I think it’s the eyeliner. And the bandana. That tattooed biker androgyny with a catalogue of hair band ballads and liquid sex. Those not-too-tight but not-too-loose perfectly faded bootcut jeans and vintage t-shirts, the flowing hair oh, and that bandana. And the eyeliner. Definitely the eyeliner.
I can’t help it. I’m a lesbian in love with Bret Michaels.
I don’t care that he’s 45, or from Pennsylvania, the most un-glam, un-hard, un-rocking state. Or that he has two kids. Or that he likes the Steelers. When I look at Bret, clouds turn to rainbows and puppies and bunnies frolic across my bedroom floor. And when I watch Rock of Love, I could care less about the 25 girls—all I see is Bret.
Alright. I know I sound like every other obsessive fan girl. In fact, I haven’t been this obsessed with a celebrity since Hanson back in 7th grade. I mean, there must be a good reason for it. Maybe it’s the country thing. I grew up in a small town, I had a horse, I played in the dirt and built BMX jumps and didn’t have cable until high school. My mom taught me young the value of a man in a good pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson. Maybe that’s it. Bret’s like home to me. Minus the septic tank.
Or maybe it’s because I just got dumped. Right now, in my mind, vaginas are nothing but eternal wells of heartache and despair. I’ve spent the last week watching History Channel documentaries and strumming along to “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” The penis has never been more appealing.
Back in 7th grade, I loved the woman in Taylor Hanson, but I love the man in Bret Michaels. I even downloaded that porno he did with Pamela Anderson—okay I admit, that’s creepy.
No, I don’t think there’s any one way to explain this. I’m just in love with Bret Michaels. And such perfect timing—a Rock of Love rerun. And it’s the blue bandana. Blue’s my favorite color.
On a final note, Jes Rickleff? I’d hit that.