Groupie Quotes

Like a groupie incognito posing as a real singer, life imitates art.

You learn that the only way to get rock-star power as a girl is to be a groupie and bare your breasts and get chosen for the night. We learn that the only way to get anywhere is through men. And it's a lie.

Ann, I love you. I hope my car starts. I hope the sink isn't plugged up. I'm glad I didn't fuck a groupie. I'm glad I'm not very good at getting into bed with strange females. I'm glad I'm an idiot. I'm glad I don't know anything. I'm glad I haven't been murdered. When I look at my hands and they are still on my wrists, I think to myself, I am lucky.

But I can be alone without Yoko, but I just have no wish to be. There’s no reason on earth why I should be alone without Yoko. There’s nothing more important than our relationship, nothing. And we dig being together all the time. Both of us could survive apart but what for? I’m not going to sacrifice love, real love for any whore or any friend or any business, because in the end you’re alone at night and neither of us want to be. And you can’t fill a bed with groupies. It doesn’t work. I don’t want to be a swinger. I’ve been through it all and nothing works better than to have someone you love hold you.

Good,” said Gideon. “It means the effect of the alcohol is wearing off. One question, by the way: what did you want a hairbrush for?” “I wanted it as a substitute for a mike,” I murmured through my fingers. “Oh, my God! I’m so horrible.” “But you have a pretty voice,” said Gideon. “Even I liked it, and I told you I hate musicals.” “Then how come you can play songs from them so well?” I put my hands in my lap and looked at him. “You were amazing! Is there anything you can’t do?” Good heavens, I heard myself sounding like a groupie. “No. Go ahead, you’re welcome to think me some kind of god!” He was grinning now. “It’s rather sweet of you!

On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal …

Laughter tumbled from the bunk above. “Who needs groupies when I can listen to you two every night? Can you pass me a sock or something? I just spewed down my leg.” Fucking Laz.

Happiness is not intelligence. You can be in a group of happy people, but they may be miles off course.

In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an Angel Living in the garden of evil Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed Shining like a fiery beacon You got that medicine I need Fame, Liquor, Love give it to me slowly Put your hands on my waist, do it softly Me and God, we don't get along so now I sing No one's gonna take my soul away I'm living like Jim Morrison Headed towards a fucked up holiday Motel sprees sprees and I'm singing 'Fuck yeah give it to me this is heaven, what I truly Want' It's innocence lost Innocence lost In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an Angel Looking to get fucked hard Like a groupie incognito posing as a real singer Life imitates art You got that medicine I need Dope, shoot it up, straight to the heart please I don't really wanna know what's good for me God's dead, I said 'baby that's alright with me' No one's gonna take my soul away I'm living like Jim Morrison Headed towards a fucked up holiday Motel sprees sprees and I'm singing 'Fuck yeah give it to me this is heaven, what I truly Want' It's innocence lost Innocence lost When you talk it's like a movie and you're making me Crazy - Cause life imitates art If I get a little prettier can I be your baby? You tell me, "life isn't that hard" No one's gonna take my soul away I'm living like Jim Morrison Headed towards a fucked up holiday Motel sprees sprees and I'm singing 'Fuck yeah give it to me this is heaven, what I truly Want' It's innocence lost Innocence lost

It’s a lot of real G’s doing time/ Cause a groupie bit the truth and told a lie.” —TUPAC

They're playing groupie, so I'm playing rock star.

But of course when you've got it bad for somebody, you aren't really sane. You're a stalker and a groupie combined, and you do things even you don't want to try and understand.

November 18. . . I dig musicians, I feel they have the most to offer me mentally and emotionally because they think basically along the same lines that I do; extremely creative people. Music is Life. As Captain Beefheart once said 'God is a perfect musical note.

The fans, the vampire groupies, love the idea of this androgynous, preternatural figure stalking the night, and craving aesthetic pleasure just as he craves blood, wearing only the best velvet clothes, and savoring red roses.

It's hard to explain what happens when jazz and punk fuse with a violin twist but it works. Probably because Anson Choi takes off his shirt while he's playing the saxophone. Whoever's not chatting up a Cadet or a girl from Darling House or playing chess with the guys is watching the band. I turn into a groupie.

Well, what’s the point of being a rock star if I can’t bang the groupies?” Rolling my eyes, I found myself muttering, “I thought it was supposed to be about the music?” Griffin, unfortunately, heard y sullen comment and chose to respond to it. “No, no, I’m pretty sure it’s the pussy.

When you see another lonely traveler walking the same sad, strange path you almost fell off before … it's only right to see if you can guide them down a different road.

I am not your groupie.”  No, she’s the secret demon that’s been living in my head for the past four years.

