Come Into My World and Leave Your World Behind

I really never thought it would happen to me.  In 1969 I was a serious, shy 12 year old, nothing like those girls I’d seen on the Ed Sullivan show five years earlier, screaming, crying, clawing each other, making complete fools of themselves, all because of Paul McCartney’s admittedly adorable head shake on the “ooooo” as they sang “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” I could not see displaying my emotion so publicly…

And yet, I vividly remember the first time it did happen to me… I was a little lightheaded, my heart was racing, butterflies in the pit of my stomach, sweaty palms, sort of all over flushed –  a feeling somewhere between an orgasm and full on panic as I watched Bobby Sherman sing “Hey Little Woman” for first time on TV.

An involuntary scream escaped my lips, right there in the family living room, as I stood transfixed, watching the young man twice my age, gyrating in those leather pants with that fringed shirt swaying wildly.  A double dose of estrogen poured into my feverish blood as he pointed right through the TV glass, saying “c’mon girl” just to me.  When it was over, I ran, still shaking, to the phone, to call my best friend Tami. Turns out the same mysterious transformation had happened to her too!   We had to have more, but in those days, you were at the mercy of the local DJ to play your favorite song.  It took me three whole weeks to save up the 7 dollars needed to buy his debut album, the one that featured his face, literally bigger than life.  The  I album I still have, that to this day, is stained with Cherry Chapstick around his adorable mouth where it was kissed repeatedly, by me, Tami, and occasionally, if we permitted it, our younger sisters.

It was about that same time that Tami and I discovered Bobby had an alter ego, the even more adorable (if that was even possible) Jeremy Bolt on Here Come The Brides.  So then began our Wednesday night reign of terror where our unsuspecting families were either shushed into submission for an hour, or banished from the TV room, where Bobby/Jeremy put on a private performance for our budding womanly lust. Beginning with the first strains of the opening theme song, until the very last credit rolled at the end, we paid rapt attention, for fear of  missing one syllable from his luscious lips.  Similarly, if one of His songs were to play on the car radio, no matter who was driving, absolute silence was in order.  Heaven help the poor parent or older brother who tried to change the station while His voice was still audible!  Our obsession and the laws we established as they concerned our Bobby, were strict and solemn.  Robert Cabot Sherman ruled those few short years as he ruled our hearts.

Oh there were others after Bobby; Robert Redford, Humphrey Bogart, even Vivien Leigh, beautiful movie stars we could idolize and crush on, but he was our first and the most intense.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days when Charleton Heston was more hot-red-blood than cold-dead-hand; when Paul Newman was more Butch Cassidy than salad dressing; when William Shatner was anything but Priceline pitchman.  When glamour and glitz and a little bit of mystery surrounded the glittering guys and gals who lit up the big and small screens, when I would get that old butterflies-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach feeling.

Sometimes, if I pull out my old Cherry Chapstick stained album, and if I can find a turntable that works, I can still get that old feeling… all over flushed, racing heart, lightheaded, sweaty… or maybe that’s just a hot flash.

This post is part of the GenFab “My Celebrity Crush” Blog hop!

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