THE DREAM

I’ve always wanted to fuck a rock star. It’s an urge I have that lies deep within me. I’d snort cocaine off his body and then ride him on cheetah-print sheets. He’d throw me into all sorts of exciting positions I’ve never experienced before. His skin would smell of sweat and charisma. His dick would send electric shocks through me. Maybe he would spit on me, and I would punch him in the face and give him a black eye. When he came, he would wail out like an electric guitar. Afterwards, we would lie in bed and smoke a pack of cigarettes while he composed a song about my vagina for his next album.

THE MEETING

One time I was in this Native American casino in central Oregon with my mom. The place was empty except for a handful of senior citizens and a band called The Dandy Warhols. In the bar, one of them recognised me because his anorexic sister used to be my babysitter and our dads used to be on the same softball team. My mother, drunk, tried to flirt with them. “What are you guys doing in a place like this?” she asked.
“We’re having a bachelor party,” explained the dude with the biggest hair.
“My mom’s a good stripper,” I said, but they didn’t seem interested and went to gamble instead. My mom followed them, so I went and hid in a corner with the nickel slots. Soon the lead singer, Courtney Taylor-Taylor, came over, and there was no mistaking the look in his eyes: he wanted my ass. I straddled his lap as I pulled the lever of the slot machine, and his hands disappeared up my shirt. The senior citizens were staring and whispering. Mom had already crashed out drunk in the RV. When the casino closed, we exchanged emails and made plans to get together when I got back into town.

THE SEDUCTION

Over the next year, Courtney wrote me lots of hot emails: “Maybe tonight you can lay in bed with your hand in your panties and imagine me giving your little pussy lots of nice kisses.” At other times he said things that seemed straight out of a song: “I will kiss it. Don’t think I won’t.” I wondered so much about having Courtney Taylor-Taylor’s cock that I even had a dream about it. I was surrounded by him and a dozen of his alter egos, each clad in a different colour of glittery spandex. I shouted out all their names as we fucked. “I’m going to go masturbate right now,” he replied when I told him about it.
“So who are you screwing these days?” I asked, hoping for some details of a dirty life.
“I haven’t had sex in some time,” he told me. “Just some good oral sex and lots of good snuggles.”
How boring, I thought. I’d imagined that rock stars would be reluctant to admit they were having a dry spell. And I definitely didn’t think they snuggled.

THE CONSUMMATION (sort of)

One night after returning to Portland, I parked my car under his flat, put two condoms in my pocket, and made sure my tiger-striped thong was properly in place. A lot of people want to fuck Courtney Taylor-Taylor, and I was about to do it. I felt good. I thought back to the day I met him and I remembered those pouty little smirks he made at me as his hair fell slightly over one eye. He was so sexy. I wondered if I should affect some sort of mannerism, too, in order to turn him on more.
When he came to the door, I noticed he’d put on a bit of weight. He was wearing those tight pants that only look good on skinny boys. At least the outline of his package showing through the front of his pants was promising.
The living room of his apartment, which smelled kind of musty, had a fireplace and his very own latest album playing softly. I looked down by my feet at something leaning against the wall. “Oh, that?” he said before I’d had time to ask him about it. “It’s just my platinum record. I haven’t had time to put it up yet.”
“Wow, platinum,” I purred. “That’s really good, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you know, whatever,” he said, and I thought how cute it was that he was pretending not to care. “A while ago I had to tell the local press not to run an article about how we were going to be playing with David Bowie. I don’t want to make a big deal about things. People around here have no idea how famous we are in Europe. I like to maintain a low profile.” I nodded enthusiastically, like I knew what he meant.
“Hey, I want to show you something,” he said and he led me into the kitchen where his computer was. “Look at these emails. They’re from David. Did you know that me and Lou Reed are the only people who have gotten to sing onstage with him and his band?” I opened my eyes wide to show that I was impressed. “Look at these pictures of us together,” he said. “He writes me regularly.”
Courtney went on, but I was losing interest. As he talked, I pondered his name: Courtney Taylor-Taylor. So androgynous. So repetitive. Would he be androgynous and repetitive in bed? I hoped so, and then I realised I hadn’t said anything in a long time.
“So what does the bedroom look like?” I asked, and he took me through.
The bedroom was almost entirely taken up by the bed, which was soft, white, fluffy, and surrounded by scented candles. I sat down. “Come here,” I beckoned sensually.
“Hold on. Let me get you a glass of wine,” he said, and he ran back to the kitchen.
When he returned, he sat down and started talking about books, and politics, and conspiracies, and aliens, and the state of the world, and all sorts of things. He was so alluring when he was going on about smart people stuff. I reached out and caressed his neck. “Actually, can you give me a back massage?” he asked. “I’ve been having so many back problems lately, I can’t even carry my guitar case. Someone else has to do it for me.”
Having learned an expert massage from my brief stint as an erotic masseuse, I knew this was now my chance to close the deal. I massaged to the rhythm of his music floating in from the living room. I ignored the fact that his lower back was kind of hairy and flabby and pressed on it with my palms to ease his pain. “Mmmm,” he groaned. “This new girl I’m seeing – she does that, too. She’s a yoga instructor.” A yoga instructor? Rock stars date yoga instructors? The thought of it grossed me out.
“Is she good in bed?” I asked.
“Actually, we don’t really have sex that much. I prefer other things,” and, as he spoke, he turned me over on my back and began to eat me out. It was very sweet, but he whimpered sort of like a sick little bunny as he did it. The whimpering was freaking me out, so I tried to manoeuvre into a position more conducive to penetration. Then I realised he had no boner. “Let’s snuggle,” he said and he offered me some chocolates out of a box.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT

It was raining really hard when I went down to my car. As I began the drive home, I put a David Bowie tape into the stereo, but the player wasn’t working. I pulled over to the side of the road and masturbated. Twice. I lit a cigarette, but it tasted nasty, so I threw it out the window.