Note: This is a work of fiction. If I have made any inaccurate assumptions then I apologise. Mow (rhymes with now) Cop is an area of North Staffordshire ‘famous’ for its castle folly, visible for miles. There is no group that I know of with that name.

My name is Thomas Steele, born and bred in North Staffordshire, in the English Midlands. Growing up I was always Tommy, but as I reached my teens, I wanted that changed to avoid the comparison with the rock and roll icon of the same name, so I became Tom. Average is easily the best word to describe me, 5’ 9” tall, dark straight hair, usually kept long with brownish eyes; the sort of man who was easily lost in a crowd. At school I was thought to be quite clever, at least when I was in class. I do, however, have a massive academic drawback, I have an allergic reaction to tests and exams. My heart rate shoots up and I begin sweating. Any knowledge of the subject instantly evaporates, in more than one exam I got no further than writing my name. It won’t then be much of a surprise when I tell you that I left school with no qualifications.

I did leave with a couple of good friends, who would become part of my life for a long time. Tony Gill and Steve Drummond were best mates that somewhere along the school highway I hitched a ride with because of our love for music. Tony, or Anthony in front of his parents, was a superb guitarist whilst Steve, given his surname, was destined to be a drummer. I could play guitar at a level that was fine for support, but would never be a lead. I did however, have a strong and powerful voice. When we played together we were pretty good I thought, though as you’d expect we did some covers better than others. We were more Stones than Beatles, but without the Blues influence. We were struggling to find our musical feet.

We all lived in or around Kidsgrove, which is part of the borough of Newcastle-under-Lyme. I lived in a little village called Harriseahead, which was just below the folly that is known as Mow Cop. The car park of the false castle became our meeting point, as the fantastic views was supposed to provide inspiration. We’d each tried to write our own songs, as we were sure that that was the way to success. We didn’t even like our own songs, let alone what the others had written. I suppose we were like the myriad teens around the Western world, dreaming of stardom, but lacking the knowledge of how to attain it.

That changed in 1968. As usual we were sitting on Mow Cop’s car park raving about a new Brummie band that had suddenly appeared. Black Sabbath were playing the music we wanted to play, though until then, hadn’t realised it. Steve noticed a van, clearly an old bread van.

“That’s what we need, a van like that to get to gigs.”

“We don’t have any gigs to get to,” I pointed out.

“Not yet, but with a van we could easily get some.”

Just then a tall, really tall dude came running into the area. He’d obviously worked up a good sweat as the first thing he did was go up to the van and fetch a towel out before sitting on one of the rocks.

As he was about our age we got talking about the world. In our case, the world consisted of girls, football and music. Dave’s taste was far more eclectic than ours, seeming to prefer good lyrics as to anything else. It wasn’t long though, before Tony was enquiring about his van.

Tony asked that leading question. “I don’t suppose you play the guitar?”

“Yes, though not very well.” was his response.

That started another round of discussions, this time focused on setting up a band and doing some gigs. I tried to keep the talk about music, but Steve and Tony kept bringing it back to girls.

“Even crap bands have their choice of groupies,” Steve told us, though where that information came I don’t know.

“Yea! Just think of all them chicks just throwing themselves at you.” Dave, the new lad commented.

A few hours later and we were a band. Autumn 1968 saw the founding of Mow Cop, a unanimous choice of name, given where we were.

Tony’s dad was a solicitor and had a large house with double garage, which became our practice room. We still did covers, but now our sound was what was becoming known as heavy metal. Other than Dave, we weren’t really working class boys, but that was the sound we liked. Anyway we weren’t doing our own lyrics, so it didn’t really matter.

After about six months, we felt ready to share our talent with the world, well enough of the world who happened to be in the same pub that we were performing in. Doing live music improves your performances, well it did for us, and by the end of twelve months we had a sort of professionalism about us. Part of this was down to Tony’s father who stressed that if we were ever going to make it then we must be professional about it.

