Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (35 page)

Cree:
Whose word do we have to take for the whole story, anyway? Paul’s? That old tight-ass celibate?

Pamela:
When He told her to keep her hands away from Him, it wasn’t because she was a tainted whore, I don’t think. He was trying to preserve His power. All of His power to save the world. But I don’t think He meant she didn’t deserve to touch him, or that she was a slovenly bitch.

Cree:
She was one of the women right there at the cross.

Pamela:
I know I would have been there too.

I could just feel my preacher grandpa Pop Miller spinning in his grave in the green, green hills of North Carolina.

Lust must have been in the air, because I soon got a call from
Playboy
. I had been writing pieces for magazines—
Cosmo, New York Woman, Rolling Stone
—and it seemed everyone was fascinated with the red-hot sixties and somehow I represented that pulsating, freewheeling time; a wanton rock-dolly who lived to tell the tale/tail. But
Playboy’s
offer was rock-shocking. They wanted a photo layout of me—pushing forty—stark-raving naked! I was concerned about how I might have been portrayed in the piece—aging super-groupie bares ALL or something equally hideous—so after a period of hassle while they scrutinized every word I had ever written, they agreed to let me write the text myself.

I worked on the head dame, Marilyn Grabowski, to let my photographer, Randee St. Nicholas, shoot the pictures, but even after paying for some outrageous test shots, they would up using one of their own tried-true-blues. We found out later that only one woman had ever shot a layout in all those years. Oh well, we tried. It took six days of shooting with nice-guy Robert Faegli and twenty thousand photographs to get six pages in the magazine. You might think it’s a sexy experience, rampant with erotic poses, but after the first day as a gymnast-contortionist, being lined up perfectly within the lighting and satin sheets, holding a bent-out-of-shape position for endless moments, walking around in a chilly room stark-raving in front of eight hunky workers, sucking in the tummy, thrusting out my midget titties until my innards ached, I realized that bare-all modeling is just a bunch of ragingly hard work. I made them play endless loops of Prince and Terence Trent D’Arby so I could at least have a steamy expression while I held a certain angle for half an hour. I tried to think lush, wicked, tangled thoughts while two different guys adjusted the hem of my frilly garment so not too much pubic hair peeked out from between my trembling thighs. No pink allowed. It was almost scientific, like a gynecological exam. The
Playboy
people see so many naked women all day, every day, they don’t notice if you wear clothes or not. After a while I didn’t bother to put on my robe at all, absolutely comfortable, like I was invisible.

After a tough day wearing just a gold lamé trench coat, I bumped
into Jessica Hahn in the hallway and after a brief gab thought she was a tough and tender cookie snaring, entrapping her fifteen minutes of fame with a determined vengeance. Her mouth was slicked, painted-plumped-up, tossing naughty words around like X-rated conversation hearts. Proud of her new bosom, thoughtfully provided by Mr. Hefner, she was starting a new life, her Bible definitely left in the dust, under Jim Bakker’s shoes. Have you ever caught Jessica’s late-late-night TV show,
Love Phone?
It brings new meaning to the 900 number.

Sex seemed to be the dominant theme of my working life, but on the personal side romance was ever elusive. Still, I went to parties, hoping for a cupid strike, including a bang-up basharoo thrown by Mitch Schneider, my publicist. It was held in the Coco Bowl Room at Kelbo’s Restaurant—a tacky-tiki, plastic island masterpiece built in 1947 for people who wanted their drinks to arrive on fire. The black light was always on, plastic vines crawled through dusty fishing nets where long-dead puffed, stuffed blowfish seemed suspended in thick air. Some had sunglasses on, and I’m not kidding. I love the place. An old guy with a dyed black pomp played “Don’t Be Cruel” like it had been recorded yesterday, while I sipped my scary glow-in-the-dark, bright blue fancy drink (it arrived on fire). I kept bumping my lip on the paper umbrella. It was perfect.

