So Whitney Houston died and the news broke social media.
Facebook exploded, pieces fell off YouTube and Twitter practically melted as music fans around the world took to their keyboards to tell how much their hearts hurt and how all of this was that BASTARD Bobby Brown’s fault. Tsk. Not humping around. Indeed.
Any celebrity loosely qualified to deserve the title issued a solemn statement of sadness and love.
“Wow. RIP Whitney Houston. Grew up on her,” some actress I’ve never heard of tweeted, as if Whitney Houston were a nutritious breakfast cereal.
But while the world sobbed and wailed along to Whitney’s greatest hits, DID ANYONE, A SINGLE SOUL, STOP FOR A SINGLE SECOND TO CONSIDER HOW I MIGHT BE FEELING?
Hmmm? What’s that? What do I have to do with it? I only loved her more than it’s possible to love any living creature, that’s all.
At least I did when I was 13.
You see, Whitney Elizabeth Houston, born East Orange New Jersey, August 9, 1963 was responsible for the sexual awakening of one Gregory J. Barila, farm boy from the back blocks of country Victoria.
Just like we can never know exactly when and where we’re destined to shuffle off life’s mortal coil, the agents of our budding sexual awareness will always be as random and mysterious as life itself.
Mine would be Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard in the Deakin Cinema Complex in Mildura in 1993.
I didn’t plan on falling in lust that night, but then I hadn’t anticipated locking eyes with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Maybe even more beautiful than Sale of the Century’s Delvene Delaney, and she was a fox.
Sitting there in the darkened cinema with Whitney, not only did I know I loved her, I knew exactly why. That nose…. it was so… lovely.. and that skin, it was so smooth.
The impact on me was profound and lasting. I went into the cinema that night a boy and left…. a boy with funny feelings in the middle. I dreamed about that that nose and skin for months to come.
And all of it was a bit strange, because while she was undeniably beautiful I was more inclined to feel amorous towards not the woman who sang I Will Always Love You, but the woman who wrote it, Miss Double D Dolly Parton.
But, alas, the feeling passed.
Whitney went on to smaller and worse things, while I went on to have a string of big and small screen affairs with Sharon Stone, Demi Moore, and when she did her hair right, even Julia Roberts.
But that didn’t mean a little piece of me didn’t die when I heard the news.
After all, we had shared a special moment.
And that night in 1993, in Mildura’s premier entertainment complex (they’ve done a lovely job on the expansion) I found the greatest love of all.
Do you mind if I sing a little? “I believe the children are our future…..”
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