Books—even erotic ones … especially erotic ones—are simply reflections of the human soul. Sometimes they're silly and sometimes they're exaggerated, but it's through that enhancement of the world that we can see both its beauty and its flaws.

James “Knockout Jimmy” O’Brien, Granite Fall’s very own boxing legend—a title he held until a young groupie poked holes in the condom she made him wear “for protection.” My brother was born nine months later, fists already swinging.

I came to, looking as together as one of Phil Spector’s hairdos. I felt like Clark Kent after a hard night on the kryptonite. I opened one eye. The morning sunlight slatted its way through the wooden shutters. The bed was strewn with naked bodies. A one-hundred-dollar bill was fluttering in the breeze, poised as it was, between a groupie’s buttocks. Even more concerning, a five-hundred-dollar bill was fluttering between mine.

one night, they went down to the Village for dinner at an italian restaurant. most of the band had picked up young girls and had them hanging on their arms. janis was feeling lonesome and said, "goddamn, you guys have all these groupies and i don't have anybody." turning to mark, the youngest person in the crowd, she ordered, "go out on the street there and find the first pretty boy you see and bring him to me." aw, i dunno," mark said. go ahead," janis said. after a while, mark returned with a handsome, long-haired youth with a british accent. he was wearing a floor-length embroidered afghan wool coat. looking him over, janis nodded approvingly and said, "he's cute, mark!" turning to the young man, she said, "well! hi, honey! sit down! my name's janis joplin. have you ever heard of me?" yeah," he said, "i've heard of you." oh," she said, "what's your name?" eric clapton.

This time he was dreaming of a VIP room backstage at the club, filled with champagne and coffee, a gaggle of groupies trying to break down the door so that - in the dream, Simon somehow knew this was their intent - they could tear of his clothes and ravish him.

They're beautiful. How did you know I loved roses?" "I didn't, but I've never heard of a woman who didn't, so I took a chance." She smiled. "So you send lots of women roses?" "Millions. I have a lot of fans. Dive instructors are almost like movie stars, you know." "They are, huh?" "You mean you didn't know? And here I thought you were just another groupie.

There are lots of trips out there. It's even possible to become a conference groupie, going from one seminar to another and being a Beautiful Evolved Human Being until you start making the people around you want to throw up.

Groupies? Did BDSM have groupies?

I just want to consume him, and I hate myself… knowing that doesn’t make me any better than his art groupies.

When you fall in love, you disregard logic. Because logic and love are two sides of the same coin. Together, they make a beautiful sort of currency, but you can never look them both in the face at the same time. I like that. “Hey,

Look, you’ve been really sweet since you stepped through that door. Well, apart from telling Mal about me puking on you. That was unnecessary. But in the preceding twenty-four hours you dumped me alone in a room, went off with a groupie, accused me of trying to get it on with your brother and sicced your posse of lawyers onto me.” [Evelyn]

I was floating around in the Garden of Eden, thrilled to be a human being at the Human-Be-In, knowing the world could be saved if we loved one another. I was draped in flowers, bestowed upon me by my brothers and sisters. I was laughing, loving, breathing Princess of Peace...

He opened his eyes again, raking his gaze up and down my body before coming to rest on my crotch. "Quite simply," he said, "I'd like to lick your cunt. I'd like to hear you scream my name." The world seemed to sway. "Don't... don't you have groupies for that sort of thing?" I asked breathlessly. "I'd rather have you." I swallowed. "I don't know what to say." "You can start by saying yes, please, Kent. Eat my pussy." My skin tingled with his words. I wondered why he wasn't the one singing, front and center. That voice could carry me away, anywhere he wanted me to go... Oh, this was a problem. This was a huge problem, and I wasn't about to make it any better. My mouth was dry, but the words came out clear enough: “Yes, please, Kent. Eat my pussy.” “I thought you'd never ask,” he said.

If you’re lucky enough to find love, what else in the world could you possibly need?

Who's that?" I asked him. "Probably Noah's latest groupie," Clare offered. "Don't talk about your mom that way," Pat responded.

Some women’s greatest achievement is sleeping with a man who is rich, famous, and/or wanted by many women, whereas some women’s greatest achievement is refusing to sleep with such a man.

I might've spent too much time reading that book, Groupie, that Miranda gave me a few days ago. It's a reverse harem story where the main character gets all five boys to herself. Like … what I have. But, it ends that way, too. She doesn't have to choose. Lucky bitch.

Like finding something beautiful … in a lie. Beauty is everywhere—if you know how to look for it.

A fast car can make women 'like' a man; and a man 'like' women … fast.

I learned early on that most yoga poses are about showing off. You find something amazing you can do, and suddenly, Shazam—you’re a guru, ready for your groupies.

