We started making out and waited impatiently for the concert. An hour went by. Then two. Two and a half hours later we were still waiting, and in the interim I had gotten drunker, hornier, and crazier.
"You know what? I don't believe this G.G. attacking women shit. If G.G. comes near me, I'll kick his ass! Everyone think I can do it?" Of course the entire audience cheered. Finally they were getting some entertainment.
"I'm a strong woman. I grew up in New York. I can take care of myself! I'll kick his ass!" I was starting to believe my own bullshit! Three hours after he was supposed to go on, G.G. appeared on stage. Let me be more precise: he was carried on stage by his band mates. I was in a similar state. The only thing between me and the floor was that guy from Letch Patrol.
G.G. sang one song, lying horizontally on the stage, then passed out. I woke up the next morning in the living room of an acquaintance.
Two years later, a college professor of mine came into class and said "Raven, you're famous!" "What do you mean?" "Your picture is up in my neighborhood deli on 5th street and First Avenue" he replied. I wondered how my picture ended up there, so I went by to check it out.
There I was, smiling drunkenly, looking like the most easy spent punk rock whore imaginable. The photo must have come from that G.G. Allen evening. I didn't remember the deli owner taking the photo but, like a good drag queen, I did remember my outfit!
As I stood there looking at it, the woman behind the counter said "Oh Miss! Finally you've come back! We thought we would never see you again" and then she handed me a bunch of business cards. "What are all of these?" I asked. "Men who would like to date you!" she said.
I have never felt so awful, and so fabulous at the same time!
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