I miss my wild teenage imagination. I had all these fantasies in private reverie, this rich tapestry of a make-believe life in which I was rich and famous and romantically involved with all of the people I’d ever deemed attractive.
I won’t go into detail here, as most of it is embarrassing and involves making out with pillows. I was 13 or so and lived in the country, miles away from real people, so I did what I had to between rounds of hating my life and writing in my journal. Fantastical fun commenced.
Nikki Sixx, the man I wanted to be married to in 1987.
In my fantasy world, anything was possible, and though I was just learning about sex, I sure seemed to be having a lot of it up there. In this fantasy world, Nikki Sixx was my steady. The bassist from Motley Crue was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life, and I imagined him bewitching, kind, super-intelligent and dramatic. I didn’t even factor in the whole “heroin-addict” thing. But in this vivid imagination, Nikki was gone a lot, spawning my many affairs with other hot rock stars, including (but not limited to) Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, Jani Lane from Warrant, Bret Michaels, Warren DeMartini and Stephen Pearcy from Ratt, Kelly Nickels from LA. Guns and a brief fling with Axl Rose. In this world of mine, Gene Simmons was a mentor of sorts, a father figure. And Jim Morrison was alive, and also a part-time fling. But since I’d read “No One Here Gets Out Alive” when I was 12 or so, I knew Jim was a space cadet and incapable of real love. So he was just part-time, though I remember thinking, “Man, I wish you could get it together, Jim, you’re so hot and so awesome.”
The imagination game didn’t ever extend to TV people. They didn’t seem real to me. But my music idols, they were the real deal, and I had this intimate relationship with them in my head. I was always so amazed at how far my mind would travel with these fantasies, and how I’d snap out of it, go to school and never lapse into being Mrs. Sixx while studying algebra.
I don’t have time for such daydreams nowadays, and I sort of miss them. They’d probably be a lot more exotic now than they used to be — maybe I should write a book based on that fantasy life? “Teenage Whore,” something like that?
All that daydreaming probably had a good effect on me. It certainly made me picky, and not willing to have sex with just anyone: “Why would I do this with you, when I’ve got a perfectly good rich husband in my head that’s waiting for me to get home?” In fact, I was a pretty good lil’ girl.
I think it did kind of give me a bad-people mentality though. I’ve always been attracted to those who live dangerously, and it’s been to my detriment. Over the past years, I’ve realized that being a rebel doesn’t necessarily mean you’re more fun or a better friend.
But if Nikki Sixx sashayed into my room tonight, I’d probably go for it. In my mind, he’s still wearing that vertical-striped suit from “Smokin’ In the Boys Room” and wearing black stripes under this eyes. Sigh.
The Garish Chicken 