Your goal should be to attract women effortlessly, so play to your strengths no matter what they are; there is a groupie for every male endeavor. Except World of Warcraft.

I WAS LIKE . . . LIKE A GROUPIE FOR ALL OF THESE DOWNTOWN GUYS . . . I WAS—I AM—BULIMIC AND OBSESSED WITH MY LOOKS . . . I THOUGHT THAT MY BODY WAS ALL I HAD TO MAKE PEOPLE LIKE ME .

Groupies are like chocolate...A stupid man will think he can gorge himself on them with no consequences. But then he turns around and discovers they’re just empty calories. They’ve just messed up his life when the only thing good for him was what he’d already been eating all along.” - Nick Blackthorne

Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough self-respect to hide their track marks and cutting scars on the insides of their thighs, like ladies. These bitches were bold, too. Entitled even. Opening act groupies were bottom-feeders. Skittish. Easily scared off by a ninety-five-pound nineteen-year-old with a platinum-blonde pixie haircut and one hell of a stink eye. Headliner groupies, on the other hand, were scrappers. They were working on their retirement plans, goddamn it, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like me (or a condom) get between them and eighteen years of rock star–sized child-support checks.

I am without any doubt whatever a NON-actor. For a start, the gushing pretension of would-be actors puts me off. Ergo ego. I watch them preening in front of the rehearsal mirrors in the drama hall. Just waiting for applause. All they want is to be liked. Plus admired, adored, idolized, flattered, etc. And they're more like groupy than glue. If they're on their own for more than five minutes they get withdrawal symptoms and go walkabout, looking for kindred lost souls to coagulate with.

We get it, we don’t gotta talk about it. We know what we got revolves around bein’ naked in a bed so you shouldn’t get what I’m gonna give you right now. But I’m gonna give it to you. Never had class. Never had beauty. I’ll repeat, never… had… class. I’m not gonna fuck over Cherry, who I care about, or Tack, who’s my brother, and I know you don’t wanna do that either, so this is what we got for as long as it’s good. But it’s a clean, pure beauty the like I’ve never had, I’m gonna respect it like I feel like I gotta and you’re gonna let me.” He paused, bent his face closer to hers and dipped his voice lower. “So, no, Lanie, you are not gettin’ down on your knees like every biker skank or groupie, or drunk, high piece of ass before you dropped to hers and sucked me off. You go down on me, you do it like who you are. Respect. You don’t want that, you’re looking to play with rough trade to get you off, find another guy to make you skank. That is not what you’re gonna get from me. Now, are you gonna finish givin’ me a blowjob or are you gonna fight me on this?

You want me,Andy. I can feel it. Yes I want you, I admitted. In a way you'll never want me.

He was her drug. He always had been. And until that very moment neither of them realized that she was his as well. He couldn't get enough

I briefly stole a look from Vanni, who's dark eyes seem to speak volumes in a language I was not familiar. I did t speak Cheating Dirt Bag, nor did I with to learn.

Life is, once again, very interesting, tho' it should always be, and it will be if I make it so.

I always retained a stunning friendship with most of my amores, which made me feel like life was worth living. All the hours of lunacy and love had actually amounted to Something.

Unless Spelling Bee bitches exist, this makes her the geekiest kind of groupie on e can possibly be.

Because you’re my favorite groupie, remember.” Brandon Knight

When I, a single white female who looks like (and is) a rock ‘n’ roll groupie of the highest order, moved in, they all called each other and said “there goes the neighborhood”. My

Being a sugar baby was like being a groupie, but for any guy who was rich.

As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.

Total fangirl. You might even call me a groupie.

Be still my eternal groupie heart

her legion of excitable lesbian groupies.

Donna snorts and rolls her eyes. “I mean she’s black right? I think if you were going to experiment with groupies you would have been more careful. Now you have a little half breed.

Whoops. Didn’t see you there.” The class erupts in giggles. I look up to find the smug face of one of Summer’s groupies, her expression filled with such abhorrence, I’m too flustered to respond.

I stepped into the building. I paused in the front lobby. It was completely empty. No meatheads or groupies like there usually was when I visited Jack. The only sound of life came from above on the second floor. Horrible music. I listened for a few seconds before my ears started to bleed. That poor stereo! But a brilliant move on Gray’s part. He knew it would call to me like a wounded animal, begging to be put out of its misery.

We needed something to nurture, and they needed nurturing. Constant attention made you need it even more. The band never learned to be alone and neither did we. But if they were starved for attention and we were, too, didn't we make a perfect pair?

When we toured America, all the legendary groupies from that era – the Plaster Casters and Sweet Connie from Little Rock – would turn up backstage, to the evident delight of the band and road crew. I’d think, ‘Hang on, what are you doing here? Surely you’re not here for me? Surely someone’s told you? And even if they haven’t, I’ve just been carried onstage by a bodybuilder, while wearing half the world’s supply of diamanté, sequins and marabou feathers – does that not suggest anything to you?

