Me, Alice: The Autobiography of Alice Cooper

I fell in love with a B-level groupie. I met her at a party and didn’t get around to genital insertion for two months, but I loved her with a passion that was only topped by my high school affair with Mimi Hicki. Her name was Marlene Mabel and she was a secretary at A&M records from El Monte who gave excellent head. What’s more, she never bothered me when I didn’t want to see her. I never had to fuck her or call her up. She just gave me blow jobs. She worked during the week and came by on weekends, swinging her long, tweezerlike legs out of a white convertible Comet, bringing along with her a can of tuna, five dollars in cash (because she loved me, too) and a bottle of gin.

We spent idyllic Saturday nights dangling our feet in the pool and talking about rock and roll trivia before we’d retire to my room for festivities. One night, as I watched Marlene’s white legs distort and curve as she dangled them under the blue water, I happened to mention that I could never get married, that it would interfere in my career. She got hysterical. She threw the bottle of gin in the pool and then jumped in after it. She stood there in the water, her mascara running down her cheeks, her mouth curved into a big lump, crying, “I spent two months of my life with you and I’ve been had! Had! What do you mean, “You’re not getting married’?”

She went on like that for an hour. Here I had violated her head any number of times, and I had no intention of making her a legal woman. Not even to go all the way with her! She walked out on me and I never saw her again.

Not long after I met Susan Cochran. They called her Susan Starfucker, and she had attained this fame as far north as San Francisco, where she gave birth to the child of a famous bass player when she was fourteen and as far south as Puerto Vallarta, where she ran off with the lead singer of an English rock group who was hooked on morphine and had to kick. Her baby was four years old, and Susan still looked only fourteen herself. I had never seen a girl as beautiful or sexy before in my life, so elegant and confident. I found it unbelievable that she was going out with me. I was no star, and everybody knew Susan only fucked stars.

With a groupie like Susan there was no fooling around with fellatio. While a leggy little secretary from the valley might have put up with some pop star’s idiosyncrasies, Susan’s whole mission was sex. I either took the big plunge or none at all. I made an agreement with Susan. I made her promise, on her word of honor, that she would give up fucking other rock stars while she was with me. In return, I’d try to cut down on my drinking, for Susan had become a crusader for healthy living since her stay in Puerto Vallarta while her rock star kicked morphine.

Glen had also fallen in love. Her name was Ginny, and she was a tall, auburn-haired girl who worshiped Glen. She talked constantly, a great deal about rock and roll, and when she wasn’t theorizing about the Rolling Stones she was very giggly, walking around the house like she was stoned, dropping off globs of giggles and laughter here and there.

Ginny and Glen shared a glass-enclosed porch on one side of the house that Glen had quickly boarded up so that he could live in perpetual darkness and sleep when he wanted. The glass and tile ceiling made the porch a giant echo chamber, and as soon as Ginny and Glen started fucking, everybody in the house knew it. A ghostlike chant echoed from the porch as Ginny built to an orgasm. She always chanted one word, a word she seemed to get stuck on like a phonograph needle skipping. Usually it was “shooting,” which she must found erotic or descriptive. I’d be alseep in my dungeon (I was attracted to dark, damp places) when suddenly a deep groaning would come up over the house and soon we were all chanting in unison with her, waiting for release, “Shootin”, shootin’, shootin’.”

Living with a rock band you get used to not having any privacy. Privacy is something you don’t even think about in a rock band. It’s not even part of your dreams you stock away for when you become famous. You dream of mansions and boats and houses but never of privacy. My most personal moments were often reduced to public spectacles and it didn’t even occur to me that it was a bizarre way to live. Eventually it became quite common to see people fucking and masturbating or going to the toilet.

Dennis had his own bedroom for the first time since we had moved out of Phoenix, but he never told any of the girls about it. He had filled a walk-in closet in the hallway with mattresses, and when he invited visiting groupies to his room he took them into the closet. His strategy was that if he took a girl in there she’d have to be in bed. There was nowhere else.