You saw him for the first time in 1988. You were six-years-old. You've followed him over the years and what was interest grew to obsession, especially on the sexual front. By 1998, when you were sixteen, you'd have jumped his bone in the middle of church on a Sunday, with the entire congregation, including your parents, looking on. That's how much you wanted him.
And that's how you ended up in Sweden, on the front row, screaming his name as the band played on and on. You hoped you were his type: blonde and busty. But, looking around at the crowd, you realized everyone in Sweden was blonde and busty. Even the males.
You were still smiling but plagued with doubt when they launched into "Wild Honey" and, maybe you were imaging it, but it seemed like he was staring right at you throughout the song. Wild honey? You'd show him some wild honey.
You were never popular in school, hell you weren't even busty back then. A senior year trip to Mardi Gras hadn't resulted in any beads for you, even though you'd pretty much walked up and down Bourbon Street topless. But the implants had given you a new lease on life.
Sometimes you hated yourself for them and longed for the words of your mother to be true, that you were beautiful on the inside. But all you had to do was put on a tight t-shirt without a bra and suddenly you were the most popular in the room.
You were braless now and, with Bono possibly watching, you decided to jump up and down, get them bouncing and really give him a show.
You felt like you were betraying all he stood for but you'd use any weapon at your disposal.
Mid-way through the concert, you're touched on the shoulder and led backstage.
The holiest of holy words have been spoken: Bono wants to meet you.
You look over your shoulder at the other saps, left behind.
Waiting backstage on a couch, you check your make up and check your head for topics to discuss. There's Africa, of course. Bono's really big on that. And there's all the unrest in the world. Your mind's reproducing a world map and you're going region to region and also attempting to remember the correct pronunciations for various Latin America countries. You want to come off worldly. Breasty got you in the door, but brainy's what will really interest Bono.
Bono.
He's staggering through the door now. He's wearing the black, leather vest, the one from The Joshua Tree years. The one from the cover of Time you swiped from your school library six years after the fact in middle school. You love that vest!
He takes it off and it falls on the couch besides you. Twenty years of wear greets your nose and you wonder exactly how difficult it is to clean leather?
But not for long, he's wearing a corset, a device to hold his gut in. Sure, he'd put on a few pounds over the years, that was just part of aging. But you had no idea it was that much. You examine his bloated face a little more carefully now.
Easy to do since it's pressed in your own face now that he's on top of you.
"I want to end world hunger," he declares as his hands head inside your panties.
It's hours later and you're winded. Your body feels wiped out.
Not from Bono's perfunctory, rudimentary love making skills but from his girth having been on top of you.
Now you're thinking you're glad he's married to Ali and hoping that, given a few months time, you'll be able to rewrite this entire tawdry incident into a glorious event to share with friends.
But he's there, dressed, the belly hidden, and pressing you to finish out the leg of this tour.
He's whispering in your ear that you are his muse, that he could write another "All I Want Is You" if you'd just stay another week -- well, who are you to deny the world that? He's still talking, you'll realize what a problem that is later on. You'll grasp that even after the sell is made, Bono continues pitching. You'll realize he says the same thing over and over and question his mental capacities. But right now, you're just focused on the last great song U2 did, "All I Want Is You," and imaging how great it will be to have another just like that. He's telling you that you are the eternal feminine and you start to worry he's a Nietzsche freak when you grasp that he's quoting "Mysterious Ways" to you. Weeks later, you'll wonder about the vanity involved in quoting one's self.
You're on the Lear now and he's wearing cologne which helps reduce the odor. He's also semi-sober and, for a change, not hiding behind those ridiculous orange sun glasses. With all that and the fact that his body's not smothering the oxygen out of your lungs, you're feeling more upbeat.
But not for long.
He's talking with you about debt relief. Well, not with you and not really at you. It's really not talking, it's more of a long winded lecture that only requires you nod every few seconds. Anything more and Bono tends to look vexed. When he wrinkles that brow, all the lines from years of hard living emerge on his face. It's like seeing a mirror with a million cracks.
So you learn to keep silent and wait for him to come up for air but, as his hog hollering onstage demonstrates, he has extraordinary breath control.
He's just launched into the fifteenth sub-set of his main point and is returning to his constant theme that "We are our brother's keepers" when someone walks back.