Gone Groupy, has she?’ said Hugh. ‘How rotten for Tom!’ ‘Well, it is rather, because Connie’s started forgiving him for all sorts of things he never knew he’d done. We’re hoping that she’ll get over it quickly, because she’s president of the Women’s Conservative Association, besides running the Mothers, and the Village Club, and now that she’s a God-guided citizen she simply hasn’t a moment to attend to Good Works. I don’t know why it is, but when people get Changed they never seem to be as nice as they were before.

When I grow up I wanna be famous I wanna be a star I wanna be in movies When I grow up I wanna see the world Drive nice cars I wanna have groupies When I grow up Be on TV People know me Be on magazines When I grow up Fresh and clean Number one chick When I step out on the scene

Their husbands were not attracted to the groupies because they were hotter than their wives. They were attracted to them because they were groupies. It was a hell of a lot more fun to be with somebody who thought you were perfect than it was to be with a woman who wouldn’t put up with your shit.

She laughed. “Let me guess, sex in the gazebo is one of your fantasies?” “Oh, yeah. I’ve wanted to do this since the moment this damn thing was built.” “What, none of your hockey groupies ever wanted to do it in the wilderness of your backyard?” she teased. “I’ve never brought a woman home before.

Death row groupies mystify me. These women spend their lives visiting the condemned religiously, writing them daily, falling in love with them, and marrying them if they can. For some women, perhaps, condemned killers have that special aura or sex appeal. Apparently it gratifies their sense of romance or martyrdom.

Given, I’ve never actually fucked a female, but I’ve gotten my dick sucked plenty, and I’ve been getting hand jobs from alpha groupies since junior high. And it’s fine. It takes the edge off. But it’s never been like this. I’ve never wanted to be inside so bad before. And I wanted. Hell, I needed. And then I opened my dumb mouth.

The dissection started out smoothly enough. Several boys lifted the thawed carcass out of its container and put it on the lab table. Then a line of girls elbowed their way in to form a phalanx at the dissecting table. They looked like groupies in a mosh pit. There was no room in the front line for the boys, who stood behind and watched, arms folded across their chests....One girl spent most of her time in a trancelike state picking the sharp little rings out of the squid's suckers. She was deeply intent on trying to harvest as many of the toothed rings as possible. Later that day she went home and shocked her mother by saying she wanted to switch her career goal from baking to marine science.

I was so confused. I didn’t understand how we could be so perfect, but then so wrong.

While writing her book, Sympathy for the Devil, Virginia A. McConnell documented the incident.

He invited me into his private world and I was hope hope hoping that the glass slipper would fit my size seven foot

Desire's not deviant. It's human nature.

Look into his eyes and say goodbye; never let another day go by; don't miss the quiet moments in between; never love and never leave again.

―Incluso tus pies son sexys -murmuró ella. ―¿Esa es tu parte preferida de mí? - preguntó él en voz baja tan cerca de su oído que la piel se le puso de gallina en el cuello. ―Deberías saber cuál es mi parte preferida de ti. ―¿La llamas La Bestia? Ella sonrió. Se imaginó que eso era lo que él pensaba. ―No, pero La Bestia está en el Top Diez. ―El Top Diez, ¿eh? -Brian le besó el borde la oreja. Un escalofrió le recorrió la columna. ―¿Son mis labios? Ella sacudió la cabeza. ―No, pero también están en el Top Diez. Con la lengua le rozó el punto pulsante bajo su oreja. ―¿La lengua? ―No. Mi Top Diez parece muy lleno. Él se echó a reír y la abrazó. ―Es obvio que son mis manos. -Brian las sostuvo frente a ella y flexionó los dedos. ―Equivocado de nuevo. Sin embargo es una buena suposición. ―De acuerdo, me rindo -dijo él. Myrna se dio vuelta para mirarlo. ―Es tu cerebro. Él cubrió la sorpresa con una sonrisa. ―Bueno, tengo que admitir que esa era la última parte que pensé que dirías. ―Controla todas tus otras partes. Es el responsable de tu increíble talento, tanto para la guitarra como en la cama.‖ Brian sonrió. Ella nunca descubriría porque necesitaba que lo completara cuando tenía groupies gritando por su piedad. ―Te hace decir cosas que me hacen reír y pensar. Te da esa dulce y romántica racha que trato de resistir. Tu personalidad, tu talento, tu corazón y tu alma. Lo que te hace ser tú. Todo eso está en tu asombrosa mente. No me malinterpretes. El cuerpo que tienes también es fabuloso. ―Creo que me estoy sonrojando.

