Good Night, Sweet Prince
Darlings, if you thought my first rock star crush was Morrissey, you would be dead wrong. When I was in third grade I had a massive, all consuming crush on Prince. When not in my catholic school uniform, I insisted on being dressed in purple from head to toe. My grandmother also liked purple and believed in matching every single thing you wore with every other thing you wore so she had no problem supporting my new one color obsession. I even had purple galoshes. If I could have dyed my hair purple I would have. I bought purple mascara but wasn't allowed to wear it out in public. My underwear remained white cotton, but my soul was pure purple velvet.
I loved Prince's eyeliner, the long hair, the velvet, and the heels. I think his effeminate style is what spoke most to me, it was sexy, it was confusing. I wasn't sure if I wanted to marry Prince or just dress like him.
I begged to see Purple Rain, my mom said no way. I was crushed. How could she keep us apart? There wasn't much coverage of Prince in Tiger Beat (clearly my tastes were more exotic than the average third grader), so I bought my first Rolling Stone magazine and stared and stared at his face. Such was my fascination with the royal one that I would practice kissing on the back of my hand so that when I finally did meet Prince, I'd be ready. I'm probably still not entirely ready.
Thank you, Prince, for making me the kisser I am today.
My sister, however, preferred Michael Jackson and we would argue over who was cooler, who would win in a fist fight, who had better outfits. Prince had a motorcycle. Michael had a sparkly glove. It was a tie, but I knew who had more sex appeal. When Michael Jackson died I texted my sister, "Billie Jean was not his lover, you were."
I'm wearing a purple bra today so I can't help but think my boobs knew this was coming before I did. Sigh, all the doves are crying.
I haven't thought about Prince much in the last few years as tends to happen with old loves. We both moved on, Prince and I, but I still love a man in velvet and when I was recently in Minnesota I secretly hoped we'd bump into him on the street and he'd invite us over to his compound for some Turkish delight or whatever magical creatures like to eat. I also can't help but think all those goth boys in eyeliner I chased in high school are a tribute to the artist formerly known as...
RIP you sexy motherfucker.