can always feel a stare, can’t you? Surreptitiously I scanned the room, which isn’t that easy because I’m nearsighted. Poking Patti in the ribs, I asked her to take a peek for me, and after a quick once-over, she lit up. “It’s him” she whispered, “He must have just gotten back from New York.” HIM. Hmm.

  I’ve thought long and hard about whether or not to tell this story, and after deep contemplation, I realize I have to go into it because a lot of growth occurred, a whole lot of female hormones were brought out of hibernation and back to high-flying form, which gave me a new lease on life as a woman. But how? I told the person in question I would never write about HIM—he is Mr. Privacy personified, having done an amazing job keeping unwanted press at bay for many years. He is a Big Star, laden down with awards, one of those people that most everyone on the planet has heard of, except maybe some immaculate monk or monkette who has lived his/her blame-free life in a cave of seamless solitude, hidden high in the mountains of Tibet.

  I had seen HIM on a few occasions at Helena’s and once at the Roxy when I felt that intense gaze slapping me around. It had been one of Michele Myer’s last outings in L.A. She couldn’t take her eyes off the mega star who couldn’t take his eyes off of me. “I’m impressed,” she said, laughing. Shelly always loved people who were bigger than life, especially in person. But this guy’s long-term romantic relationship was legendary, and I was a married woman so couldn’t consider the stimulating possibilities. Eddie Begley told me that HE had asked for my phone number and Ed had discouraged the concept, telling HIM I had been married for eons. Still, I can’t pretend I wasn’t deliriously flattered whenever he sought my face in a crowd and smiled at me so wickedly I had to turn away. (This happened a couple times when I had my glasses on, so I know for sure!) And here he was—alone at this chichi party, and so was I. Patti nudged me in his direction, but I found that I wasn’t ready to sashay on up to HIM and announce my availability. I hovered in different rooms, gathering steam for a possible encounter, but it didn’t take place that night. I probably missed the all-important beckoning glance because of my anti-spectacles vanity. But shouldn’t HE have come up to me, and where was what’s-her–name? All the way back in Patti’s new Accord, I berated my pussy-wimp attitude, realizing it might be fun to get to know this guy, but how often did one run into . . . HIM?

  November 30—I look different in the face, I can’t figure it—some sort of metamorphosis. Lots going on but no lovers. I dreamed that I fucked Bono of U2 (in my Maidenform bra—ha!) and he kept telling me to have more faith and belief in myself. What’s the correlation between sex and self-esteem?

  I was about to find out.

  Three days after the flashy bash the phone rang and it was HIM. He didn’t tell me how he had gotten hold of my number but invited me up to a late dinner at his palace in the Palisades, and I accepted. I wish I could say I was feeling cooooool as a hothouse cucumber, but I was a nervous wreck. I knew he was taken, I knew our encounter would be “purely sexual” and my aching-for-love stammer-pump had always come before lust. I had rarely given my pussy without at least the hope of lifelong adoration, despite the false and sleazy reputation I had gotten as “the world’s most famous groupie.” Ha! Didn’t she sleep with all of Led Zeppelin at once?

  Fuck it. You only live once in this body. I grabbed some garters and a slinky emerald green teddy and dashed over to Patti’s, shaking, excited, buzzing; a post-post-juvenile delinquent ready for some purely sexual passion. I could handle it, couldn’t I? Patti made me up hot, with deep, dark eyes, glamour-puss on the prowl. No mistaking what I was about to get up to. By the time I got to his door, it was past eleven and I was on a dangerous mission. You looking for trouble? You came to the right place.

  “I’d just about given up on you,” he growled in that voice I had heard at least eight thousand times. “The lamb is cold.” Was that some kind of code? No, the lamb stew his cook had made hours before sat on the long carved table in stiff lumps, the elegant salad wilted. “I don’t eat red meat, anyway,” I squeaked, trying to sound provocative and proud in one sentence. “Oh, baby,” he moaned, “I hope that’s not the truth.”

  December 4—After the briefest conversation, he tore into my mouth and I knew I was in for something new in my life. I sat down on his couch and hiked up my black cut-velvet dress to reveal the teddy and one black satin pump. I was ready for whatever he wanted to dish out. I felt like a ripe—almost overripe—piece of forbidden fruit. . . . I was so ready for this. . . . The smell of him drove me senseless, I was lost in him. . . . When the sun was coming up I told him that this is what bodies are for, and after more real heavy petting, before another supreme round, he said, “You’re right, this is
what bodies are for.”