When a girl didn’t have anyone to stand up for her, that girl had to stand up for her own damn self. She didn’t expect that hunky Ruthanna groupie to understand. “Your shoes look like they could kill a person, Ruthanna,” AnnieLee said, giggling. Ruthanna kicked out a leg to show off a pointy-toed stiletto. “They’re killing me,” she said. Then she brushed a red-gold curl away from her cheek and said, “I like you.

When you fall in love, you disregard logic. Because logic and love are two sides of the same coin. Together, they make a beautiful sort of currency, but you can never look them both in the face at the same time.

I knew this side of Nixon wouldn’t stay at the surface for long, that it was only visible because he was fresh out of rehab. Because he was sober. Because there weren’t paparazzi and models and half-naked groupies in his dressing room. I knew it was temporary, but instead of scaring me, it only made me feel like this glimpse of what he could be was private…precious. And God help me, I wanted it to be permanent. I wanted him to be real.

Galen slides into his desk, unsettled by the way the sturdy blond boy talking to Emma casually rests his arm on the back of her seat. "Good morning," Galen says, leaning over to wrap his arms around her, nearly pulling her from the chair. He even rests his cheek against hers for good measure. "Good morning...er, Mark, isn't it?" he says, careful to keep his voice pleasant. Still, he glances meaningfully at the masculine arm still lining the back of Emma's seat, almost touching her. To his credit-and safety-Mark eases the offending limb back to his own desk, offering Emma a lazy smile full of strikingly white teeth. "You and Forza, huh? Did you clear that with his groupies?" She laughs and gently pries Galen's arms off her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the eruption of pink spreading like spilled paint over her face. She's not used to dating him yet. Until about ten minutes ago, he wasn't used to it either. Now though, with the way Mark eyes her like a tasty shellfish, playing the role of Emma's boyfriend feels all too natural. The bell rings, saving Emma from a reply and saving Mark thousands of dollars in hospital bills. Emma shoots Galen a withering look, which he deflects with that he hopes is an enchanting grin. He measures his success by the way her blush deepens but stops short when he notices the dark circles under her eyes. She didn't sleep last night. Not that he thought she would. She'd been quiet on the flight home from Destin two nights ago. He didn't pressure her to talk about it with him, mostly because he didn't know what to say once the conversation got started. So many times, he's started to assure her that he doesn't see her as an abomination, but it seems wrong to say it out loud. Like he's willfully disagreeing with the law. But how could those delicious-looking lips and those huge violet eyes be considered an abomination? What's even crazier is that not only does he not consider her an abomination, the fact that she could be a Half-Breed ignited a hope in him he's got no right to feel: Grom would never mate with a half human. At least, Galen doesn't think he would. He glances at Emma, whose silky eyelids don't even flutter in her state of light sleep. When he clears his throat, she startles. "Thank you," she mouths to him as she picks her pencil back up, using the eraser to trace the lines in her textbook as she reads. He acknowledges with a nod. He doesn't want to leave her like this, anxious and tense and out of place in her own beautiful skin.

He crossed the stage, pushed the bench back and sat, hands resting on the keyboard cover. After a moment, he took off the cloth, and uncovered the keyboard. He rested his fingers on the keys, but didn’t depress them, simply sitting there for a moment, in the dark and silent auditorium, and closed his eyes. He belonged here. Not on a stage, but with a piano. It was the only place he felt alive. The groupies, the concerts, the strangely worshipful perks of fame, none of them made him feel complete like these moments alone did.

A less pure teaching of a lineage traps us in the lineage, makes us a Buddhist or a Christian or a Hindu, not a free being, because when the people who lead do not have the full connection, they cling to the vehicle rather than to the truth toward which the vehicle is directed, and vehicles (institutions) corrode unless they are constantly fed by the living spirit. And the living spirit comes only through beings who are it. We can become organizational groupies as part of our path, but if we know it’s not enough, we must have the honesty to let it go.

Dude, wait until you see the hot little number on there!” He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “What are you talking about? Aren’t all flight attendant’s middle-aged, blonde women?” “Not this one. She’s feisty too, kneed me right in the balls.” I smiled, and it was actually genuine. I wondered if he was fucking with me. But, it was enough to peak my curiosity. I slowly walked towards the plane wondering if it was going to be a grandma, or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. I really hoped that it wasn’t some die-hard groupie either. As soon as I reached the top of the stairs I almost tripped and fell on my face when I got my first look at her. She was gorgeous! She looked like she walked straight off of a pin-up girl calendar. She had long, black hair with strands of hot pink. I appraised my way down her body. She had a slim waist and curvy hips. She was built like an hourglass. I noticed a couple of sexy facial piercings. She had an adorable little nose and big brown eyes. Then I saw a tattoo peeking out on her shoulder. I could tell that she had a chest piece. I was instantly hard. Awesome…

It would have been so easy for her--men would have told her anything. They’d have given up secret information just like that.” Snapping her fingers, Ashley coolly confronted Parker’s indignation. “Come on, give us guys a little credit. Why would any high-ranking officer share classified information with his little groupie, huh?” “Because those high-ranking officers were men.” Roo’s stare was as condescending as her tone. “And men only think with their--” “Downstairs brain,” Ashley finished. While the guys conceded with slight embarrassment, Roo and Miranda laughed. “Good one, Ash.

