Standing Up for Yourself – Strength Under Fire

February 21, 2017

Writing a book is like being on a solo flight. 35 thousand feet up in the air, heading into the great unknown without a partner, a peace-pipe or a parachute. Just you and your words, freefallin’ like Tom Petty.                                                                                                                                                       It takes me about 18 months to complete a book, as I also have a plethora of other projects, meetings and gigs; all manner of social events that yank me away from the pristine white page that calls my name no matter where I am. Yoo-hoo, Miss P, over here…But those many, many hours in front of my trusty Macbook Air are spent completely by my lonesome. Oh, lonesome me.

         And when you turn the book into your publisher, you wait another entire year or more for the darn thing to be released. Of course, you have no idea if a single person will read your 18 months of bleeding onto the page. So imagine my surprise when my first tome, I’m With the Band – Confessions of a Groupie became a NY Times best-seller! Oh joy! But out on my promo tour I got the second shockaroo. Not everyone agreed with my spicy rockin’ lifestyle. DJs and audience members alike proceeded to shred me with prurient disgust, horror and snotty high-and-mighty vitriol, actually enjoying the spectacle. Yes, Larry King and Oprah handled the situation with kindness, but I had to learn on-the-spot to defend myself against the poison arrows being hurled at me on live TV and radio all over the country.

     I felt like I had a scarlet G tattooed on my forehead proclaiming I was regret-free, and actually proud of my groupie days as a feminist sexual pioneer. A bold female doing exactly what she wanted to do and not hurting anybody in the process. Isn’t that feminism in action? The insults hurled by the indignant women stung the most. We’re all in this together, ladies.

     It has taken me decades working to redeem the misunderstood G-word, and it is getting better out there, but the wrath teemed unchecked recently at a reading of Band in Houston. A drunken sot cowpoke stood up and slurred loudly that I was just a whore and a slut. Jarred and heart-poundy I kept on reading about funtimes with Mick Jagger through the titters as he was hustled out the door. When I closed the book a little while later, I felt obliged to ask the audience members a question. “Who among you has had sex?”

Laughter. Raised hands. I thought so. So I had sex with some mighty talented fellas. A long time ago. So I went out on an unwieldy, uptight limb by writing about it. So what. Sex is fun. Sex is glorious. Sex is one of the best parts about having a body. Sex made that drunken cowpoke. It made you.

     An orgasm creates a “little death," briefly silencing your worries and cares. Aaaaahhh, yes, yes….YES!

   I wish you all a transcendent la petite mort.




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