Chapter 1

The first thing you should know about me is that I hate tie-dye. Really really hate it.

My mom was a child of the 60's, a groupie, she followed bands, artists, anyone who had a space on their van and a reefer spare. I'm not sure she ever had a real job other than being a groupie, but to earn money she made tie-dyes, T-shirts, skirts, scarves, anything and everything. My arrival didn't change anything, except that every single thing I wore was fuckin' tie-dyed.

I grew up backstage, at concerts, in pubs, anywhere the band played, whichever band mom was following, ok, whichever musician she was screwing, same thing really. One of the 'rock stars' mom followed was legendary for fathering illegitimate children, I once heard him answer a question about it, "when I eat beans and fart, why should I care which bean caused it?" He was not my father, at least I look nothing like him and besides, on my birth certificate under 'Father' it says 'Artist'. That is one of two things I know about my father, the other is that I inherited his talent.

Mom claimed I could draw before I could walk, all I know is that it's a gift, part of me, a big part of me, probably the best part of me.

Few people know about my childhood, it's not something I talk about, not because it was awful, in some ways it was a child's dream. I never went to school because we were constantly moving, living in vans, caravans, sometimes in hotels or other peoples houses, I helped mom with the tie-dying, kept out of the way and sketched constantly with pencil or pen, on anything I could get, mostly the backs of posters and discarded set lists.

My prized possession was my satchel, the straps were broken when I found it, but Rhonda fixed them for me and I took it everywhere, all that I valued was inside that satchel, every sketch I'd made, all carefully folded away, I still have it, that, my birth certificate and £32.78 was all I had when I left. Sixteen years old and still wearing fuckin' tie-dyes... !!

There was no dreadful reason for running away, just a lot of wants. I wanted to wear proper clothes, I wanted to be myself, I wanted a life of my own, not to be dependant on who Mom was screwing and how successful they were. Plus I was no longer a little kid, the tit fairy had eventually arrived and although she wasn't overly generous she left enough that people noticed. A sixteen year old girl surrounded by roadies and musicians, most of whom spent their free time drinking or getting high is never going to remain a virgin for long, one way or another I was going to lose my cherry, willingly or not. Well fuck them... !! I beat them to it. Her name was Rhonda and she ran a leather stall, travelling around the country to concerts and fairs. We bumped into her quite often and I'd known her for years, long before she repaired my satchel straps, long enough to trust her, not completely trust her, but enough.

Rhonda had the hots for me, I had the hots for anything that wasn't tie-dyed. So we made a deal, my cherry for a new pair of jeans and one of her leather jackets. The next morning I left. I think of Rhonda more often than I think of my Mom.

People make such a fuss about sex. I think the less sex they have the more they want to dictate how other people should have it, or not have it. They love telling everyone how not to have it. I grew up with it, the posters, the language, the roadies shagging anything in a skirt, it was just there, part of life. It is life. But until the tit fairy arrived it was not part of my life.

Rhonda changed that.

She was cool. Amongst a crowd of characters she stood out. Rhonda was all woman, her own woman, she stood up for herself without ever being butch, she was sexy without being a tease, most of all she hated tie-dye... !! My kind of woman... !!

That one time with her changed my outlook on life forever. It started one afternoon, her stall was set up ready for the next day, the stage across the field looked like the storming of the Bastille and sounded like Armageddon in stereo. The rain that day was torrential, the roadies cursing worse than usual, inside Rhonda's battered caravan the aromas of leather mixed with fresh brewed 'real' coffee. To this day I'm addicted to both.

I had been sketching a young groupie, a Swedish girl who had spent all summer hooked on heavy rock and roadie cock. When the rain started she had stripped off her clothes and gone out into the field, dancing around to pulsing beat of the never ending sound-checks. That girl could dance, really dance, her body gyrating in a way that made language superfluous, long blonde hair flying, body clad in raindrops and mud, her bare feet hardly touching the ground. I had been sitting under a tree, crouched over trying to keep the paper dry as my pencil traced her image, my fingers as always assuming a life of their own as they sought to keep hold of the pencil as it flicked and swooped to the rhythm of the girls body.

The sketch was almost complete when Rhonda's voice broke through my concentration. "My god, one look at that drawing and I can taste her." To this day I'm not sure it she was thinking aloud. Something I've never understood, just because I draw girls does not mean I'm a lesbian, anymore that drawing sheep makes me a shepherdess. Ok so now I am a lesbian, but why do people assume that just because of my subject matter? It's about as logical as the 'short skirt makes you a whore' brigade, with their endless tirades of bullshit.

Inside Rhonda's caravan we traded, her coffee for more sketches, she had a good eye and an honesty I appreciated even more than the coffee. We talked of art and craft, designs and desires, those desires soon focused on those she had for me. "How come I rarely see you? I know you're always around."

"When you go back-stage, have you ever noticed a flight-case... ?" I asked her, watching her face as she thought about my question and how it might relate to hers. "They're everywhere, but no one case stands out, that's me, I find a niche and get comfortable, if I stay still I can see everything, everyone, yet nobody sees me, or rather nobody registers that I'm there." I grinned. "Just 'cos I've never been to school does not make me dumb."

"You've never... ? Oh my..." Rhonda stopped talking and just looked at me, not a scare stare, her expression reflected a new appreciation, a greater understanding, and as I was soon to find out, a greater desire. "I want you." No subtlety, "more than that I want you to want me to." It took a moment to work my way through her words, "If you do, then we're going to make love, not fuck, fucking is good, but meaningless to the soul, making love is sharing souls, it has meaning."

"I'm a virgin."

"You've never... ? Oh my..." Rhonda paused, "I really must stop saying that..."

I stood up, stepped back from her so she could see me properly, "you want this?" I asked, twirling once, my tie-dyed smock wafting around my body. "I like you Rhonda, I like you a lot, but if you want my cherry, I want something in return." Her eyes narrowed, her smile beginning to form a scowl, "no, I'm not after much, just clothes, any clothes, so long as they are not fuckin' tie-dyed... !!

Her scowl dissolved into laughter. "Deal, but clothes first," she paused to look at me, a hard look as if to drive her words home, "and they're yours to keep, even if we don't make love, understood?"