April 22, 2018
I got my first dramatic, big-girl kiss in the back seat of a snazzy two-tone, metal-flake, candy-apple green Pontiac Bonneville, and I’ve been on a search for that very same car ever since. I can still see the sleek slivers of chrome glimmering and glinting in the California summer sunlight as it sat purring across the street from my house, lowered to the ground like a pissed-off neon panther. It belonged to a dangerous lead singer, sporting slicked-back black Elvis hair. Sinking into the plush lovenest one dusky evening, I got a sloppy-wet kiss from the 18 year-old guitar player while my friend Andrea had her teenage lips crushed by Mr Dangerous Car Owner Himself as the windows steamed up for privacy like shades being pulled down. A taste of the forbidden. Yum yum yum. Thus began my blazing romance with the back seat. Not to mention guitar players.
There’s nothing more titillating, tantalizing or promising than the inside of a humming automobile. Jim Morrison got behind the wheel of my ’62 Oldsmobile one exotic Hollywood night and I wrapped myself around him as we cruised the Sunset Strip, inhaling naughty substances, blasting the radio, and picking up delighted hitchhikers – but when it came time to fondle and nuzzle – the back seat beckoned – the lizard king crawled over the front seat and pulled me into our own private four-wheeled passion pit.
My ass graced the back seats of many swank limousones during the mighty slayday of rock and roll. When Led Zeppelin thundered into town, the sleek, gleaming beauties waited outside the Continental Hyatt House, ready to roll their precious cargo to the Forum or the Rainbow Bar and Grill where their bawdy revelry made rock and roll history that has yet to be equaled. Comparing the back seat of a limo to any ld back seat is like comparing the Plaza Hotel to a Motel 6. On the damp ride back to the Hyatt House I would cling to Mr. Page, my slim-hipped, velvet-clad prince, and claim him as my own as we thrummed along in our gliding womb-room, sipping cognac, and basking in the heady before-glow. Memories are made of this.
On a trip to London back in 1970, I was strolling down the Kings Road in my wrap around dolly dress, when a decadent cream colored Bentley sluiced up beside me, and Mick Jagger took me for a ride. Burled wood, the scent of leather, the high-class hipness of it all sent me reeling. He called me “Miss Pamela,” and showed me the sights, stroking my wrist, pointing to the Chelsea drug Store like it was Big Ben on acid. The back seat looked inviting, but that time I stayed in front.
The night I met the only man I married, I was right in the middle of starring in a B feature in New York City. My dear old lunatic drumgod Keith Moon failed to show up to play the role of the lunatic British pop star, so a quick replacement was scrambled up – Michael Des Barres, the lead singer in a raunchy glitter band called Silverhead. I was playing a groupie (surprise!) who picks up a lunatic British pop star, and the first scene we shot was in the back of a stretch limousine. Even though there was a script we were supposed to follow, the scene became an adlib about James Dean, Elvis Presley and Krishnamurti – three heroes we had in common. His hand was on my upper thigh, mine was in his tangled silver-sprayed hair. He had been married for three weeks to some lucky British bird, but we fell in love anyway.
I could, of course, go on for much longer about my trysts and shouts in back seats, as I’ve been taken for many rides by magnificent men in their flying machines – maybe even one or two too many. But don’t blame me – blame it on the Bonneville.
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