Okay, here it is by popular demand:

When I was around nineteen, that would have been 1968 or ’69,  I had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time and met a few celebrities. I smoked hash with the Grateful Dead in their equipment truck, had Owsly himself press a tab of Orange Sunshine into the palm of my hand, and Janice Joplin took one look at me and exclaimed, “Get that bitch away from me — she’s too good-looking.” But none of those experiences can compare to meeting Jim Morrison.

It happened this way:

I was working my way through college by modeling. I got some good jobs, but mostly I accepted whatever bookings my agent could get for me in a backwater town like Atlanta was in those days. Atlanta was having it’s first “Film Festival” and I was booked to be one of the award bimbos. You know what I mean, something pretty in the background that steps forward at the appropriate moment to hand the honoree their plaque and then gently leads them off the stage when their acceptance speech goes on for too long. The event took place at the Regency Hyatt ballroom.

I packed my bag the night before and came straight from classes to arrive on time, changing into something slinky and applying my stage make-up in the ladies’ room across the atrium from the ballroom entrance.

I figured the evening was going to be exceptionally boring and since it didn’t take any brains to be a bimbo I thought I’d make the evening more interesting by dropping a small hit of acid. I lounged around the ladies’ room until I started to get off and it was time to report in. At the same time I entered the atrium and started to walk toward the ballroom, a man came out of the ballroom and started walking toward the men’s room behind me.

Under the influence, the atrium was distorted and seemed immense. I started to feel like I’d been walking across that terracotta tiled floor my entire life. And the one focal point of that endless progress was the man coming toward me. He swaggered — languidly. His arms and legs moved with a loose grace. His hair was dark, hanging to his shoulders and then flipping up and out. He had a full, thick beard as dark as his hair. He was wearing black cowboy boots, black leather pants, a denium shirt open to the navel and a brown suede jacket. I thought he was definitely a studly dude but a bit too overt to be my type.

As we walked closer I noted the sensual pout of his lips, the delicacy of his cheek bones and depth of his eyes. There was a medieval quality to him, a resemblance to Michelangelo’s David.

As the distance between us closed, we locked eyes, literally. I looked into his eyes and could not glance away. Thin blue rims accented dilated black holes that threatened  to pull me down, down, and away. I knew, recognized instinctively, that the guy was as high as I was.

We came less than three feet apart and he broke the spell he held me in by speaking. “You my kind,” was all he said.

My knees buckled under the full force of his sexual magnetism but I kept walking and like ships in the night we passed each other, gliding to our respective destinations. By the time I entered the ballroom, it hit me: That was Jim Morrison! Ye Gods!

This was confirmed immediately by the other bimbos gathered behind the stage. Giggling like school girls, they chirped, “Isn’t he gorgeous?” and “I wouldn’t mind being taken advantage of by him?” Etc. He was there because his film, “A Feast of Friends,” had been nominated for an award.

There were five of us and we lined up at the foot of the steps to the stage. Like some kind of relay race, we were each, in turn, handed a plaque and climbed the steps to the stage, crossed to its center, handed the winner their award and led them off the other side of the stage. On that side, we stood for a moment to have a photo taken with the winner then walked around behind the stage and took our place at the end of the line, moving forward til our next circuit up, over, down, camera-flash, and back around. I had been right about the boredom factor. But I was in a lovely trance watching multi-colored fireflies buzzing in the darkness off-stage and when I had my moments on center stage I had a good vantage point in which to view Morrison’s increasingly out-of-control behavior.

It appeared that he and his entourage had been given a central table in the banquet style proceedings. Even if they had not been the center of attention, Morrison would have commanded it by repeatedly bursting forth with obscenities and drunken belches. At one point, while I waited patiently for the award winner in the Best Film Editing category to finish thanking all of his relatives and friends, Morrison was shaking up champagne bottles and spraying their contents on those unfortunate enough to have been granted a table near his. I thought, what an asshole.

And so I glided through repeated circuits, up, over, and down, flash and around until the next category was Short Documentary and the plaque put in my hands read, “Jim Morrison. Feast of Friends.”

I took my position center-stage as the MC announced the winner. What happened next has been chronicled by at least one of Morrison’s biographers who described me as “devastatingly cute.” Morrison climbed onto his banquet table, jumped over to the table in front of his, and then leaped onto the stage like a tripped-out Errol Flynn in a pirate movie.

Paying no heed to the plaque in my hands, he grabbed me under one arm and proceeded to thank the festival for giving him such a great award. Slurring words and barely coherent, he still made it clear that I was his award!