That paid off one evening when we were doing a gig in The Black Horse, a pub in Hanley, well known for its live music and jukebox. We’d been on stage for about an hour and due our break when the landlord came up and asked us to stop playing. Puzzled we did so. He then approached us with another guy.

“Hi, I’m Johnny Talbot, I own and run ‘The Club’.” ‘The Club’ was our area’s premier live venue and one we’d never played. They tended to have the best bands around, rather than us lesser known groups. “Good, I was told I’d find you here, some of my regulars are fans. The bastards that are supposed to be performing tonight at my place haven’t turned up, and given what I’ve heard, aren’t likely to. It’s bloody Friday night and I have no act, so do you think you’re up for it.”

A series of positive answers screamed out until Dave asked. “What about this place? We’re booked here for the night and we can’t just leave.”

“Leave that to me.” He stated, before heading off to talk to the pub’s landlord, who’d headed back to the bar. I thought it must be okay with him or he wouldn’t have interrupted our session. Everything was fine so we quickly set about loading our kit into the van for the short trip to ‘The Club’. Johnny actually thanked us for putting our commitment to the original gig first, saying that is what professionalism is about. He also asked us to play as much of our own music as we could. This was only possible since Dave had joined, as he proved to be quite a good song writer.

The night was a great success, though whether that was purely down to us, or the crowd’s gratitude at having live music, I wouldn’t want to guess. Surprisingly, it was our original stuff that went down the best. It was enough to get us a regular spot there, and that in turn led to many more offers.

It was about two months later as we approached the new decade that we were offered a record deal. This came out of the blue, but word had got around to a small label that had a record of producing hit records from unknown artists. As we had no manager at the time, Tony’s father handled all the contract talks. I knew he was a lawyer, but it turned out that he specialised in contract law. The label were impressed by us having such a person negotiating for us, so that was a help too.

Our first lesson was how easy it was to record an album? The answer we found was not at all. First the label had to decide which of our songs was going to be on our initial LP, we had some input, but the final decision was the record company’s. Then came the studio time, recording over and over again, until the producer was happy. The first track took nearly a week as we’d never needed that sort of precision before. After that, subsequent tracks became easier, note, easier, not easy.

We were consulted about which track would be released as our first single, but were overruled anyway. They went for the edgier ‘Black Coke’, whilst we thought that the more lyrical ‘Fear’ was more suited as a single. ‘Black Coke’ made it to number 36 in the UK charts, so our label decided to release ‘Fear’ immediately. This did even better, reaching number 7 and earning us a trip to the Top of the Pops studio and our first TV appearance.

When we’d all first met at Mow Cop, we all stressed that chicks was one of our main objectives and boy did we score there. As you would expect, it started slowly, with just the odd girl wanting to screw one or all of us. As the lead singer, I got most of the attention, followed by Tony. Steve and Dave got some pussy but not as much. Usually, these liaisons took place in the back of Dave’s van and were over in a flash. I don’t know about Dave, but me and the other two were virgins when we started out. I, for one, knew absolutely nothing about sex, other than the absolute basics. We thought we were real studs if we managed to last ten minutes, and that included dressing and undressing. Never once did I consider the girl’s pleasure, I just wanted to get off and get back to the lads. I never thought about protection either, surely that was the girls’ problem. After our TV appearance the girls were queuing up and for the first time we could afford to be fussy and each of us moved towards a certain type that appealed the most. Naturally, if no available girl fit that type, then any would do.

I was probably the easiest to please, for as long as she wasn’t obese, I didn’t care. Dave went for slim with small breasts, Tony wanted virgins, the younger the better and Steve seemed to get off on any girl wearing a ring on her third finger, left hand. The more successful we became, the more choices we had. I was still a very much a wham, bam, thank you ma’am type of lover. I don’t recall a single name of any girl during that period.

