Why A Happily Married Woman Should Not Listen to Sticky Fingers

I'm guessing that any woman over the age of let's say 28 has received a mixed tape (CD for the young 'uns) at some point in their dating careers. I'm willing to bet that at least one of those gifts has contained a track from The Rolling Stones "Sticky Fingers". After all, what teenage boy can resist wooing his love with "Wild Horses"? And he shouldn't resist. It works. Well, it worked on me. Some of the time.

There are quite a few recordings that I find are dangerously soaked with the memories of other men. Even men I didn't particularly fancy, but as I grow older and slightly wider I now fancy the memory of being fancied. I have never said I wasn't vain.

The musicians in my danger zone such as Simon and Garfunkel, The Allman Brothers, Alice Cooper, The Cure, Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow" in particular, betray that I was clearly a midwestern gal escaping the sticky horrors of early 90's pop by tuning in to classic rock stations on my crappy car stereo. When your tape deck doesn't work the classic rock station can be your only friend, until you get that cigarette lighter adapter for your crappy CD player. The first time I heard Tom Waits' "Blue Valentines" I was in a car. Thank god I wasn't the one driving or I would have had a seriously embarrassing accident - "Wrong Side of the Road" is still the HOTTEST song ever recorded as far as my pants are concerned. I still don't listen to that in the car. The explanation for the resulting injuries would be too humiliating to endure.

I don't drive much anymore. Living in Brooklyn means that driving is not really necessary. However, I do crave the joys of late night drives to distant destinations with a lover drifting off to sleep in the passenger seat. Which brings me back to "Sticky Fingers". I cannot listen to "Moonlight Mile" without feeling the hum of the engine, the lazy warmth of a stray hand on my thigh and the taste and smell of a cigarette dangling from my mouth as the lines on the highway slide beneath the car in time with the swell of strings. There is always the possibility of paradise at the next off ramp. Road weary bliss chilling in an ice bucket at the Econo Lodge with the smell of chlorine, damp siding and him.

Do you see what I mean? A happily married woman should not listen to "Sticky Fingers".