door opens, and he looks at me, right in my eyes. What does this mean? Am I supposed
to follow? Then he lifts his pointer finger and motions for me to join him. I
walk toward the rolling finger as if attached by a silver cord. My body and mind
separate and I know without a doubt that this is it. I am going to have sex with
When I glance down I am startled to see my blouse vibrating,
because my heart is beating so wildly. I pray he doesn't see. I follow him into
the room, a duplicate of the last, and there's just the two of us. Alone. Together.
He picks up a magazine from one the beds and starts flipping through
"Do you know this magazine?" He asks. It's Smash Hits,
an English magazine about new wave bands.
"Yeah!" I say, enthusiastically.
"I read it all the time, they have an American version too you know, Star
Hits, but Smash Hits is ten times better." I can't believe we
have so much in common.
He finds the page he's looking for and points to
a picture. It's a photo of the band.
"Wow, that's great," I
say, wondering why he needs to show me a picture of his band. I'm seeing them
in the flesh now. Plus, I see them in magazines all the time. David seems proud
of himself, but humble, like the picture shows he's finally made it to the big
time. Doesn't he realize he's already famous?
We're standing at the foot
of the bed, looking down at the picture in Smash Hits and then he tosses
it onto the other bed and we're looking at each other. He leans down and kisses
me, and while he does this he turns me by my elbows so that when he leans back
to lie down on the bed I am on top of him. We kiss like that, writhing around
in our clothes, me on top, but not for long.
He sits up, takes his shirt
off and then goes for my buttons. I let him do everything, because I am no longer
of this world. There's a film, a fog, surrounding me like a second skin, but electric.
While he takes off his own clothes, I pull the rhinestone
rings off my fingers and put them in a sparkly clump on the nightstand. I don't
want anything to come between his flesh and my fingers. I don't want him to feel
the scratchy wire on his body, to know that they're not real.
in his underwear which are tiny, with red and white stripes. His skin is silvery
white like his hair. He has a tattoo of an eagle on his forearm with a banner
underneath that says, "Dave." Is that so he doesn't forget? I never
would. I reach out and touch his chest, willing the reality of his body hovering
above mine into my fingertips, my brain, my heart. I know I will remember his
underwear for as long as I live.
We sixty-nine for like twenty seconds
and then I give him a blow-job. His dick isn't huge, but it's perfect to me, because
it's his. Then, before I know it he's bopping up and down on top of me. He grips
the backs of my knees and pushes them into the pillow beside my ears. I hope he's
grateful that I'm flexible. He doesn't seem to share my aching desire to mash
our bodies together so that we become one smooth silvery-white person, but I'm
in no position to complain. In fact, even with my feet in the air, I find myself
screaming out, "Oh God, oh God, oh God!" and I can't help it. I am having
my first orgasm. The five guys I've already had sex with never even got me to
whimper. Now I feel initiated into a secret club. I guess for me, it takes a rock
David pulls it out and rubs it on my stomach until he comes, and
then disappears into the bathroom. He doesn't kiss me or hold me or brush the
side of my face with the back of his fingers, while his eyes fill with tears.
He's not following what it says in the song, in Somebody, where it says,
"And when I'm asleep, I want somebody, who will put their arms around
me, kiss me tenderly." Still, I don't move. I just lie there, waiting,
starting to get a little cold. I think about sitting up, getting dressed even,
but I don't want to make any gesture to leave. I want to move in. He returns almost
a minute later with a wad of toilet paper that he uses to pat me clean. What was
he doing in there the whole time? Washing me off? That's not in the song.
He puts his underwear and pants on and then he helps me back on with my clothes.
He buttons up my blouse and says, "This is a nice shirt. Did you make it?"
I shake my head, suddenly embarrassed that I didn't make my shirt. Maybe
he needs to believe that I am a fashion designer because it will justify his sleeping
with me. Maybe he can see right through me, maybe he knows that I am nothing more
than a deluded high school sophomore with a massive crush.
want some money for a cab?" He asks, going through his wallet.
not a prostitute," I say, incredulous.
