January 1978

Mick Jagger is a lucky, lucky man.

The Stones have made it big in America, and, god, are 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 wants, but it’s you that’s in his bunk on the bus at the end of every show.

So when he comes off stage after a night in Philadelphia, covered in sweat and glitter and smelling distinctly of vodka, and sees you waiting backstage….

God. God, he knows he needs you.

“There she is! There’s my gorgeous girl, get here!…”

There’s sweaty arms around you and a sloppy kiss to your head as he ruffles the floaty feathers of your sleeves. Oh he’s drunk drunk.