The one thing, nobody had planned for, was the success of ‘Fear’ in America. Knowing just how fickle the music industry can be, our label had us booked on an American tour within a week. By that time we had, with the help of Tony’s father, a manager. Duncan McKenna was a dour Scot whose main passion was Whisky, that and trying to do everything to prevent us from enjoying ourselves. In hindsight, we owe him a lot, for although we all became a bit too fond of booze, none of us fell into any drugs, apart from the odd spliff after a gig.

We toured the US by Winnebago, a massive bus fitted out for absolute luxury. I’ve been to every state, except Alaska and Hawaii, and just about every city in those states but saw nothing of them. We were either setting up, performing, coming down or travelling. Occasionally we would do more than one night at a particular city so would spend those nights in a hotel rather than the bus. As gigs rarely finished before midnight and it was seen as our duty to screw as many of the local women as we could after, we never got to sleep much before dawn. Picking your choice of women was as easy as a smile and a nod. Our roadies knew our likes and were more than happy to have a queue ready if our own choices failed to materialise. That the roadies invariably got a blow job out of the deal, everyone was happy. These second choices also became our second or third fucks of the night, as none of us wanted to spend the night with the same one.

Our taste in female flesh became more refined, especially for Tony and Steve. Steve would now only fuck married women, and if her husband was there at the gig too, so much the better. He maintained that this proved how macho he was. He was the only one of us who would keep a woman longer than one fuck, and then only if her husband was still outside. Tony was restricting himself to younger, virginal looking, girls, wanting to be the first cock they had.

After a while, Dave seemed to withdraw from the sexual athletics to the extent that I never saw him take a woman even when we were in hotels. The rest of us didn’t care, even when we noticed.

What we did notice was when Dave produced a new song for us to do. Called ‘Crazy Xmas’, we immediately loved it. Duncan managed to find us a recording studio when we were scheduled to be in New York for a whole week. The label loved the outcome and it was launched for that Christmas. It was to become what the world, outside our fans, knew us for. It also brought in some nice royalties, though Dave, as the writer, took most of those.

Not long after that it became clear that Dave wasn’t enjoying life on the road and after a group meeting it was decided that he would leave as soon as we got a replacement. He was still a fan and was more than happy to continue to write for the band.

Zak Hughes was an American bass guitarist who’d been in a number of minor groups. He was a few years older than us but seemed a good fit. He was also a better player than Dave so he became a member of Mow Cop. The only down side was that he was into the drug scene prevalent in American music. Duncan, once he realised this, said any attempt to get the rest of us into drugs would be the end for him. Our manager was scary enough for this to work. It helped that none of us liked the idea of hard drugs having seen the effects they had on other bands.

Over the next few years our star rose and fell according to the tastes of the day but we always managed to maintain a good core fan base, especially in the US, where we based ourselves. We did two world tours but neither were outstanding, only Japan and Australia producing real fans. Sex was still available, even in the conservative Japan, though choice was much more limited. For the next two decades that was our life, on tour or in the studio. None of us had a wife, except Steve, but his was always someone else’s.

Dave was still writing for us even when he returned to England, where completely alien to me, he got married and settled down.

June 1990 and my world came tumbling down. We were playing Chicago and were there for three nights, so were staying in a couple of nice hotel suites, me and Zak in one, Tony and Steve in the other. The concert had gone well and we were all pumped up as usual. Steve and Tony took their choice of women back to the hotel, as did me and Zak. As usual Steve’s was a stunning redhead with the required wedding ring, whilst Tony’s girl was jailbait, even in the UK. By the time the limo had got us back to the hotel, we’d worked out that the two were actually mother and daughter, a first as far as I was aware. Still, I was more than happy with my woman for the evening, a tall brunette with legs even Rod Stewart would be satisfied with.

Despite my years of screwing, I was still unconcerned about my partner’s pleasure, after all, why bother if there was a queue waiting to take the place of any that complained. I’d just completed my second ten minute bout and was lying against the headboard with a glass of champagne, oblivious to the woman I’d just fucked, when I heard what were unmistakeably, gunshots. They seemed to come from the next suite. Bravely, or more likely, stupidly, I grabbed a dressing gown and rushed next door. The door was open and I was amazed to see that a cop was already on the scene.