Cecily let her cheek fall to Leta’s shoulder and hugged her back. It felt so nice to be loved by someone in the world. Since her mother’s death, she’d had no one of her own. It was a lonely life, despite the excitement and adventure her work held for her. She wasn’t openly affectionate at all, except with Leta. “For God’s sake, next you’ll be rocking her to sleep at night!” came a deep, disgusted voice at Cecily’s back, and Cecily stiffened because she recognized it immediately. “She’s my baby girl,” Leta told her tall, handsome son with a grin. “Shut up.” Cecily turned a little awkwardly. She hadn’t expected this. Tate Winthrop towered over both of them. His jet-black hair was loose as he never wore it in the city, falling thick and straight almost to his waist. He was wearing a breastplate with buckskin leggings and high-topped mocassins. There were two feathers straight up in his hair with notches that had meaning among his people, marks of bravery. Cecily tried not to stare at him. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever known. Since her seventeenth birthday, Tate had been her world. Fortunately he didn’t realize that her mad flirting hid a true emotion. In fact, he treated her exactly as he had when she came to him for comfort after her mother had died suddenly; as he had when she came to him again with bruises all over her thin, young body from her drunken stepfather’s violent attack. Although she dated, she’d never had a serious boyfriend. She had secret terrors of intimacy that had never really gone away, except when she thought of Tate that way. She loved him… “Why aren’t you dressed properly?” Tate asked, scowling at her skirt and blouse. “I bought you buckskins for your birthday, didn’t I?” “Three years ago,” she said without meeting his probing eyes. She didn’t like remembering that he’d forgotten her birthday this year. “I gained weight since then.” “Oh. Well, find something you like here…” She held up a hand. “I don’t want you to buy me anything else,” she said flatly, and didn’t back down from the sudden menace in his dark eyes. “I’m not dressing up like a Lakota woman. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m blond. I don’t want to be mistaken for some sort of overstimulated Native American groupie buying up artificial artifacts and enthusing over citified Native American flute music, trying to act like a member of the tribe.” “You belong to it,” he returned. “We adopted you years ago.” “So you did,” she said. That was how he thought of her-a sister. That wasn’t the way she wanted him to think of her. She smiled faintly. “But I won’t pass for a Lakota, whatever I wear.” “You could take your hair down,” he continued thoughtfully. She shook her head. She only let her hair loose at night, when she went to bed. Perhaps she kept it tightly coiled for pure spite, because he loved long hair and she knew it. “How old are you?” he asked, trying to remember. “Twenty, isn’t it?” “I was, give years ago,” she said, exasperated. “You used to work for the CIA. I seem to remember that you went to college, too, and got a law degree. Didn’t they teach you how to count?” He looked surprised. Where had the years gone? She hadn’t aged, not visibly.

Groupies and hangers-on somehow fancy themselves entitled to the narcissist’s favour and largesse, his time, attention, and other resources. They convince themselves that they are exempt from the narcissist’s rage and wrath and immune to his vagaries andabuse . This self-imputed and self-conferred status irritates the narcissist no end as it challenges and encroaches on his standing as the only source of preferential treatment and the sole decision-maker when it comes to the allocation of his precious and cosmically significant wherewithal. The narcissist is the guru at the centre of a cult. Like other gurus, he demands complete obedience from his flock: his spouse, his offspring, other family  members, friends, and colleagues. He feels entitled to adulation and special treatment by his followers. He punishes the wayward and the straying lambs. He enforces discipline, adherence to his teachings, and common goals. The less accomplished he is in reality – the more stringent his mastery and the more pervasive the brainwashing. Cult leaders are narcissists who failed in their mission to "be someone", to become famous, and to impress the world with their uniqueness, talents, traits, and skills. Such disgruntled narcissists withdraw into a "zone of comfort" (known as the "Pathological Narcissistic Space") that assumes the hallmarks of a cult. The – often involuntary – members of the narcissist's mini-cult inhabit a twilight zone of his own construction. He imposes on them an exclusionary or inclusionary shared psychosis, replete with persecutory delusions, "enemies", mythical-grandiose narratives, and apocalyptic scenarios if he is flouted. Exclusionary shared psychosis involves the physical and emotional isolation of the narcissist and his “flock” (spouse, children, fans, friends) from the outside world in order to better shield them from imminent threats and hostile intentions. Inclusionary shared psychosis revolves around attempts to spread the narcissist’s message in a missionary fashion among friends, colleagues, co-workers, fans, churchgoers, and anyone else who comes across the mini-cult. The narcissist's control is based on ambiguity, unpredictability, fuzziness, and ambientabuse . His ever-shifting whims exclusively define right versus wrong, desirable and unwanted, what is to be pursued and what to be avoided. He alone determines the rights and obligations of his disciples and alters them at will.

