How Do I Find Hot Rock Star Love On The Road? An Educated Hypothesis from Chevonne, Pop Tour Warrior
First off, I’ll tell you: I have no idea how to find hot rock star love on the road. But I can tell a damn good story…
I was a VERY satisfied young bitch when the first season of Rock of Love came out – you know, that genius whore of a reality dating show featuring douchetastic Poison frontman Bret Michaels and a hot, steaming load of sweaty, curves-bubbling-over-the-top skanks in heat just dying to get their lips on his microphone, if-you-get-what-I-am-saying.
My boyfriend at the time was a wild bass player in an 80s metal revival band who loved to party. He would draw fake tattoos of my initials on his biceps in black Sharpie before shows, and I would flash almost-crotch in my cropped white Hanes tank top and miniskirt while mouthing “FUCK ME” over and over in the audience. You know, standard puppy-dog stuff.
One time we did it in a random bed at the guitar player’s shore house while a schwasted superfan lay snoring facedown on the floor. I watched my first porn with him (it was lame), had my first whiskey blackout with him (it was rad), snuck out of the house countless times to wreak havoc all over North Jersey’s nasty unpaved highways with him (shit was so fun, it was illegal). I lived all the shenanigans that Rock Of Love promised every Sunday night, with all the loving, caring monogamy the show failed to deliver by the time the reunion specials aired.
And my man and I would watch the show together in bed with smarmy we’re-in-lurve grins all over our young faces. But by the time season 3 rolled around, everything changed…for Bret and for me.
The previous seasons’ winners—fuchsia-haired scene goddess Jes and down-home cougar Ambre—turned out to be to be more candy than rock, so Bret took off on the Rock of Love Bus: same show, trashy new on-the-road format. We found Bret completely skeeved out amongst a rabid pack of groupie werewolves, who literally drank test-tube buttery nipple shots out of each other’s vadges and got drool (amongst other juices, probs) all over the poles installed in the vehicle.
Meanwhile, I’d since broken things off with my rock star and was in dire need of a respectable yet raunchy rebound. Of course, I couldn’t find anyone even close to casually bangable. I couldn’t believe being single meant I had to dip into a pool of overcompensating, immature toolbags who couldn’t care less if I got home okay, let alone got off. So as I’d watch Bret’s power-ballad-blue eyes shift into utter panic, I’d ask on behalf of both of us: is finding rock love always this empty? And gross?
Fast forward to the present: I’m actually on the road, living on a bus, and performing is my job. And all the gooey black-and-white hair-metal tour video sentiments are as real as Bon Jovi’s hairy cleavage. It’s totally true; sometimes all a chick wishes for after of a long night of wailing and vamping in stilettos is a cold drink and a slutty fuck-buddy. But, at the real-life core of it, that wouldn’t truly fulfill me.
Sex is amazing and delicious, and if you’ve got the balls of steel to enjoy it on the regular with strangers and acquaintances as a hobby, or a sport, or a way to cure boredom, I’ll throw up those metal horns in your honor because it’s your friggin choice as a fierce woman of the 2010s! And sometimes, a girl just needs it for her health and sanity. But usually, sex without love (or, at the very least, “like”) makes me feel like…well, kind of like one of those grody girls on Rock Of Love Bus.
Many of those chicks clearly didn’t respect themselves; they’d end up sloppy and crying in the elimination limo, stumbling into fist fights, or getting hammered beyond comprehension and being unceremoniously booted off the show. That’s not rock and that’s not love; that’s just straight-up un-classy! At the end of my badass day of working in pop music, I want what those girls wanted—full-blown freaky rock-star-status sex—but without the get-famous-quick scheming, and in a perfect world I want mine with a man who loves and respects me as much as I love and respect me. And who keeps his junk clean and pus-free, and doesn’t share it with 30 other “contestants” who all swim in the same jacuzzi full of vom!! Just saying.
On the road, though, finding that real rock love is nearly impossible. If you’re lucky and you’re blessed (and you keep your eyes and ears WIDE open) you’ll run into it, but so far the closest I’ve come—though I haven’t truly found it yet—was when I was at home with that bass player. For now, I’d rather curl up in those hotel rooms with Bluecifer, my trusty battery-powered companion, and be my own damn rock of love. At least then I won’t catch the herp—and these days, that sneaky bitch is invisible! As for Bret—well, his upcoming new show follows him as he re-domesticates with the mother of his two daughters. And if that’s what rock love looks like at this point, I’ll fuckin take it.