“Please stay in your room, sir,” He ordered, although voiced as a request.

I asked what had happened only for my question to be ignored and his request repeated. I half complied by going to the door but not going inside. By then Zak and our two women had also made it as far as the door and were demanding to know what had gone on. It took about five minutes before more police arrived, all with drawn guns. They pushed the first cop into the room and shut the door.

It was massively frustrating, but we had to wait until morning to find out what had happened. It turned out that the first cop was the husband of Steve’s pick up for the night. He’d followed us to the hotel, and using his police ID had managed to obtain a key for Steve’s room. He’d then entered and found Steve having sex with his wife, demanding that she tell him just how much better he was than her husband. The cop had then shot them both.

He then called in to his station to report the shooting. Whilst he was doing this, Tony and the cop’s naked fourteen year old daughter came in from the other bedroom. The cop then shot Tony. All three victims were dead.

As you can imagine, the police were all over us. Me and Zak were lucky that both of our ‘guests’ were over 21 and were here voluntarily. Being English, where 16 is legal, I knew that I’d had a few 16 and 17 year olds share my bed after a gig, even when in the States, so I was lucky there. Zak was arrested for possession but nothing was found in my room. During one of the interviews I had at the local police station it was firmly suggested that I leave the US at my earliest convenience.

Zak was eventually released on bail but never made it to trial. He overdosed two days later. Duncan was convinced it was deliberate, though I didn’t believe that. Mow Cop now had only one member; me. It was indeed time to return home. Suddenly the Rock ‘n Roll lifestyle wasn’t quite so appealing.

There was an awful lot of legal wrangling done before I headed back to England. Everything under the ownership of any Mow Cop’s companies was now mine, including all future royalties, except Dave’s writing ones. Everything else went to next of kin. Only Zak’s family were more interested in what they could get, than from the deaths.

I flew back to Manchester financially rich but emotionally broke. I had no plan, no home and no close friends. Dave Powell had flew over for the funerals and had stayed to support me. We’d never been really close, even when he was in the band, but now he was as close a friend as I had. He proved it by offering his home until I could find somewhere to live.

The first thing I needed to do, was decide where I wanted to live and how. I had enough money to never need to work again. Should I just enjoy the good life or set myself some task, hobby or even job to keep my sanity. I’d just spent well over two decades living the glamorous life. The death of my best friends had hit me hard. That it was our lifestyle that ultimately led to their demise was without doubt. Going back home, where my family still lived was an obvious start. I’d provided quality homes for my parents and two younger brothers, both of whom had made me an uncle. For a reason that I couldn’t fathom, I longed to spend time with them all. I knew that my parents would welcome me back home, but after so long away from the parental leash, I didn’t really want to live under their roof again. Dave’s offer seemed the best intermediate solution.

North Staffordshire was one of the lowest income areas in the UK, with house prices to match, so I knew that I could easily afford any property that took my fancy, if that’s where I decided to remain. I’d heard a bit about Dave’s house, set in its own grounds and with his own recording studio and I looked forward to spending time there.

His wife Aina had travelled over with him and though the petite Japanese woman looked slightly comical next to Dave’s towering frame, there was no doubting their love for each other. Initially, I’d found it a bit too saccharin, especially after his, and my, love ‘em and leave ‘em attitude. However, the more I saw of them, the more I realised just how happy they both were. For me, the most surprising thing was that they were equals in the marriage. At home, Dad had always been the boss and his needs always took priority. Mum seemed deferential to even her sons. When I first realised that Dave had married a Japanese woman, I thought of the films I’d seen showing that they were there only to care for their man. Aina just didn’t fit that scenario. By the time we arrived at their home, I’d come to realise what I’d been missing, though I wasn’t sure that I could manage monogamy myself; still it was yet another thing to contemplate over the coming weeks.