When Sandra Bernhard walked into the dim mini-ballroom, I thought to myself, Oh, there’s that smarty girl with a wit like a razor-stick scabbard dipped in laughing gas. Or something like that. Her persona intimidated me, while mine still eluded me. I was proud of my accomplishment but slightly mortified at the same time, gradually adjusting. I figured this caustic, pointed comedy queen would automatically assume I was a blight on womankind for blabbing about my romances with famous men. It’s sicko how these paranoid ideas dig down into our psyches and sit down like they belong there. But we all go through it, don’t we? I was totally wrong, of course. She sat down next to me, and when Mitch introduced us, she couldn’t have been sweeter. We sat and nibbled tidbits off the pu pu platter, shared a baked-bean sundae, cracking up about the chopped up American cheese slices on top along with a shriveled maraschino. We laughed about the sorry, seedy surroundings and actually traded phone numbers for future fun. We enjoyed a
would-be exotic, goopy, rubbery yam, and it was time to split the scene.

During the drive home from Pico, I realized that Sandra gave me a strange, all-over buzzy feeling. She certainly challenged my mind, bypassing the funny bone, making my head sort of sting with the way she pushed, prodded, so accurate in her throttling assessment of humanity. I loved the way she looked, long and angular, with a big-lipped Jaggeresque pouty quality, a direct, sexy gaze. What was this feeling? Could it be? Was I aroused? Nah . . .

Mitch called to invite me to Sandra’s opening off-off-Broadway,
Without You I’m Nothing
, and I was going to be in Manhattan staying with Melanie, taping a couple more TV shows, and meeting with
Rolling Stone
about the review I wanted to write of Jackie Collins’s
Rock Star
. You know something’s happening, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Ms. Collins. So rude.

Melanie was my date for the evening, and we settled in our center seats as the lights went down. It was jam-packed, opening night. Sandra used and abused her audience. When she spotted me, she announced, “
I have
Pamela Des Barres here tonight, to see
me
, and she’s definitely coming backstage later.” The spotlight lingered on my blushing face while she laughed. I wore a three-piece suit and red tie that my daddy wore back in ’51, and I was a nervous ruin. Why? After the finale where she stripped down to forties underwear, singing “Little Red Corvette,” I did meet her backstage, where she held my hand, proudly introduced me to her band and whispered the address of the party in my ear. Melanie had to go home because she was shooting early, so I went alone and undaunted into that wild, black New York night.

The club was a frenetic madhouse, and I smacked straight into Richard Gere with two ravishing goddesses on each arm. I introduced myself and he didn’t care. I got a couple of stiff drinks and knocked them back fast. I was going to tell Sandra about this unusual heat she seemed to be generating inside my skull and in other surprising areas. My heart raced, revving like a wayward engine when I spotted her lounging in an antique velvet chair with a few other people, exultant, whooping it up. She grabbed hold of me, I sat on her lap, flirted with her. Where was this coming from? She raised her eyebrows in a question. What? She enjoyed it, she was amused by it. Why not? I touched her silky curls, bent to her ear, “I find that I have a wild crush on you,” I said rakishly while fireworks went off somewhere down deep where I was born female. She looked in my
face, people were pulling on her, needing her attention, Sandra, Sandra, Sandra! and she said, “Why don’t we have brunch tomorrow? I’ll call you.”

April 1, 1988
—
I was rummed out, so told Sandra I had a crush on her. Uh-oh. Can’t tell you the incredible fantasies I’ve had, SO unusual and I don’t know why it’s happening. She touches me and I go wild. We’re having brunch today and I’m a dribbling wreck. Kind of a new concept. Please, let me calm down
.

April 3
—
I’m gone over Sandra, I feel like we share some binding karma
—
lovers that kept being torn apart
—
hundreds of years ago. I was almost asleep last night and saw her as a beautiful black-haired young man with a moustache. To have a brand-new feeling at thirty-nine is so cool. So, sweet lunch
—
shedding layers, pretty comfortable right away. I was telling her how all men are bums and she enlightened me that it’s not a gender thing. She’s so real and warm, brilliant of course, and majorly vulnerable
.