I open the door to see him on my doorstep and he doesn’t even say hello. He says, “Let’s cut the crap, Daisy. You need to record this album or Runner’s taking you to court.” I said, “I don’t care about any of that. They can take their money back, get me kicked out of here if they want. I’ll live in a cardboard box.” I was very annoying. I had no idea what it meant to truly suffer. Teddy said, “Just get in the studio, love. How hard is that?” I told him, “I want to write my own stuff.” I think I even crossed my arms in front of my chest like a child. He said, “I’ve read your stuff. Some of it’s really good. But you don’t have a single song that’s finished. You don’t have anything ready to be recorded.” He said I should fulfill my contract with Runner and he would help me get my songs to a point where I could release an album of my own stuff. He called it “a goal for us all to work toward.” I said, “I want to release my own stuff now.” And that’s when he got testy with me. He said, “Do you want to be a professional groupie? Is that what you want? Because the way it looks from here is that you have a chance to do something of your own. And you’d rather just end up pregnant by Bowie.” Let me take this opportunity to be clear about one thing: I never slept with David Bowie. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I said, “I am an artist. So you either let me record the album I want or I’m not showing up. Ever.” Teddy said, “Daisy, someone who insists on the perfect conditions to make art isn’t an artist. They’re an asshole.” I shut the door in his face. And sometime later that day, I opened up my songbook and I started reading. I hated to admit it but I could see what he was saying. I had good lines but I didn’t have anything polished from beginning to end. The way I was working then, I’d have a loose melody in my head and I’d come up with lyrics to it and then I’d move on. I didn’t work on my songs after one or two rounds. I was sitting in the living room of my cottage, looking out the window, my songbook in my lap, realizing that if I didn’t start trying—I mean being willing to squeeze out my own blood, sweat, and tears for what I wanted—I’d never be anything, never matter much to anybody. I called Teddy a few days later, I said, “I’ll record your album. I’ll do it.” And he said, “It’s your album.” And I realized he was right. The album didn’t have to be exactly my way for it to still be mine.

If these avatars were real people in a real street, Hiro wouldn't be able to reach the entrance. It's way too crowded. But the computer system that operates the Street has better things to do than to monitor every single one of the millions of people there, trying to prevent them from running into each other. It doesn't bother trying to solve this incredibly difficult problem. On the Street, avatars just walk right through each other. So when Hiro cuts through the crowd, headed for the entrance, he really is cutting through the crowd. When things get this jammed together, the computer simplifies things by drawing all of the avatars ghostly and translucent so you can see where you're going. Hiro appears solid to himself, but everyone else looks like a ghost. He walks through the crowd as if it's a fogbank, clearly seeing The Black Sun in front of him. He steps over the property line, and he's in the doorway. And in that instant he becomes solid and visible to all the avatars milling outside. As one, they all begin screaming. Not that they have any idea who the hell he is -- Hiro is just a starving CIC stringer who lives in a U-Stor-It by the airport. But in the entire world there are only a couple of thousand people who can step over the line into The Black Sun. He turns and looks back at ten thousand shrieking groupies. Now that he's all by himself in the entryway, no longer immersed in a flood of avatars, he can see all of the people in the front row of the crowd with perfect clarity. They are all done up in their wildest and fanciest avatars, hoping that Da5id -- The Black Sun's owner and hacker-in-chief -- will invite them inside. They flick and merge together into a hysterical wall. Stunningly beautiful women, computer-airbrushed and retouched at seventy-two frames a second, like Playboy pinups turned three-dimensional -- these are would-be actresses hoping to be discovered. Wild-looking abstracts, tornadoes of gyrating light-hackers who are hoping that Da5id will notice their talent, invite them inside, give them a job. A liberal sprinkling of black-and-white people -- persons who are accessing the Metaverse through cheap public terminals, and who are rendered in jerky, grainy black and white. A lot of these are run-of-the-mill psycho fans, devoted to the fantasy of stabbing some particular actress to death; they can't even get close in Reality, so they goggle into the Metaverse to stalk their prey. There are would-be rock stars done up in laser light, as though they just stepped off the concert stage, and the avatars of Nipponese businessmen, exquisitely rendered by their fancy equipment, but utterly reserved and boring in their suits.