"I know, I know that,"
he says gently. "But you must live far."
"Not that far,"
I say. "It's okay." I'm tempted to take the money because I do live
far. In fact, I don't really know where I am, except that it's near O'Hare, which
is practically an hour away from my apartment. If I take the money it will mean
I'm a prostitute, but he's waving a ten and some ones. I hold out my shaky hand
and smile gratefully, like a virtuous girl.
We sit at the foot of the
bed side by side and he says, "You're a very nice girl. We shouldn't have
done this." I lean my forehead on his silver-smooth shoulder and say mournfully,
"Well, David, I'm glad we did."
I am in love with David Gahan
and I wish he would take me with him on the rest of his tour. I want him to quit
the band and marry me. I want him to ask me to spend the night, I don't care what
my mother would say, but already I am being ushered out the door, my sparkly rings
jingling in my jacket pocket after almost forgetting them on the nightstand, no
trace of me left in his room except on the sticky toilet paper in the wastepaper
Down the hall I find Karen in a little nook with two chairs and
a coffee table. She and Martin Gore are still talking, no sign that she's gone
back to his room. She looks up at me and then we're out the door, with Martin
hailing a cab for us and in some uncharted corner of my mind I wonder, why isn't
David hailing us a cab? Did he notice the wire on my rings?
In the cab
she says, "You had sex with him, didn't you?" and I nod and say, "Oh
my God, Karen. It was so amazing."
I stare out the window as the
cab pulls away from the Holiday Inn, as it hurtles down the expressway, imagining
David is running after me.
Every day at school, I doodle "Mrs. Elise Gahan" on all my notebooks.
I can barely hear Sister Kearney teach us a lesson about volunteering in soup
kitchens to bring us closer to Jesus because the daydreams clogging my mind make
me feel like I'm wearing a helmet made of bubble-wrap.
I envision a limousine
pulling up outside the school doors and a pale white, smooth English arm reaching
out. Then I am inside and we're driving towards the airport, towards England.
David kisses me and weeps because he's finally found me, he's been searching,
he's even written songs, wait until I hear the next album. And he cups my face
in his hands and asks how he could ever have been stupid enough to let me leave
his hotel room.
And everybody in school knows, I mean everybody. It's
a small school, and besides, I can't keep my mouth shut. Groups of shiny faced
girls in white oxfords and penny loafers fester around me in the hallway, clutching
their Trapper Keepers, and ask, Oh my Gosh, Elise, what happened? And I
tell them, because it's my personal duty, now that I am the ambassador of new
wave bands. I have been on the front lines, while they only have their MTV. I
have experienced sex with a rock star, even though I wear knee socks and a plaid
kilt every day, and have to go to morning mass.
As I begin my story for
the thirtieth time, I study my eager brood. I search their Christian eyes for
suspicion. Jealousy, I can live with. But the last thing I want is to be called
a liar, because anyone who would make up a story like this is pathetic. I launch
into the finer details as if I'm convincing them to buy a set of gilded encyclopedias,
or a thousand dollar vacuum cleaner. "They don't do drugs but they drink
Heineken," I say, and they nod, wanting more. "He has a tattoo of an
eagle on his right forearm," I intone, and their necks stretch toward me
like daisies to the sun.
Now I am a message in a bottle, carried on their
tidal wave of divine faith. "Hairless chest
silvery skin, so pale
such a good kisser
" and then to seal the deal,
I take a breath and, emphasizing each syllable, tell them, "Red and white
pinstriped underwear." That's when their mouths shrink into donut holes
and their eyes glaze over like sugar frosting. That's when I feel like
a rock star.
And then the bell rings. I shuffle off to Sister Alva's classroom,
where we're supposedly interpreting The Rime of The Ancient Mariner. The
bubble wrap smothers me again. I remember the last thing David Gahan said to me:
"The next time I'm in Chicago
" and I told him, "You can count
I'm counting the seconds.
1 2 3
version for easy reading|
material is copyrighted and cannot be reproduced without permission|