That night Sandra, along with her girl drummer, met Melanie and me at Cafe Columbus, where we sat with Paul Sorvino in heated disagreement with just about everything he blustered about. He was mightily pissed off that night. Robert De Niro was at the next table and when Melanie introduced us, he raised his head slightly and mumbled, “Uh . . . hello.” I guess he didn’t remember me from the time Chuck Wein tried to offer him the two-bit second lead in that A+ movie,
Arizonaslim
—in which one of his lines would have been “A stiff dick has no brains.” After half a drink at the Beekman Tower bar, he told Chuck he would think it over, then went on to do
Godfather II
. I didn’t really expect him to remember me.

The table was full, it was a tight squeeze, so Sandra pulled her chair in next to me and I could feel her thigh pushing against mine. The busy, dizzy hubbub went on around me, Mr. Sorvino’s action-packed monologue continued unabated, lots of witty, gritty girl rapping at the table, and I shook. Nobody noticed except Sandra. “Is something the matter, baby?” she asked, searching my trapped eyes. Baby. Baby? Does she call everybody that? I told her I was feeling a little strange and gave her a long, searing gaze. What was coming over me? I could tell her drummer was trying to figure me out. My crush was that apparent—nothing but a clear picture window in front of me, with no shades or curtains. Even Melanie gave me a quizzical look.

We all shared a cab home, and when Melanie and I got out, Sandra embraced me briefly, tightly, grazing my lips with her own.

April 4
—. . .
I gave her my book, inscribed “To Sandra
—
the only girl I’ve ever had a crush on,” she was almost speechless. I’m so blatantly hetero, but I kept wanting to get close to her. We had a major hug and kiss, just a heartbeat longer than it should have been. What a turn of events. I just had a naughty, steamy session with myself, thinking about her. I’m wild
.

I called her the next day, needing to let her know I had been walking around in a daze with her name on it. It seemed to make her feel good, but she replied, “I don’t know what to say,” then asked me, “Why now?,” meaning
why
all of sudden was I attracted to a woman? I said it was because of
her
, and I had no idea how or why myself, it was just
there
. My imagination was running rampant and I was determined to pull in the reins, knowing I had said too much, but I was almost functionless. She told me she had written me a letter but then torn it up. My frightening, instantaneous super-crush was clearly mightily confusing—to both of us.

Back in L.A. boys wanted to take me out, especially guys in their twenties who were intrigued with the “older woman” who still dressed and acted like a bohemian freak, the older woman who had written “that book.” Was I actually “dating”? I hadn’t been on a real date since 1965, when Bob Martine took me to the Teen Center to do the slauson and the frug. What we did in the sixties wasn’t dating. It was meeting at love-ins, clubs, concerts, and hanging out, rocking out, grooving with each other. There were very few rules, and nobody knew what time it was. The formality of knocking on the door at eight was nonexistent. But here I was, straddling the big 4-0, being taken to restaurants and movies by guys who were in their cradles when I was sweating a stream on the Whisky dance floor. I went out with a twenty-one-year-old guy who ran a club in Venice, but I realized all his moody silence was a cover-up for being boring; had a couple sushi encounters with an ex–coke dealer, twice reformed, all his dirty money invested in some sort of self-help lecture series. I let the machine pick up, sorry. Then I got all hot and bothered over a greasy-haired former skateboard champion, dangerous punk, bad boy who took me to his brother’s wedding on our second “date.”
The theme of the wedding was a fifties kind of thing, and my bad boy was the only one there who was totally comfortable in his attire: rolled-up blue jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket. But he stood me up one too many times. How about
that
concept? Being stood up. What a nightmare! Standing around the house, all dressed up, while the baby-sitter keeps checking the clock for me at seven bucks an hour. Nick saying, “Mom, I thought you were going out?”

This prompted me to take a look at my age-old penchant for punky, perilous troublemakers with the kind of cocksure attitude that could set off smoke detectors. I know it started with James Dean, that rebel of all rebels, the very first one without a cause. When I was growing up he represented all that was brave, rebellious, and true. He slouched, he suffered, he gazed out of his squint from a place of potent pain that I couldn’t even fathom. If I couldn’t fathom it, maybe I could fix it? Uh-uh. Not anymore. There is nothing worse than cocky pain for a woman who feels the need to fix it all up. I had to be strong. In a burst of growth, I stopped seeing this particular dangerous punk, but still saw HIM on occasion and tried not to dwell on Sandra Bernhard.