But I'd Totally Blow Johnny Marr

Apolla sent me this post she wrote about the double-standards of being a female rock fan—no less a female rock fan who happens to have a particular ardor for a male artist.

It's a great post, and it really speaks to me, being as I am a woman who loves music and knows a shitload about music, whose formative years and important relationships were defined by a love of music, who counts among her friends many musicians and similarly passionate music-lovers for whom music is closer to a habit than a hobby.

My unrivaled revere for Mozza is legendary around these parts (and beyond)—and for 20 years now, people have been asking me if I fancy him, or assuming I do.

The first time someone accused me of wanting to fuck Moz, we were sitting in my bedroom, bedecked floor to ceiling (and on the ceiling) with Smiths and Morrissey posters, album covers, postcards, magazine covers…and still I was shocked. Fucking Moz had never occurred to me (and not just because he was famous, and gay). My adoration emanated from my intellect and whatever the thing is that some people call a heart or a soul—but decidedly not from my loins.

It's not that I hadn't noticed he's attractive; it's just that his attractiveness was wholly beside the point. Reducing my love and respect for him to something as gauche as a crush—the nerve!

Last year, or the year before, I had a dream in which I made out with Mozza, and it was so shocking that I had to tell Iain about it immediately. He seemed more surprised I'd never had a dream of that persuasion before.

"Do you ever have make-out dreams about John Lennon?" I asked.

"Touché," he replied.

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