JOHN FORBES NASH, JR.

While Vasari was the most prominent and successful artist in Italy during the middle to late sixteenth century, he was also something of a groupie. He idolized his peers, particularly Michelangelo.

That’s got to be right,” she heard Roo mumble. “Once they discovered she was a spy, she’d have been executed.” “And think of her career.” Ashley sighed. “The scandal.” Etienne’s tone was humorless. “Hell, in this town, the locals mighta strung her up. Me, I’d have taken that poison, too.” The mood around the table had gone somber, as though none of them really wanted to admit Miss Ellena’s guilt. Even Parker seemed to be considering Miranda’s theory. Leaning back in his chair, Etienne stroked his fingers along his chin. “She coulda gotten secrets from anybody. Or passed secrets to anybody. Especially if she was somebody’s mistress.” “Or many somebody’s mistress.” Parker chuckled. “It would have been so easy for her--men would have told her anything. They’d have given up secret information just like that.” Snapping her fingers, Ashley coolly confronted Parker’s indignation. “Come on, give us guys a little credit. Why would any high-ranking officer share classified information with his little groupie, huh?” “Because those high-ranking officers were men.” Roo’s stare was as condescending as her tone. “And men only think with their--” “Downstairs brain,” Ashley finished. While the guys conceded with slight embarrassment, Roo and Miranda laughed. “Good one, Ash.

So, Dani . . . is that short for Danielle?” I searched for you, I tried to convey with my eyes. Scoured the Internet for your sister’s wedding announcement, knowing you shared a maiden name. Hunted through the White Pages . . . “Danica.” Ah, no wonder. I hoped every Danielle James in the tri-state area would forgive me for cyber-stalking them. It hadn’t occurred to me there might be a variant. “So, um . . . how’d you two meet?” And where? And when? My brain wanted to scream. And why. Why, why, why? Nash’s arm slid around Dani’s waist, pulling her against his hip. “We met on tour, if you can believe that. She was a damsel in distress.” Dani gave a cute snort. “You thought I was a groupie in heat.” “My bad.” Nash gave a shrug and winked in my direction. “I’ll never forget, seeing her out the tour bus window for the first time. She was standing by this old, broken-down van at the side of the road, waving a white lacy thong like a matador—” He butted his forehead against her shoulder, like a big bull come to rut. “Oh?” I managed, swallowed hard. The espresso I’d had earlier threatened to burn its way back up my throat. “It wasn’t a thong , you perv!” Dani gave a tug on his long locks. “It was a camisole. And it was the only thing white I had.

But he’s just an asshole . . . and I’m just another groupie. It’s not going to happen.

I hope it was worth it, Meck. I told you this wasn’t the place for your shit. We done.” “Over a groupie-ass bitch, huh? You throwing away years?” “Ain’t gon’ be too many more bitches, homie.” Tau starts to head toward him and Red moves to block his way. Opening the heavy door with Meck in tow, Mark pushes him out and disappears into the hallway. “Wait, did he say ‘my girl’?” Red whispers, still stroking my hair.

I had to try to see the best in Kent—in everyone. Life would flicker out into grimness unless I forced light into it.

Ready Rock, somewhat confused, said, “So, where we supposed to fuck all the groupies at?” “Hopefully, you’ll be fucking them behind that preposition,” I said.

If I didn’t do this one thing, I’d never do anything at all.

But don't you dare try this shit at home.

So we all decided to stay quiet. I glanced at the back of the bus and saw Blaze looking really proud, and all his groupies were looking at him like he was so brave. To be honest, it was kinda cool how Blaze made the Wither get all crazy like that. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do that. Well, being a Zombie I actually don’t have guts to do anything, really. But man, that guy Blaze is really cool… Thursday Today I had to help out at the Principal’s Office as part of the school’s Student Volunteer program. I had to show some new 7th grade foreign exchange student around school. I thought that Rajit was the only foreign exchange student I had to deal with this semester. But it seems that there’s a whole bunch of them visiting this year. “Zombie, it seems that we’re short on volunteers today,” Principal Slime said.

Hilarious!” one kid snorted as the students emptied into the hall. Puck absorbed their praise like a greedy sponge and agreed with each one wholeheartedly that he was indeed a genius. But Sabrina had no interest in Puck’s groupies. Her eyes were fixed on Wendell, who now hurried down the hallway, followed by a cloud of dust. She rushed after him.

Gabriel Ashford, mir scheint, du bist ein verdammter Mitchell-Groupie. -S. 105