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Mick Jagger Calls on Me

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Actually, he probably doesn't. I suspect what usually happens with most common folk is they act pretty much like I did – try to appear super cool and natural while in fact treating him like a piece of shit. He must hate that. See, there's something we could've talked about. I could've tried to understand him. Sure, show a little sympathy for the devil. I could've said, like, "Mick, I want you to know I'm really pleased you're here, but frankly, I haven't any idea of" – or no, better yet (he's English, right?) – "Mick, I want you to know I'm really pleased you're here, but frankly, I haven't the foggiest notion of what to say to you. I bet that happens a lot, doesn't it?" And then he'd say, "Yeah, I hate it," and maybe those big, sexy lips of his would quiver a bit and he'd start unloading on me all his lonely frustrations of being a top rock star, and we'd become close pals, and he could phone me any time he felt down, and call on me whenever he was in town, and I'd pour him some coke, either in a glass or on his cereal, and light his cigarettes and ... wait a minute, see what I mean about unsafe fantasies? Shit, I hope Jagger doesn't read this, he might think I was gay or something. Well, what if he did? What if I were? There's nothing wrong with being gay. Yet, I must think there is or I wouldn't be worrying about —

Photos: Rare and Intimate Pictures of the Rolling Stones

See, this sort of weird thing happened when Mick and Annie got up to leave (an understandable decision after half an hour of my cruel, if not unusual, treatment). Annie remarked, not seriously, "Well, I just wanted you to feel this great man's presence." I said, "Oh, I do, I do. I'm scared shitless." It was my first honest reaction of the evening and I think it broke the ice. Annie smiled, leaned over and kissed me goodnight. Jagger smiled (he's really a very friendly fellow), I leaned over and suddenly had this strong urge to kiss him goodnight – it seemed like the most natural thing to do, just a friendly peck on his mouth, no tongue action or anything. But naturally I didn't do it.

Why not? "Well, you hardly knew each other," a friend suggested the next day. "He's been touring all around the country," said another, "perhaps you thought he might have a disease." But, of course, those aren't the reasons. It's because straight men don't kiss each other. Straight women do but not straight men. They may feel like doing it, they may have good reason for doing it, but they're so afraid of homosexuality, or perhaps their own emotions, that they never ever kiss. Jesus Christ, talk about a fucked up sex!

Anyway, instead of kissing Jagger I sort of squeezed his elbow a little – a pathetic gesture but at least I maintained my cool until the end. After they left I sat down and thought about these questions for some time. Finally I shrugged, got up and prepared to clean house as originally planned. I began by dusting off Mick's Coke bottle and centering it on the mantelpiece. I'm still looking for an appropriate candle to go with it.

This story is from the October 9, 1975 issue of Rolling Stone.


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