There was a time in my life, in Los Angeles, I suppose, when the arm of some famous movie producer is where I well could have ended up, dripping in jewels, with enough shoes to fill up the artfully designed pool in the backyard. I've been paraded down the main drag of Berlin in the sweetest little black Mercedes convertible and wisked out of muggy Madrid in a BMW on a fast track to the Spanish North Coast. But I soon dispatched the respective owners of those cars, as I have the few pretty boys with whom I've dallied, more than anything, in the spirit of social research.
In my 20s, I used to dream of disfiguring accidents that would rid me of this ridiculously fresh apple-pie face and incongruous bombshell of a body that have absolutely nothing to do with the strange creature that inhabits my head. In my 30s I came to some sort of uneasy truce with my looks, convinced they wouldn't last much longer. Well into my 40s, I'm still waiting for them to fade, because I'll tell you, this forever-young appearance is getting to be a real drag.
It's the last night of a pretty awful year, and what did my in-box have waiting for me today? I quote: "for gods sake! you could life [sic] like a queen and have a bunch of sporty guys right in your bed. you, like most women, don't realise the power you have. alone that perfect pair of tits can get you a wealthy guy and a mercedes sports car. drop the fucking morals and enjoy life."
Sigh. Is there anything I care less about than cars? So instead of the Hollywood glitterati, it was the poets and freaks in the West LA literary scene that I ended up with. After we headed north to the Bay Area, I was fond of vamping at parties, declaring I'd squandered my best years on my ex. But I think not somehow, just as I think these four years on my own in Europe have represented a much-needed journey for me. I seem to hear ever more clearly the prophets calling my name.