Dave’s pad was everything I’d heard about, spacious, classic from the front and elegant. When I asked about that, I was informed that most of the work was due to his friends at The Pub. I had vague recollections of some dyke place in ‘Castle. Surprisingly, it was Aina that pulled me up on calling it a dyke place. It had been a Lesbian Bar, but was now divided so that half was used for ‘breeders’ as the hard-core called us straights. Dave promised to take me there soon, though to be honest, I wasn’t that bothered.

I was given a large bedroom with en-suite, tastily decorated in house period charm; at least that is what I guessed. On the few occasions that I’d stayed in the homes of others, they’d all had a hoard of servants to see to their every need. Dave and Aina were not like that one bit, as I found out when I tried to order some food.

“Tom, you need to get used to being just a normal guy here. I have a cleaner that comes in during the week. Mrs. Carding usually does some cooking, especially Fridays, as even though I’m now married, she doesn’t think that I can look after myself. What we don’t have is servants. You are expected to keep your room clean, do you own laundry and feed yourself if you wish to eat outside of our normal mealtimes, then either myself or Aina will cook something. The other option is going out to eat.”

That was going to take some getting used to, the other was no takeaways were delivered here. A car was high up on the list of things to get, but not something like Dave’s old thing. Dave laughed when I told him that I’d pick up a new one the following day. “Not in England you won’t, depending what you want it’ll be a week minimum.” He told me.

I decided on a Bentley, as I was used to big American limos. First shock was that there was no local Bentley dealer, I would have to go to their factory in nearby Crewe. Second shock was the price of the one I wanted and third shock was the four month delivery time. Unknown to me, Bentley had just launched the new Continental R, which ticked all my boxes but a lot of other people’s too, hence the delay. At least I could have it finished to my own specification. After a bit of wrangling and my agreement to pay the full amount up front, they agreed that I could use an older model whilst I was waiting, with the obvious caveat of paying for any damage. Even that took three days before I could pick it up. I was lucky that Dave’s time was his own and that he didn’t mind running me about.

With just the two of us in the car, we did a lot of talking, some reminiscing, but mainly about my future. I knew that I could still make a living from my voice, especially as Dave had already agreed to write for me if I decided to go that route. I must admit that given what had so recently happened, I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted to do. The only thing I did know, was that I needed to do something and something creative at that. My first priority was somewhere to live and part of that was to decide where. I’d already decided that the UK was where I was most at home, but did I want the big city lights of London or the gentle pace of the country. Although Stoke was an actual city, it really comprised of six small towns and was actually linear in shape. Running along much of its western edge was the Borough of Newcastle-under-Lyme, where I originated from. The thing that I remembered about the area was the friendly locals and the ease of getting anywhere. We we half way between Manchester and Birmingham and only a couple of hours from the capital. On top of that we were on the doorstep of the Peak District and an hour or so’s drive from Wales’ great scenery. I was eighty percent set on remaining local, the other twenty would depend on what properties were on the market.

Dave did bring up the interesting topic of women. Obviously, he knew what life on the road was like and he cautioned me that if I intended to live a more normal life then I would have to adjust my behaviour significantly. He pointed out that even one night stands required that I pay some attention to the woman’s pleasure, not just my own. I almost asked why, but decided to think about it some more. I couldn’t recall thinking about that ever, except for any pleasure she got by me getting mine. Experience had taught me that for most groupies was the thrill of being with someone famous rather than anything physical.

That was all brought home the first time I went looking for sex. The pubs of Newcastle-under-Lyme was where I looked, initially for my chosen type of young and slim. I quickly discovered that those women that fitted that description had no interest in a forty year old, weathered man, however famous he thought he was. Just to rub salt in, not one even knew who I was. I did manage to talk a divorcee into returning to her flat. She was my sort of age and had looked after herself well. As usual, I expected to jump straight to the main course but she was having none of it. I lost my rag a little, telling her that we had come to fuck, not talk, adding that I didn’t expect to see her again, so what was there to talk about. Needless to say, that didn’t go down too well and I was immediately given my marching orders, expressed in some rather colourful language. I caught a taxi back to Dave’s and drowned my sorrows in one of his better wines. When I told him the following morning he just laughed and said he told me so.

