John Lennon was a lucky, lucky man.

The Beatles had made it big, and, God, were the boys reaping the rewards. A fresh tray of whatever drug concoction they want on hand at any second of the day, and a fresh faced girl in their beds every single night.

He could have any girl he wanted, but it was you that was in his bunk on the bus at the end of every show. It didn’t matter to him you were younger, and it didn’t matter that you weren’t a proper groupie. He needed you.

So when he came off stage after a show in England, covered in sweat and smelling distinctly of vodka, and saw you with some friends backstage,

God. God, he knew he needed you.

“There she is! There’s my gorgeous girl.. Come here!”

There’s sweaty arms around you and a sloppy kiss to your head as he slaps your ass a few times. Oh he was drunk drunk.