"Hey, you, dumb f*ck. Where's my cheese burger and beer!"
The flunky turns around red faced and Bono snaps his fingers and huffs "Now!" before returning to his theme of "We are our brother's keeper."
He picks right up where he left off. You marvel over that and wonder if he comes scripted? You know, from last night, he cums scripted. And you know what a let down that was.
The cheese burger and beer are placed before him on a tray and he tears into it with gusto while continuing the lecture.
You aren't sure whether to focus on the wads of food sloshing around his open mouth or the bit of beef stuck between his front teeth? You know not to focus on his words because to do so would result in wondering if he ever shuts up?
You're trying really hard, having agreed to travel with him, to see the positive as much as possible.
You try ignoring the actual words and finding the cadence, hoping that can inspire you but you quickly grasp that the lyricist lacks any lyrical abilities. It's all non-stop patter, delivered at the same rate and moving far too quickly for you to count syllables. So you find yourself having to actually listen as he drones on:
Through media, we have some strange faces in our backyard whom we weren't calling family until very recently, and we still don't really want to. But if you're going to enjoy having your sneakers and your jeans made by developing communities, you are already involved with those people. You cannot therefore just ignore some of the problems they're negotiating. They're living on your street. There was this old definition of generosity, which is at the very least the rich man looks after the poor man on his street. Guess what? Now, that street goes around the globe.
You've already wondered why, when insisting on his own meal, he hadn't thought to even ask if you were hungry. Now you're focusing on those words and wondering what exactly he means by "strange faces"? People of color? There is a strong thread of White Man's Burden running through his remarks, you quickly realize.
You're remembering when the corset came loose and the belly actually flapped. You're seeing him fat and getting fatter as he is waited on and catered to. You're realizing that the squat, short, stout man tossing around racist, neo-liberalism talking points isn't the compassionate man you'd pictured. The one you dreamed of saving and healing the world with, side-by-side.
He's taking a phone call now, still talking, but at least you don't have to pretend to be interested. He's shouting about his investments and something about Billy Squier's chimney. You don't know and you don't care. As he asks of his stock portfolio, his hand snakes over to your knee. Looking over, you see him grinning at you, appraising you as though you are just another one of his possessions.
Overweight and long winded, you tell yourself, why couldn't you have been attracted to Kevin James? You wouldn't have had to leave the US and he might have at least made you laugh.
Bono's grabbed your hand and is holding on top of his crotch. You feel some life in the stubby, little thing as he talks about seizing the publishing of a faded rock star and how he can then "maximize" potential by leasing the songs to advertising.
You break away, mouthing an excuse me, while he continues talking on the phone. You're mainly trying to get away long enough to breathe. You head toward the back of the plane where you encounter Adam smoking a spiff.
He immediately looks alarmed and you swear you won't say a word as you take it from him. He's talking about concerts and you're sharing the joint. It's closer to a rock and roll fantasy than anything you've gone through thus far. In fact, you realize, Bono is a lot like Donald Trump with less charisma.
Adam's laughing and you realize you said that out loud.
You quickly swear you love Bono's gifts and mention that he's working on a new song, something like "All I Need Is You."
Adam's laughing his ass off and you're about to take offense when he explains that Bono wrote that because of the Beatles "All You Need Is Love." Whether it's true or just a bandmate getting a jab in at another, you grasp it plays true. While Lennon would look to the world, Bono's obviously self-obsessed.
Adam explains that there will be no new song, no new songs at all, that Bono can't write anymore. That they've basically been on the oldies circuit for the entire century and praying that no one would catch on.
"The band's running on fumes," he explains.
Maybe it's the pot, maybe it's all the information, maybe it's the altitude, but you find yourself unable to compose a response so you just nod and head back to the front of the plane where you find Bono's continuing his lecture but this time to three conservative suited accountants.
You're studying him more than listening and wondering if he grasps that, finally having done away with his pageboy hairstyle, he now looks a lot like Phil Collins?
He's screaming something about wanting more (Product) Red in the Gap and cursing out the accountants who all cower to no use.
When the plane lands, you're telling yourself, you're out of here. You curse yourself for ever having sought him out and you mourn the passage of The Days of Pamela Des Barres, when rock gods walked the land.
