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Mom
& the Rock Star
The
last thing I need is more chaos in my life. Enter the rock star … At this stage
of my existence I am a mom, plain and simple. Yes, a mom who once had
a life … a sparkling, bubbly, exciting life to be sure. When I gave
birth, the fun ended as abruptly as a slap in the face.
I
go out on the town once a year, at best. When I do go out, it’s with
a group of friends who still know how to party down. Because I am a
nutball, I absolutely HAVE to find a guy in the crowd I decide I want
for the evening, just to see if I can get him. Sick, to be sure but
remember … I’ve been suppressed for what seems like centuries.
I’m a mom who needs the high life. This causes conflict. My soul
yearns for excitement. Ok, I’m insane.
This
particular night, the only man that sparks my libido happens to be
one of the musicians in the band. The music is amazing, the players
are all top notch and I proceed to have fantasies about the bass
player. He’s strange, wears shades in the dark, sports a cowboy hat
and a tattoo on his left arm. I’m smitten, as only a middle-aged
matron of the PTA can be. It’s comical, to say the least. My friends
indulge my shrieking “OH MY GOD LOOK AT HIM MOVE THOSE HIPS … OH
MY GOD … he plays like GOD!” crap all night. They smile, even when
I lift my shirt and flash my misshapen tits at the guy who has no clue
because we’re so far away. Possibly the reason I find him so
fascinating is that we ARE sitting about a mile from the stage and I
can’t really see him clearly without my glasses. Whatever … I’m
acting like a teenager at her first rock concert and I’m having a
great time. Obviously, I don’t get out much.
So
I make a trek to the bathroom and the too-cool, shade wearing cowboy
is hanging at the bar. I walk past him, touch his arm and murmur:
“Great job,” as I stagger off in the direction of the much-needed
toilet.
Hey!
He’s interested! He calls me back but I pretend not to notice.
I’ve had practice at seduction, after all. Maybe not for years but
it comes back to me like poisoned fish. I casually stroll back out of
the head feeling cocky now that I can suck my flabby, twice-pregnant
belly back into a manageable shape, and stroll past him again. Like,
wow … he grabs my arm and asks my name. No, I didn’t say Reality
Mom! Geesh …
He’s
nice, he’s articulate. He likes me! We
flirt for about five minutes, in which time he finds out I have a web
site and exactly how to spell the site address. I figure he has enough
information to find me and tell him I have to get back to my table.
I’m grinning from one overly pierced ear to the other. Shortly
thereafter we leave. I walk past him again; he grabs my hand and
kisses it. My gay friend, Keith, shrieks with delight and we giggle all
the way home in the car.
The
next morning, I check my email and lo and behold … he’s sent me a
rather intoxicating message at 2:40 in the morning. This means he went
home from the gig and immediately looked up my site. I let out a shriek
that wakes the kids from the dead. My teenage daughter thinks I’m an ass but
tells all her friends that her mother is dating a rock star because
it IS a very cool thing to be able to brag about when you're in high
school. My nine-year-old just shakes her head and says something
about wanting pancakes for breakfast. The rock
star tells me he’s gonna play me like his bass. This is truly
amazing because he plays that damn thing like no one else
I’ve ever heard. He fills my head with fantasies of kinky, awesome
sex and possibly even a meaningful relationship. He leads me on like no one has ever had
the imagination to do before. He’s fucking hot and I want him …
badly. I’m in way over my head. Do I stop to reason this through?
Hell no … I fly headfirst into insanity, much to the dismay of my
children and friends. He calls
when he says he will. He breaks our first date for a studio gig. OK,
gotta understand. He calls again. We plan the next date. He breaks it
again. I’m over it. I tell him to fuck off, politely. He does. I
don’t hear from him again. He puts me on his mailing list and every
month or so, I get an email telling me and five thousand other people
his whereabouts, where he’s touring, who he’s playing with, etc.
It pisses me off every time. After about a year, my heart stops
jumping at the sight of his return address in my inbox. I think I’m
over it, but considering he’s only the second guy I’ve liked in
more than four years, it’s not that easy.
Then
he sends a virus warning. It’s a hoax ... he’s not too Internet
literate. I decide to let him know he’s been had and send him an
email, explaining how to re-install that nasty “virus” he and the
other five thousand unsuspecting newbies have uninstalled from their
computer not realizing it’s a valid Windows program. At least this I
have power over. I’m the Queen of the Internet … I know my shit.
He writes back to thank me. He’s sweet. He says stay in touch. I
tell him I am in touch. He doesn’t pursue me further. I wish he
would. I get over it yet again. A month later, he sends another email
… he’s playing at the same club where I met him. He’d love to
see me there. I starve myself for three weeks, trying to lose a few pounds. I buy a sexy top, a new pair of jeans and my friends and I go to the club. He’s amazing. He plays better than ever. He moves like a Chippendale dancer on stage and I’m seriously close to orgasming right there in front of everyone. We chat between sets. He misses his cue to go back on stage and my friends give me massive shit about this for the rest of the night. When I leave, I say good-bye. He grabs me, kisses me and it’s way more intense than I ever expected. He calls at 2:30 in the morning because he can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He calls me again at 3:30 in the morning because he STILL can’t stop thinking about it …
I’m beside myself, outside my mind looking in. It’s
nuts, euphoric, wonderful. I’m in absolute lust. We make a date for the
following night before he catches a plane to his next gig. He oversleeps and
breaks the date …
My
kids need food, my house is filthy. I sit around like a freaking
manic-depressive, flying between high and low. He’s still out of
town, with promises to call when he returns.
While
I am Reality Mom and passing through middle age like a rumbling tornado, I still have my pride. If he breaks yet another date,
will he again be history? If he
doesn’t break the next date, I’ll be spending money I don’t have
on an appropriate wardrobe. Either way, I’ve entered a phase
that’s gonna be hard to hide from my kids and the other soccer moms
I hang out with during the day. I might even get kicked out of the car
pool if they catch wind that I’m living a more exciting life than
they are. This is reality … as only Reality Mom can live it. God help me. ©RealityMom - 2003 |
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