  I embarked on this flaming rocket trip to the stratosphere knowing where I stood. He never led me to believe it was anything but sexual. Purely sexual. Pure sex. I wasn’t ready for much else anyway, since my heart was still a numb lump taking a vacation. You deserve a break today. The healing love-balloon did come to life a few times, attempting to climb into HIS king-size bed, but I knocked it back with a gentle reminder. Purely sexual, remember? Please, please remember. I found the beating thing between my legs once or twice, however, because that’s the kind of person I am.

  I saw HIM whenever the opportunity arose and reveled in being a woman: a temptress, seductress, vixen, tigress, redheaded Aphrodite on a half shell, succulent, edible, wanton, and profoundly female. It lasted for over a year, and I kept the whole thing clandestine because that’s the way he wanted it, and HE will continue to remain HIM.

  December 29—Tonight he felt like talking. We went upstairs and I cuddled into his lap and we talked about his career, lots of funny, fabulous, and exciting stuff. He likes me, and why not? We kissed like teenagers for about forty-five minutes prolonging the wildest passion. . . . He never stops with the patter—constant, thrilling nasty words in my ear. This man was made to make love, and I’m pretty steamy myself! We kept marveling about how good it is. He read my book and loves my writing. He said I’d better not put him in the sequel. Ha!!

  You like me, you like me, you really like me! A weensy bit of self-confidence making a teensy return.

  IV

  I was flat on that same old fake Deco couch, breathing heavily and counting beads of sweat when my sweet Melanie strutted through the door, pulled her shirt up and her pants down to show me the incredible flatness of her concave tummy. She had called me two hours earlier from Laurel Springs, Jane Fonda’s posh new spa retreat in the Santa Barbara Mountains, to ask if she could stop by (to show off) on her way home. Her enthusiastic call prompted me to slide Jane’s Challenge tape into the VCR and wage war with my middle. After all, I had a glorious hot-tamale reason to tighten up. “I’m going to take you back there with me, as a Christmas present, Miss P!” Melanie announced excitedly (she still calls me that). Fa la la la la … la la la la. The cost of the week at Jane’s was twenty-five hundred big ones, a stunning Christmas gift, most definitely. An opportunity not to be missed.

  Melanie was grazing the clouds, getting paid tons of dough for her amazing portrayals of shimmering babes on the big screen. She had just completed Something Wild with Jonathan Demme and was verging on mammothness, in my opinion. She had split up with Steven “Rocky” Bauer a year earlier and was on the loose, like Patti and me; so we both needed a soul-restoring girl-gab. We could blab it up at Jane’s for a whole week!

  Almost everybody has a huge opinion about Jane Fonda. Mention her name in a crowd and see what happens. Nobody yawns. She is one of my personal inspirational faves. The woman is fifty-four years old and has a waistline like Scarlett O’Hara. Many times I have flopped around in my own living room with her grinning face on the tube, hoisting my inner thigh up-up-up, hoping to erase those dingles before they got a chance to dangle.

  Before leaving for the retreat, I made an appointment at Jane’s Workout in Bev Hills to take a stress test and find out just how much of me was pure flubber. While lounging in the waiting room I saw Queen Jane in the mirror, pulling on a stretchy piece of rubber that flexed dozens of divine muscles all along her back and biceps. It was awesome. When she came into the waiting room and found out I was headed for Laurel Springs, she told me to pack a muffler and warm gloves. I was touched.

  Michael agreed to come and stay in Santa Monica with Nick, and I packed my sweats and Nikes, so thrilled to be getting away from it all. Melanie drove, with toddler Alexander in the backseat happily gnawing biscuits and bobbing off to Wynken, Blynken, and Nod Land while we chatted up a cyclone. It felt like zero degrees when we arrived, thirty-five hundred feet straight up to holy Chumash Indian ground, where Jane had chosen to build her fortress to fitness. The sun had just gone down when we were welcomed into the cozy but massive cabin by cooks, caretakers, and Kathy, the fresh, glowing, flawlessly fit instructor who would alter my body for all time. After a magnif dinner of fresh bouillabaisse, oregano bread, and a ton of kale, which I’m ashamed to say I had never tasted before, we were sent to our rooms for a serious snooze to prepare for the intense training session that would start before dawn. The four-poster bed had been turned down and on the pillow was a slip of paper with the cosmic thought for the day printed on it: LET MY LOVE SPREAD ITS LAUGHTER IN ALL HEARTS, IN EVERY PERSON BELONGING TO EVERY RACE. LET MY LOVE REST IN THE HEARTS OF FLOWERS, ANIMALS, AND IN LITTLE SPECKS OF STARDUST. My sentiments exactly. As specks of stardust twinkled through the skylight, I cozied up in the down comforter and counted my countless blessings.

