Lean On Me

The Rapture

 “Thanks. I had no idea what the hell to wear to this thing. I only heard about it today. Hey do you know where I can get a cigarette?” She laughed. She had a radiating smile and I found myself infatuated with her perfectly placed black eyeliner that circled her blue eyes.

 “Sure, hold on a moment. I glanced around and reached into the top of my white gown, pulling out one of the three cigarettes I had stashed in there, along with my lighter. I was quite good at things like this. She laughed as I handed it to her. “Already warmed and everythin’.” I smiled, handing it over. I held out my lighter to her.

 “Thank you. I really needed this.” She shook her head.

 “I do understand that feelin’.” I remarked.

 “Oh my god….I just realized…you’re English! Shit! I’m such a dip!” She put her hand to her head, careful of the cigarette burning. I laughed at her.

 “Yes. Yes, I am.” She stared at me a little dreamily, tilting her head and giving her cigarette a puff.

 “You are like…like you are just….fucking beautiful. You are….you gotta’ be the prettiest woman in this room. I blushed like a fool. She was one to talk. She was the most glamorous, most beautiful American woman I had ever seen in the flesh. She put Jane Fonda or Farrah Faucet to shame. She radiated this sense of new, edgy kind of beauty and had a warm, inviting smile.

 “Well, I thank you...thank you for that.” I gave her a nod, preparing to leave her alone.

 “So, do you live here in LA? Are you in Hollywood or somethin’?” she asked of me, taking a drag on her cigarette. I laughed.

 “Oh god, no. I’m with the band.” I still felt like a gushy groupie every time I said it. Her face dropped a little.

 “You’re…you’re with…shit!” She covered her mouth and bent over slightly, sitting her glass of champagne on the nearby pedestal where the vase was sitting.  “You mean this….this record…thing? You’re with that band? Fucking hell! You’re with Queen!?”

 “Yes….yes I am. I’m Roger Taylor’s wife.” I explained to her. She looked at me a bit blankly.

 “I really don’t mean to be dense here but…which one is Roger Taylor?” she asked me. This had to be the only woman on the face of the Earth who didn’t know who Roger Taylor was.

“Come here…” I motioned her to the only space between all the people I could find and pointed Roger out to her. She gasped.

 “Shit! You match like….oh my god do you match him! He is….fucking beautiful! Forgive me but, how does someone become Mrs. Roger Taylor? How did you do that?” she asked. I took a long drink of champagne and looked at her very seriously.

 “I give a slow, clean blowjob. I never spill.” I nodded my head slowly. She stared at me, a peculiar look on her face. Oh god, maybe Americans didn’t get my slightly crass sense of humor. Oh shit…I had probably just committed some sort of social faux pas and was about to get security called on me. I’d probably get deported. Send my arse back to merry England and put me on some kind of international watch list. She hadn’t yet said anything and was still staring at me. Oh fuck…yep. I was definitely getting deported. She burst into laughter, nearly spilling her champagne as she reached a hand out to me.

 “Oh my god! Oh god! YOU! Are. Hilarious! Oh my god!” she could hardly control herself and I felt a sense of relief sweep over me. I laughed with her. She sighed and put a hand in her platinum blonde hair, her red, manicured nails matching her lips. “By the way, what’s your name?” she asked.