Seems like the older I get the less inhibited I become.
Is this a good thing? Jury’s out on that one but I am certainly spending less time questioning what others think of me. Again, good thing?
Or not?
Therefore, in the spirit of liberation, I am going to share something that I have never shared with anyone.
I mean, anyone.
Oh my god, I am sweating as I type.
This is so embarrassing.
Please remember that I had some particularly awkward teenage years that included field hockey, some B@#$ putting rotten food in my locker and an unfortunate crush on Robbie Benson.
In my awkwardness, I developed a very vivid fantasy life. Fantasy as in a different reality, not in a sexual or erotic sort of way. I didn’t exactly have boys beating down my door (perhaps due to my total ineptitude in managing a stick and a ball, in defending myself, or in choosing boys) – I didn’t have enough sexual experience to fantasize about much.
It was 1981 and the Rolling Stones had just put out Tattoo You.
We Strazzas were already a Rolling Stones family ,thanks to my mother’s penchant for bad-boy musicians in makeup.
She loves Steven Tyler too.
She also has impeccable grammar, plays a mean game of tennis, has flirted with a Bavarian prince [[at his wedding,]] and used to shoot squirrels out her boudoir window with a .22.
Anyway, one of my first memories is of Mick Jagger making out with the TV camera with bright red painted lips.
Maybe that’s why I developed my weird obsession with the skinny little man in tights.
I found him to be one of the most intriguing men I had ever seen. He was sexy and irreverent, and daring, and …
Just sexy as hell.
Those lips!
And those hips!
Oh my!
Anyway, I started thinking about him in a “what if ” sort of way and then I began to think about him in a “well obviously we’d be in love” sort of way, and then, finally I slipped into total fantasy mode and created this long, involved, ongoing love story.
Not that abnormal until you realize how far this went.
I used to come home from school, grab a ding-dong and run up to my room so I could slip back into Mick and Suzanne’s world. I would get so wrapped up that I lost hours every day, for months.
I wanted to do nothing but continue with our love story. The lines between reality and fantasy even blurred a bit. I almost failed out of school because I wasn’t getting any homework done.
Have you ever seen the movie “Nurse Betty”?
It was pretty bizarre, but we were happy; our relationship was flourishing. I was moving to England after high school, so what did grades matter?
I won’t get into the details of our relationship right now, but almost 40 years later, I still remember the car that he drove and what he wore on our first date.
I somehow managed to keep my parents from realizing that I might need an intervention. That is, until they were called into my elite all-girls high school to be told that I might not be welcome there any longer.
I was grounded until the grades came up but I never spilled my secrets.
Until now.
Eventually I moved on – not from thinking he is sexy – he’s still got it. However, I have moved past our relationship.
Some might ask what it was about him, why this man, this musician?
Well, Duh.
Plus, the musician thing is pretty damn sexy all on its own.
Who are some other sexy-as-hell musicians?
To begin with, although it goes without saying, there is Emmylou.
I mean, she’s got it going on with all that white hair, ethereal voice, and shit. Totally hot.
Then there is Elvis. Presley.
The man, not my dog.
But that’s a given. Everyone thought he was sexy.
Common — man with a cause. Making bald sexy as s@#$.
And speaking of hot black men…
Snoop Doggy Dogg. For a lover of bad boys (I take after my mother) he is the cream of the crop.
Making hoodlum sexy as s@#$.
And then, there is Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.
That sweet melodic voice, sarong, ukulele; he wore his weight well.
Too bad he died.
If we had married, I would have probably kept my maiden name.
Then, saving the best for last, as I am sure you all will agree. At the very top of the sexy musician list…
Phil Lesh (the tall scrawny awkward member of the Grateful Dead.)
What?
Seriously?
The guy that does that weird chicken head-bob and has an Adam’s apple the size of Hesperus?
Yes, him. The one and only.
I mean, come on, he is such a geek – in a super-titillating way.
Who doesn’t love a guy with red, white, and blue terrycloth wristbands?
He’s good with words and doesn’t need to be the center of attention.
He still has a full head of hair, for God’s sake.
Pretty much the complete package.
And that’s my list for now. There are probably more artists to add, but I’ve given you my top six.
As I age, not only have I stopped worrying what others think, but also my priorities in a (fantasy, or not) mate have changed drastically. Hair, brain, still walking and talking – that’s all I ask for these days.
Suzanne Strazza writes from her cabin in Mancos, Colo.
