I’m the biggest fan of rock and roll. I would spend almost every night of the week shelling out all my hard-earned money from my job flogging photo copier machines on seeing live music or scouring the secondhand shops for albums by everyone from T-Rex to Guns ‘N’ Roses.
And I would dress like my heroes:- the leather pants, long hair, skull rings, tattoos, earrings, boots – the whole look. The only problem was I couldn’t play an instrument to save my life. I had a heap of lessons but was just no good and my guitar would remain quiet in the corner of my room.
But it didn’t stop me enjoying my bands and I’d occasionally even hang around and a have a drink with them after the gigs.
Now, it’s no myth that girls dig musos. It wouldn’t matter how ugly they were, they still pulled. If you don’t believe me, have a look at Keith Richards.
Anyway, it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I thought that could work in my favour. I was watching some dodgy band playing at a local pub and a few of us were having a drink afterwards when this girl came up and said she “enjoyed the set”. Before I could say “I’m not in the band” she came on to me full throttle. After a few drunken kisses and a lot more bourbon and cokes, we ended up back at her place and it was all on.
I felt a bit of a phoney but I hadn’t had sex in a while. The next day, while trying to convince this guy about the attributes of the latest state-of the art photocopier, I had an epiphany that would change my life forever.
Just because you can’t play a note, doesn’t mean you can’t be a rock star!
That weekend, I pulled out one of my many ripped t-shirts, stuffed myself in my leather pants and went to a city gig. Again, it was enough to hang around the bar to be mistaken for a muso. This time I said I had just finished a gig across town and was there supporting my brethren. And again, she fell for it.
This continued for the next two years. Each time I grew in confidence and the stories became more outrageous and the girls more attractive. I would tell them how I played guitar on the first Good Charlotte album or had supported Grinspoon on their American college tour. And when they weren’t buying me drinks, the bar staff was ponying up with free booze because they thought I was a ‘somebody’. – When you are surrounded by a pack of beautiful young women, it’s easy to convince people that you are famous.
And the girls didn’t even seem to notice when I told them I’d written lines like “she makes love just like a woman, she aches just like a woman, but she breaks just like a little girl”. – Lines that had been written my Bob Dylan 10 years before I was born. Or that I’d recorded with musicians that were no longer even alive. It seemed that I was a trophy and they couldn’t see past the rock star facade.
I only had two golden rules. One. That we would have to go to their place (because I didn’t want them to see my Camperdown bedsit). And two, they would be only one-night stands. I thought anymore and the woman would have a chance to check out my stories. I knew I was only one Google search away from getting caught. It was exhausting but the rewards were worth it.
It got to the point where I was being invited to these art openings, hot clubs, fancy parties in posh mansions and boats on the harbour. I must have bedded more than 100 women in that time.
And only once did I break my one-night stand rule. One older woman, Julia, who was in her late forties but still had a great figure, put me up in her oceanfront apartment. We used to joke that I was her toy boy and she bought me clothes and took me out to posh restaurants.
The only reason I stuck with her was that she didn’t have a clue about anything other than opera so I knew I wouldn’t be found out. We’d have our spats but I would always come back. Sometimes I’d wish she’d give me money instead of clothes and dinners, then I could get out of there and move interstate for good.
Then on my 28th birthday she brought me her most extravagant gift: a brand-new Stratocaster guitar so I could play for her. I didn’t have the heart, or the balls, to say I couldn’t play a note. To me that was worth about a year’s worth of rent just sitting there.
The next day, when she left for work, I snapped. Something told me to get out. I grabbed my old t-shirt and left everything else she gave me behind, except for that $12,000 guitar. I pawned it for a fraction of what it was worth and jumped on a plane to Perth where no one would know who I was or was pretending to be. I didn’t even leave a note.
Of all the women I lied to and slept with, the only one I can remember is Julia. She was the only one I think I trusted. And she was the only one I know I hurt.
I’ve finished with my lying ways. Now, when a girl comes up to me and asks me if I’m a musician, I say, “No, I’m just a nobody”.
All names have been changed. Picture posed by models.
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