Diary of a confused and frustrated Rock Star
Diary of a confused and frustrated Rock Star
July 2001
I can’t deny that thanks to him I’m here today. He helped me reach my dreams, however my life used to be so easy before Adam; before things changed. Before Adam, I never had to think about what I wanted or felt. I had a plan and it was very easy to simply follow it. I used to be this big fucking disappointment to my father. I never went to college or followed the typical American Dream he had worked so hard to give me an opportunity at. He made me open a savings account when I was 13 and every cent I earned had to go into that account, for my future, for my college. When I turned 18 I pulled that money out and bought my self a plane ticket to L.A, a Les Paul guitar, and paid a few months rent in a run down apartment building near Sunset Blvd. He yelled at me until he turned purple, then caught his breath walked to the door, and continued yelling at me as I walked away. I was never to go back, he yelled, no matter how much I begged, “You sorry ungrateful ass, your dreams are going to tear you down!”
I didn’t look back. It didn’t hurt to leave him behind. My cheek hurt from the punch he gave me, but I was content in the knowledge that it would be the last I’d ever take from him. As my bulky black boots stumped determinedly against the asphalt I swore he would never hit me again. I also swore I’d never make my mother cry again, it hurt my soul to see the tears streaming down her face as she looked at me from the window, I could see her lips whispering a prayer for me as I turned away. The only reason I’d ever returned to that house would be my mother, to take her away from that ugly gray house, to give her the peace and quiet she deserved. At the corner I turned back, only to give my mother a smile. I hoped she could see that I was ok, that I loved her and I would be back. Streets were lined with dreams in L.A, ripe for the picking, I was going make mine true. I was going to fly high.
It took me 8 years to be where I am today. I made it big, I have the fame and recognition I was looking for, crowds yell my name, my father chokes on his own words. He is now “proud” of me. He fills his mouth talking to tabloids about his son, tells them hack stories about taking me to baseball games, of teaching to play the guitar, and always encouraging me to reach my dreams. He pretends he never yelled at me, he never said my dreams would destroy me, and I pretend to have forgotten, that his lies are true. It’s sad, but a part of me is happy to have him be proud of me, that he wants to re-write our past. Sever-year-old me reached his dreams, his daddy is proud, and I? I want to kill seven-year-old me.
Mom lives with me now. I did what I promised myself I would. As soon as I had enough money to buy a nice house, as soon as we had signed with the big guys I went back home, and asked her to move in with me. She didn’t hesitate to leave that gray house behind, to leave my father fuming in his chair, yelling at how I was still not allowed back. He tried to hit me, he tried to slap me across the cheek, but I stopped his hand. I looked into his eyes and said, “I’m no longer a child that will take your hits.” He looked defeated then, and I almost felt bad for him. That same year I was voted guitarist of the year. My mother takes care of me like she always did; making sure my nose is always clean, only know she doesn’t worry about green buggers, but white powders. I’m a rock star, a mother fucking rock star, and I don’t mind kissing my mother hello in front of crowds. And yes, ladies and gents I keep my nose clean, nothing stronger than Jack enters my blood stream.
My nose is clean, no drugs, only one addiction. An addiction I believe could and will be the end of me. I’m a mother fucking rock star, I’m on top of the world, and every night on the road I’m on top of my lead singer as well. I fuck Adam every single night while on tour. I ignore the groupies throwing themselves at me. I give them the show they want, I sign boobs, pop a touch, steal a kiss, but my eyes? My eyes are always focused on his thin form, on his sweaty blond hair, on the way he sways when he walks, the crooked smile he flashes at the girls surrounding him, and I practically cream my pants when his eyes meet mine. They always hold a promise for later.
Performing live, being on stage with the crowd going crazy, is one of the biggest highs I have ever experienced, their energy hits me like a warm wave of extasis, almost nothing can compare to. Almost nothing, because watching Adam on stage is close rival. The way he holds the micas he belts out the notes and words, the way he owns the stage, the way his body glides, how he touches me and looks at me. Sometimes all I can think about is have his fingers around my cock and his tongue swirling over my body, his movement and presence on that stage sometimes overpower the thousands of fans yelling our name. He makes me feel a way I shouldn’t. He makes me betray every teaching about love, and life my mother gave me. I never thought I was a queer, fuck until him I never thought anyone I knew was queer. I hate him as much as I deny loving him…because I can’t love him. I can’t proof my father right, I can’t disappoint my mother that way, and most importantly I can’t do that to my sweet Jenny.