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At a time when the beautiful people were getting high on love and pixie dust and the sun was everyone's bane because they only went out at night, I had—and needed—only one drug and that was music. Why anyone wanted to indulge in something harder—something that might make the music foggy—was a concept I couldn't understand. All I needed was the radio and I could get as high and happy as anyone.
Like any junkie, the major drive for me was the need to acquire more. For me, that meant music; that which was played on the radio was not nearly enough. I would buy records when I could and the rest of the time I would stand in the record shop, trying to avoid the prying eyes of my peers who did not think or dress like I, and listen to whatever record they had playing. It was on one such occasion that I was privileged enough to witness an event that I think only fate could have arranged.
A gaggle of girls burst into the shop, squealing and panting—all utterly, charmingly prepubescent. From their dress I could tell they were daughters of the well-to-do, so what they were doing in this record shop was anyone's guess. They made such a grand entrance everyone in the store turned to look. The girls, there were three of them, did not seem to notice the commotion they made or the attention they drew. They paid no one any mind as they immediately were drawn to the W-discs and quickly pulled out a Curt Wilde record. One squealed in happy abandon and I felt my gut wrenching at the sight of his face on the cover; how I longed to be able to show my enthusiasm for him like they could.
"Now that's lucky!" one of the other girls cheered as, together an inseparable amoeba, they moved to the cash register and the bewildered clerk who rung the disc up. "I would have just died if we'd gotten there and you didn't have anything for him to sign!"
Whatever was tightened in my stomach suddenly exploded and I found myself short of breath. I quickly put back the record I had been looking at and quickly followed the girls out of the record shop. The new owner extracted the disc from its brown paper bag, letting the wind blow it away. I didn't want to frighten them, but knowing I was only a few years older than them I swallowed my fears and quickened my gait, biting on the blustery air. "Excuse me," I called, sounding far too eager, even to my own ears.
They turned together, a wide-eyed and curious single entity. I could tell they didn't recognize me from the store. Chaffing my hands, I addressed the one who'd spoken before. "Did you say Curt Wilde was going to sign your record? Today?" Normally shy, I found it suddenly so simple to speak to them; I had an unknown strength in me from somewhere.
"Well, of course," the girl who bought the record said. Her condescending tone didn't matter to me—her words were music to my ears.
I ignored the sudden pounding of my heart and demanded, "Where?" Somehow I felt if I didn't know immediately the chance would pass and the girls would vanish without telling me.
"It isn't far," she answered with a smirk. Then, as if taking pity, she rattled off directions, which I burned into my memory like the lyrics to a long cherished song. "It isn't until later, but I'd suggest you get in line now, like we are."
"Can I come with you?" I found myself asking, my voice sounding horribly eager.
The girls looked at each other and burst into giggles.
Quickly unzipping my jacket, I revealed my shirt, covered in appropriate buttons and pins as well as a red cravat that I knew seemed out of place with my plain trousers. "I'm his biggest fan."
"Some fan!" she said, tartly. "You didn't even know he'd be here today." But they conferred together and agreed that, so long as I didn't speak to them while in line, they'd let me tag along; I was only too grateful.
I had places to be that afternoon, but none of that mattered as I queued up in the drizzle without an umbrella or a friend between me, waiting to meet Curt Wilde. The feeling was exhilarating and everyone in the line felt it. Curt Wilde was just a wall and a few feet away from me, signing records. Everyone in line was like me: wearing the right clothing, nodding their heads the right way, smiling the same, excited smile. I wanted to run out into the street to see them all better and then scream how much I loved them all, but I knew I had to save my courage.
Instead, I listened to their conversations and held my tongue when questions were asked that I knew the answers. Many were fans of Curt's, but many were fans of Brian Slade's as well and hearing his name sent thrills up my spine. There was something just as appealing about Brian—maybe even more so for me than Curt—and that was what they published in those newspaper articles that my father declared scandalous and unfit for print: Brian and Curt were homosexuals; lovers. Or, at least, they had been. Or pretended to be. I ached for knowledge of it. I longed to stand in the audience during their concerts and watch them to judge for myself.
When I went I would dress up; not just like one of the rockers in bangles and costume jewelry, abusing liquid lamé and nail varnish, but as Maxwell Demon himself. And, to what end? That was the most frightening to contemplate. There was only one real reason, beyond the desire for fame and fortune and the ability to be myself: I wanted to attract my own Curt Wilde.