A few more trips to town brought some mixed results, with at least half ending up with me being shown the door. Even the successful ones weren’t that much of a hit, with the word arsehole being bandied around far too much.

Strangely enough it was Aina that came up with a solution. I needed someone to teach me about sex, and she didn’t mean just fucking. At first I laughed it off, I’d been having sex for over twenty years, and I was betting, far more than most men. When Dave described it as using a woman for masturbation, I couldn’t really argue. Aina told her husband that it was up to him to find a willing partner.

“Do you mind spending some money on her?” Dave asked. “I don’t mean actually paying her, more like treating her to fancy restaurants and the like.”

“No, after all, I’m likely to go to those places anyway.”

“In that case, I have someone in mind.”

I was a bit intrigued but also somewhat apprehensive.

It was the following Saturday that I met up with Laura Beech. Once she’d give Dave the okay, he’d filled me in on her. She and her father had led the building team that had done his house, so that alone impressed me. She was around thirty and was always looking for a good time. The one warning Dave did give me was not to get too attached as it was more my money and fame that was tempting her. Our first meeting was at an excellent Thai restaurant in ‘Castle. I was there first and was pleasantly surprised when a very attractive woman approached and introduced herself as Laura. We got to know each other a bit better over our meal, and has Dave had predicted most of her questions regarded my fame or fortune. After our starter, her lessons began in earnest. At times like this, I should lead the conversation more to her than me. Women were much more inclined towards a man who showed genuine interest in them as a person, not just a body. I thought that would take some doing as, to be honest, I did consider them as just a sex object. She did make me laugh with one comment. “You must show sincerity, and if you can fake that then you’ve got it made.”

Another lesson, which reinforced what I’d found for myself, was never rush things, telling me, “Seduction is the art of persuading a woman to do what she wanted to do all along.”

The final lesson for the restaurant was to compliment my date, praise her appearance, her clothes but best of all, her intelligence, even if the latter was missing, but most of all, listen to her.

“All this, just to get laid.” I complained.

“No, many one night stands and virtually all pick ups will only need superficial chat, but if you expect to see a woman more than once then this is what needs to happen. Also, bear in mind that many girls won’t do more than kiss on a first date.”

“Well, I won’t be interested in them then.”

We walked back to her house holding hands and just chatting. I was amazed at how intimate just holding hands could be. I wasn’t sure, but I thought that that was an actual first for me, other than leading someone to the bedroom.

“If this was a proper date, then you should follow the lead of your hostess. She might offer you a drink or just ask you to sit down. If the latter, always take a two seater, as then she can decide if she wants to sit next to you or not. If she sits close, then that can be construed as permission to cuddle at least. Always be aware of her body language, that will give you clues to how far to proceed. As this is just a lesson, let’s just go straight to the bedroom.”

I was all for that. What followed was a masterclass in what I was doing wrong. I started to undress as soon as we were in the bedroom. “No, no. Give her a chance to undress you but first you should see what she does. If she undresses immediately, then it’s fine for you to follow suit. The odds are that she’ll want to start with kissing and build up to being undressed. Remember to spend time adoring her body as you reveal it. She will let you know just how quick she wants you to go.”

Laura then proceeded to demonstrate. It was soon apparent that she liked to go slow, really slow. A couple of times she had to remind me to ease back a bit. I’d always enjoyed playing with her woman’s tits, but only as a brief appetiser. I must have spent a good half hour kissing and sucking on Laura’s smallish breasts and I was actually starting to enjoy the slower pace. What came as a big surprise was when she pushed my head down towards her pussy. I was clearly expected to remove her remaining clothes from a kneeling position. Again my hands were slowed down as I did this. Once naked, Laura took a step backwards and allowed me to admire her naked body. It was well worth that admiration.