  I’m doubly ashamed to say I had never seriously hiked before, but for the next seven days I made up for an entire lifetime. A few times I thought I would drop dead in a patch of poppies, but the sight of Kathy’s faultless calves, gleaming golden in front of me like a beacon kept me trudging ever onward and upward through the rocks. Sweat streamed rivulets down my back. I had no idea I contained so much H2O. After the morning hike we beat ourselves to death in the unparalleled gym for about three hours, rode mountain bikes, and were rewarded with a divine passionflower-oil massage at the end of every grueling day. One evening I noticed the masseuse’s hands hovering around my middle, flicking at the air. “What are you doing?” I wondered. “Getting rid of bad vibes?”

  “No,” he answered. “I’m releasing the negative energy.” Isn’t that what I said? Once I opened my eyes a slit during a dreamy massage to find Jane’s errant hubby, Tom Hayden, taking a gander at the proceedings. Nice to meet you too.

  By the end of the week I could see brand-new muscles popping out all over my tight, new body. It happened so fast! I had a sleek new tricep, a bitchen bicep, my thighs were rock hard, and I had stamina to spare. My skin was pink and glowing, and I had lost four pounds. I found I loved weight lifting because results came quickly, and I vowed to go right out and buy a set of weights and a rowing machine when I got home. Which I did. I had always excercised but realized I had been a lazy fraud. No more half-assed sit-ups! No more sugar, fat, white flour! What I needed was my own private trainer like Kathy! Yeah!

  There were moments on our last hike, which was seven miles up, when I rolled my eyes heavenward and chanted “Om” to force one pink Nike in front of the other. It was a Zen experience, like becoming physically enlightened. The night before we left, Melanie, Kathy, and I sat outside in the Jacuzzi, steam rising high in the freezing cold air. We drank hot cayenne garlic broth as the rain pelted our faces, laughing from our hearts, singing wildly along with Prince to “Purple Rain.” Ahh, memories are made of this.

  V

  My friend Sheri was having a small all-girl Christmas Eve fun-fest, and along with Carole Childs, Joycie Hyser, Patti, and me, she invited Barbra Streisand. I was excited, of course, but determined to be myself with the diva. After all, I had been scrounging around inside my psyche and, after forgiving my own trespasses, actually liking who I was. So why wouldn’t Barbra? In fact, I had reached a pretty even keel with my astrologer-psychologist Aggie and was on the search for a real psychiatrist, preferably a Jungian, because the spiritual element was kept intact with God high on the list of priorities. I never trusted Sigmund Freud anyway. I don’t look at a bowl of bananas and automatically think of penises (or is it peni?). Do you?

  All us girls were exchanging gifts, and since I hadn’t met Barbra before, I brought along a copy of my book for her, hoping she wouldn’t think I was cheeky. I thought forever about how to sign it, finally coming up with such a corny line, I’m sort of embarrassed to confess to it. Oh well, I’ve confessed to everything else, so why not? “Dear Barbra, The way I was . . . Love, Pamela Des Barres.” As my sweet little Moon Zappa said while making fun of Valley girls in the mall way back in ’82, gag me wit
h a spoon.

  It was a cozy, comfortable evening with perfect, thoughtful gifts and reams of girl talk. After a brief fidget I found myself enmeshed in a conversation with Barbra about exercise, the pluses and minuses of plastic surgery, and all about boys. She wore tights with a big sloppy sweater, and we both moaned about having to suck in our tummies half the time. Sheri’s middle was concave and we were not amused. How did she do it? Barbra was a regular girl in most ways except for her vantage point. She seemed fascinated with the humdrum mundanities of normal everyday life, sort of like the Queen of Sheba stepping into a laundromat, or Jackie Onassis behind the counter at Burger King. Would you like fries with that? Sheri called a mutual friend in New York and we sang “Happy Birthday” to her over the phone. I raised my voice in song with the best singer in the world. La Streisand thanked me for the book without mentioning my gaggy little inscription and promised to read it soon.

  Michael came over late on Christmas Eve and spent the night on the couch so he could watch Nick dig into his gifts the next morning. I cooked us an expansive feast, as was my habit, and we all ate it up, merry Merry Christmas. I tucked Nick in, flanneled and creamed myself out, and climbed into bed, “Good night, Mikie …” It was so odd knowing my husband of fourteen years was thrashing around on the couch while I reclined in our former bed, alone. I could ramble on here about the unpredictablity of life, but I won’t. I submerged my animosities, held his hand, watched him unwrap the stack of gifts I got for him, opened my glorious hand-picked, high-taste items, enjoyed Nick’s grand time under the tree, and sent Michael back out into the world from whence he came. Holding a grudge is like a death sentence. I was really working on tossing it to the winds.