I can’t remember his actual words; I was in a state bordering shock. He French-kissed me wantonly and tongued my face like a Saint Bernard reviving a ski accident victim. He dropped his room key between my breasts  and said, “See ya’ later upstairs.”

The MC and at least two other men from the wings assisted Morrison in leaving the stage with me still in his clutches. Later I got a copy of the photo that was taken and it was a close contest between which of us had the most dilated pupils, Morrison’s or mine.

He was somehow detached from me and made surly by the separation. Before the final awards were handed out, he, and his party, were forcibly removed from the banquet hall. But I didn’t get to witness his final acts. After my rough treatment, I was not required to make another circuit and sat dazed until the proceedings broke up.

Released from their duties the other bimbos rushed to my side, gushing about my good fortune. It was unanimously decided that I should, without any reservation, use the room key for it’s intended purpose.

I wasn’t a virgin then but I wasn’t a whore. Back in the ladies’ room, I changed into my street clothes, removed my stage make-up and thought about it long and hard. Hell, I wasn’t even a Doors’ fan. There was no denying the man’s sex appeal but he was an ill-mannered, uncouth jerk. I looked at the room key and thought I ought to return it to him and see what happened. Privately, he might be a reasonable, likable guy.

I knocked on his door and he called out from inside, “Use the key. What took you so long?”

It was a regular size hotel room, not a suite. Inside there was a closet on the left and a bathroom on the right so I had to step inside the room a few paces to see him sprawled, naked, across the bed. The door swung shut behind me.

“Hey, baby, come ‘ere,” his head rolled back so he looked up at me upside down and he raised a limp arm in a come-hither gesture. I stepped around the edges of the bed, keeping my distance and lamely said, “I thought I’d return your key.”

“Well, sure,” he tried to raise himself up on one elbow and failed, “I been waitin’ for you. Come here.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” I replied a little primly as I sat down on the chair by the window. My body suddenly decided I was in no hurry to go; I felt light-headed and dizzy. He had a great body, let no one tell you otherwise. And a sizable member. He was stroking himself without noticeable effect.

“Come here and help me with this,” he said with a catch in his voice that seemed at once petulant and pitiful. I was not experienced enough to recognize that he was too drunk and drugged to perform. At my age I’d never met a limp dick and had no idea what was supposed to be done about it.

As if reading my mind, he instructed, “Come here and suck it, baby, please, ple-e-e-ze, o please baby, come and suck my cock.” He was turning his words into a song he’d never be able to play on radio. “All I need is a little help and I’ll pay you back.”

I slid from the chair to the side of the bed and put my hand around his cock, replicating his motions. He seemed harmless enough and genuinely pathetic. I wanted to help him and thought it might be good, being fucked by him.

“Help me, baby, put your mouth around me,” he pleaded, that distressed catch in his voice again. And I went down on him.

For the next two hours I followed his instructions, making smacking and slurping noises, going fast then slow, deep down and then flicking my tongue on his tip, down the side, lapping up the length of him like a big lollipop, like an ice cream cone. But he never got one wit harder than when I’d started.

At first his words had been gentle, instructing, guiding, but they became insistent and domineering as though I could give him the starch he needed if I wanted to but was holding back. The plaintive crooning turned to frustrated irritation and finally I sat up straight and spat, “Hey man, I’m not some fag hag. What’s wrong with you?”

He was too weak to even be angry. “Go on then, go on. Send in the next one.”

I said, “Huh?”

“Open the door, you’ll see, send in the next one and be on your way. It’s been grand, good-bye, good-bye.”

Sure enough, there was an actual line of girls in the hall and as I went out the next one went in. There was also a short man who anxiously wrung his hands and walked beside me to the elevator.

“How’d he do? Did you get a rise or what?”

“I beg your pardon,” I was pretty frustrated and more than a little irritated, “Who are you?”

He said something about being a personal friend and manager and how he was “concerned about Jim” and went on in a tumble of words about it not being my fault, that “Jim’s on medication and he’s been having difficulties.”

“O wow,” I said as I got on the elevator, “I feel sorry for him. What a bummer, being a famous sex symbol and not getting off, how ironic. It’s like finding out Marilyn Monroe was frigid.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” The little man held the elevator doors open, giving me a pleading expression.

“Are you kidding?” I laughed, “I live at home and my parents still think I’m a virgin. Jim’s secret is safe with me.”

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