“. . . Don't fall asleep, we're almost there,” he walks past me into the store. I turn to glare meaningfully at the carload of girls. Surprisingly, their motor starts up and they disappear into the night.. Jim comes out of the liquor store with his brown bag, apparently failing to notice his faithful fans have departed, and leans in at me, whispering, 'It'll only be a few minutes now.'

I'm not too sure I even want to do this anymore, but the voice inside me insists I must, or I'll be sorry someday. Soon I'm driving up a too steep entrance under a bright neon arrow announcing the Alta Cienega Motel in blue and red flashes. It's typically Californian, under the delusion it's Spanish, with whithering green vines climbing up and around rickety white lattices. Our footsteps echo over the concrete as we silently climb the stairs, and Jim opens the door.

Once inside, I retreat into awkward adolescence, standing mute and stupid as I stare at the bed. It's all the room is, practically. A Bed. I sit on the absolute edge, unable to remember my important reasons for being here, unable to find anything to say. I can't say I never do these things, he'll know how dumb I am right off. I can't say I'm not just another girl, I'm a future famous artist; he'll think I'm insane. My mind clamors on in noisy desperation until I realize he's the man, he should do something.

Jim is drinking beer and contemplating the dusty curtains as if nothing's happening. I feel as if I'm intruding or interrupting his thoughts. My presence in the room seems to slowly dawn on him, he finally puts his beer down, walks over to me, and places his hands lightly on my shoulders. Looking down into my face, his eyes invite me to stand up. His hands, moving down around my waist, command it. I stand up.

I wasn't exactly expecting a shot of beer in my mouth when Jim first kissed me. I almost choke, wonder if he wants it back, then manage to swallow without coming up for a loud gulp of air. Even finding this romantic, I decide he's real innovative, I'll just need a lot more beer to soothe my nerves. We regard each other steadily, and he smiles shyly. After I finish off his bottle, we start kissing again. Holding his arms tighter around me, Jim pulls me closer, lifting me up in a kind of unrushed passion. Getting more dramatic he bends me back in a near swoon, pulling on my hair.

It would have been okay if it was my own hair being pulled, but it's a 100-percent human hair fall. Now the blonde mass is hanging limply in his hand. I wait for him to start laughing or pointing, but he doesn't. He acts as if everyone has two layers of hair; either that, or he isn't interested in minor details, He just keeps going. Grateful and assured, I throw off my blouse in a gesture of bravery, then fall back on the bed and stare up at him.

Jim is on stage again, conscious of his every movement, doing a private show, luxuriously undressing himself, pausing every few seconds so I'll get the full effect. He's beautiful to watch.

Standing above me, his eyes holding mine intently, he slowly slides the infamous black leather pants down his smooth, pale skin. Totally aware of the impact, he moves softly down beside me.

I lay there mute and amazed. In a playful mood Jim indulges in a tug-of-war game with my clothes. Once I'm undressed, he rolls himself into a ball by my feet and begins examining my toes and ankles as if he's a five-year old discovering the delightful marvels of human anatomy. He does know the direct route up my legs, his mood changing fluidly from child to man until he's moving slowly inside me, a sensual scientist searching and finding all the right slants and curves. Maintaining the quality of unhurried passion, he's lovely, mastering each sensation, just as I've imagined.



(Excerpt from This Is The End...My Only Friend: Living And Dying With Jim Morrison by Judy Huddleston)




Copyright 2002 by Judy Huddleston/ Waiting-forthe-Sun.net