I’ve had some interesting realizations this week in light of David Bowie’s death, believe it or not.
My brother is two years older than I am and he was always a good big brother, unlike some of my school mate’s brothers who periodically beat them up for no good reason. As very small kids we were almost always together. As he got older he’d take responsibility for looking after me on our walks to school, but he might do it from the other side of the street. I was, after all, a little sister.
He was very bright and skipped 6th grade. He helped me with my homework. He exposed me to books and music. He was involved in baseball and later on basketball. Our family life revolved around going to his scholastic or sporting events. My sister and I were just girls. We weren’t entitled to extracurricular activities, let alone the opportunity to go to college.
He took me to my first concert, David Bowie, at the Long Beach Civic Auditorium. I’m not sure if I was 15 or 16, but the experienced changed me. For the first time I realized that being on the cheerleading squad wasn’t my only option, which was good, since I didn’t even make it past the first round of tryouts.
David gave kids like me the opportunity to be weird, different, and to celebrate that weirdness.
I always held my brother up to a very high standard, which may not have been fair, but I found myself disappointed when in his junior year of high school he took a particular cheerleader with double Ds to the prom.
I thought, this girl’s got nothing going on — the lights are on but no one’s home. She’s not even very fit looking like the other cheerleaders because her naturally big boobs were so enormous. She didn’t seem interesting in any way except for those large tits and I look back now and wonder, was my own brother, a very intelligent young man, a man who thinks, writes, ponders deeply, only interested in huge tits, just like any stupid idiot boy?
A few years earlier my dad, brother, and I were miserable to beat the heat in Southern California, before we got our own pool, and we went to my grandparent’s trailer park where they lived, to take a dip in their pool. I was 14 or 15 and very insecure.
At first it was just dad, my brother, and I and it was fun. And then a girl, about my age, maybe slightly older, came in with her family. I saw my brother looking at her and felt insignificant. I will never forget my father saying quietly to my brother, “If she looks that good wet, you know she’s a beauty.” Or something to that effect. And I felt so ugly. My dad and brother checking out a girl, just a girl, really, right in front of me as though I didn’t exist.
These things severely impact a girl of that age.
So this week, at the announcement of David Bowie’s death, I noticed that among the many, many sad supporters, a small contingent of people calling Bowie a rapist. I decided, due to the nature of what I do for a living, to look into the accusations.
It seems there were two incidences. One where a woman (not a minor) says Bowie raped her, but the case went to grand jury and he was never charged with anything. So whether he did or didn’t, nothing came of it.
The second is a girl who, fourteen years old at the time, proudly states Bowie took her virginity. This girl was a very well known girl groupie. I found an article written by her where she states he had been after her for a while, and finally managed to get her alone. He ran a bath for himself and asked her to wash him, which she did, she was, supposedly, a super fan. So after the bath he leads her to the bed and fucks her.
The person interviewing her asks her if she didn’t feel taken advantage of and she replied something like, “I got Bowie to take my virginity! I’ll never regret that!” And throughout the article the interviewer would try to get her to see that she had been taken advantage of, but she would not see it that way, she’d do nothing differently. She felt privileged.
In the end Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin was the one who she feel deeply in love with, but he ended up dumping her for someone else too.
So I went off on this journey reading articles about the super fan girls at the time and how all the rock stars used them, from Bowie, Jagger, Zeppelin, and every other major and not so major band. It was what was done. Girlfriends of 21 were dumped for the 14 year olds.
Let’s just put the issue of child sexual abuse off to the side for a moment and the fact that it was illegal for these grown men in their mid to late 20s to be having sex with these girls, just set it aside if you can.
These rock stars are in a position of extreme power and can get these aspiring young models to come to their hotel rooms, but what about normal men? Would they do it too, if they could? If a normal, intelligent man like my brother will take Big Boobs to the prom simply because of those boobs, then I think, yes, most men would fuck that way if they could get away with it.
Here is a fairly recent comedy sketch put on Saturday Night Live called “Meet Your Second Wife” and I find it, frankly, horrifying in it’s truth, especially in light of my own discard two years ago by my 49 year old husband, for a 25 year old.
In my early teens I was a freakish fan for Mick Jagger. If I could have given myself to him, I would have gladly, in fact I dreamed of it. One day in my forties I suddenly realized I was now far too old for Jagger, how weirdly ironic.
To say this world is tilted towards men is such an understatement. But I am beginning to feel that I never had a chance in this life. If I had given myself to Jagger at 15, he would have dumped me at 15.5. Others might have used me until I was 17 or 18, but after that, I had no value.
In the last couple of years I have honestly begun to scratch my head about why on earth men are in charge of basically everything, when they have so little self control when it comes to their libido. It just makes no sense to me.
I feel I still have so much to give to the right person but when I look around I do not see any single men of interest. I see many men my age who are with women 20 years younger. Does that mean I must set my sights on men in their 70s?
It doesn’t really seem to matter that I am loving, giving, generous, a good companion, a decent conversationalist, fairly well traveled, a decent sense of humor. I probably will not find love again.
Even my folks now seem to think I’d be happy with their offer to live with them for the rest of their lives when for over two years now all I’ve ever thought of is a home, FINALLY, of my very own. Mom says I can make this my home, but I don’t think she really knows what that would look like.
While my co-workers seem to enjoy me, I have no real friends, still. An acquaintance at church is about all I’ve managed in this time. So even without that elusive MALE in my life, I have no one to go to the theater with, on a trip to Europe with, out to dinner with, and I’m really getting tired of it.
It seems no one has ever felt I was entitled to a life of my own. And while I had wild aspirations and very big dreams, I was far too cowardly to act on them. In short, I have failed, so far, with my life.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m just angry to learn all this now when it’s too late to do much. I’ve got a great deal of thinking to do. I think on Monday I will call and make an appointment to see my therapist who I haven’t really seen since April when I began to work full time. I have to see her regularly and set up a game plan for the rest of my life.
I am so sick and tired of putting myself second.