An uneasy thought at first, but one I had quickly embraced.
In hours—it felt like minutes, weeks—I was inside the building and, if I craned my neck, I could see him sitting up on a dais—like a prince. His hair was the longest I'd ever seen it in person, past his shoulders, and flaxen. He was dressed in white furs and silver trousers, a combination that made him even more ethereal and pale sitting there, signing, and murmuring to himself. Though at times I could glimpse only a shoulder or the crown of his head, I couldn't take my eyes off him the entire wait. I only wish I had had time to run home to change myself into something more presentable.
All I could do was stand there like a fool and stare at him, hoping that he might glance up and see me; maybe that he would even smile. I held my breath for my turn and then the next thing I knew the three girls in line in front of me were gone, off squealing again, I was standing there, deer in the headlights.
He was staring at me, expectantly.
"Oh, Christ." It was so different from seeing him in concert; staring at him face-to-face, knowing he saw me. I exhaled, terrified and thrilled and hurried up his dais, prepared to spout off an eloquent explanation of how much I loved his work and what a huge fan I was. Instead, I looked right into his eyes—were ever any eyes ever so blue?—and rushed out, "I love you."
My ears immediately burned, not so much from the blunder but from the way his eyebrows rose and his lips curved into an impish grin. I stood there, immobile and awed, and his smile opened, revealing brilliant American teeth.
"Hey. All you need is love," he said back to me, quoting some genius I had almost entirely forgotten due to the way he was keeping his eyes on mine, keeping me frozen to the spot. He titled his head then, his chin jutting out just a bit as he raised it. "Got something for me to sign, then?"
His voice was raw, like he'd been screaming and chain smoking cigarettes all night. Coupled with his rough American accent, I was certain I'd never heard anything sultrier in my life. As a result, it took several moments for his words to register in my brain.
I felt something horrible grab my heart and squeeze. Despite the girls in the record store, I'd brought nothing for him to sign! Just the thought of seeing him had spurned me on. "N-no," I finally managed, mortified he might now construe me an imbecile. Perhaps he'd be right. "Just wanted to see you."
Curt rewarded me with a dazzling smile and I think my heart stopped. How could anyone resist that look? He was so gorgeous I couldn't breathe. He didn't laugh at me or make fun of me, he just smiled. I bit my lower lip and whispered, "You're so beautiful."
Aware of irate voices behind me because I was holding up the line, and because Curt's eyes darted past me to whoever was eagerly standing behind me, I shifted my weight. I didn't want to go. I wanted to just stand there while he signed, just to bask in his presence.
"Thanks," he said in that gravely rough tone, and then his eyes were back on mine. "Look, I could sign your hand or something. Your shirt?"
"Go out with me? For coffee?" Sound seemed to have been swallowed up by my boldness. I was laughing inside, dying, drowning and he was looking at me with bright eyes ringed in mascara. I was memorizing every second.
He laughed, but it wasn't mocking. He didn't answer. In fact, we said nothing at all after that. He just got to his feet. For a wild, crazy moment I thought he was going to go with me, right then, and leave everyone standing in line; if he had I think I would have died before we made it to the door. Instead, he put one hand on the table separating us, leaned close and used the other to grab my shirt and pull me to him.
The next thing I knew his mouth was on my mouth and not just kissing me, but kissing me—tongue and teeth and taste of his cigarettes. Sound returned suddenly, full of squeals and girlish noises of delight. Perhaps I heard even a few flashbulbs popping, from quick photographers. Finally, I managed to kiss back—my first kiss ever and with Curt Wilde of all people!—precariously dangling over the table, unable to comprehend that it was real except for the taste of Curt's mouth—beyond the cigarettes there was warmth and liquor and tea. And then it was over and he was sitting back down again, smoothing out his furs and hair. I rocked back on my feet, my eyes wide and my heart pounding.
One of his staff took my arm and led me down the dais, away from him. It wasn't until I was standing some distance away from him and my head had stopped reeling that I chanced a glance to see if it really was him.
Like he had felt my gaze, Curt, in mid-signature, lifted his pen and glanced over at me. He didn't smile or even look very long, but it was enough. It was more than enough.
It had happened and, dare I say, I think Curt had enjoyed it more than he expected.
I know I had and would not soon forget it.