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Others were distributing sandwiches and fruit, and when I picked a banana from the proffered basket, was it just my imagination? Or did the girl who offered me it turn and glance to another woman, seated on the hood of a slick black limousine?

I don't know, but sometime around the three AM mark, a different woman came over and asked if I'd follow her... "it's okay, you'll be inside the venue. No need to line up, and you might even catch some rest before the show."

I shrugged. Anything was better than another seven hours freezing here. "Yeah. Great. Thanks."

And that is how I came to be working for Rick Ramrod. But not for his Electric Hard-ons, because the first thing I discovered was that they didn't actually exist. Instead, every new town Rick was playing in, his people would pick up some keen local band, gag them with a cloak of contractual secrecy, and send them out to accompany his show.

Which was easy enough because half of his repertoire was old rock'n'roll songs, the kind that every kid learns when he first starts to play, and the rest was Ramrod originals, which really didn't sound that much different. "We're gonna fuck around the clock tonight..." God, I still love that one, even after all this time.

So, the only musician on the payroll was Rick Ramrod, and the only musician in the publicity shots, the videos, and even the dressing room was Rick Ramrod. One star in the band was enough, he said, and he was right. Or at least, he was paying the bills, so that made him right. Which is also why his back-up musicians wore those ridiculous hoods. The ones that made them look like dicks. Literally and figuratively.

I said I worked for Rick, although technically, I worked for his wife - the woman I'd seen sitting in the limo, and the one who interviewed me once I was inside. Officially, my title was personal assistant... PA... although I knew from my own reading and peeking that he already had several of those, to see to the star's every need. Every need except one.

Rick Ramrod was a sex symbol. And no, I'm not talking "poster on the wall, oh my he's so dreamy." I'm talking serious "let's get nasty, any hole you like." Yeah, just like the song. "I'll come in there, I don't care, you'll drink my cock juice anywhere." (Hush, nobody ever said he was a poet.) Which you probably don't remember, but it knocked Ed Sheehan off the top of the Billboard Top 40, and even Megan Thee Stallion was shocked by it. Called him "a sinkhole of monstrous depravity, polluting teenaged innocence with the words and deeds of a ten cent hooker." Wow. Guess she didn't like him.

But, unbeknownst to anyone, including many of his friends, and most of his employees too, Rick was also married. And Joanie was not the kind of woman who liked to share. Well, not unless she was also participating.

Groupies were forbidden. Verboten. Prohibited. And my job was to make sure they didn't get through. Using any means I felt appropriate.

"Any?"

"Any. All that matters is, nobody gets within ... let's saying touching distance. Let's definitely saying groping distance. And definitely not fucking distance."

Which I initially took to mean, I was meant to fight them off, tooth and claw. But I quickly came to realize that he had bodyguards for that. My job was to prevent him from going in search of them in the first place. Or even wanting to.

My initial interview should have spelled it out for me, but to be honest I was so excited at the prospect not only of spending time with my idol, but being paid to do so as well, that I just didn't pick up on the hints. All Joanie's arch comments about "sucking it up," and "it can be hard to swallow sometimes"... I thought she was referring to the lengths that girls would go to get into Rick's pants. "I wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit," she said, "and you'll have plenty of practice at that as well." And I just thought, okay, I'll have plenty of practice not trusting him. Not, I'll have plenty of practice spitting.

My innocence was shattered the following evening, immediately after the video shoot. The standard routine was, the moment he came off stage, I was to hotfoot it to the limo. His flunkies would bustle him through the backstage, making sure no-one got more than a glimpse of the idol, and then bundle him into the car alongside me.

He'd change out of his stage clothes, have a drink or several, and then back to the hotel where three entire floors had been emptied of guests and reserved in his name. The fans couldn't even call up and ask for his room, because every one of them was booked for Mr Rick Ramrod, and if they got lucky and guessed the room number, well that wouldn't work either, because he was usually in someone else's. That was the great thing about being Rick Ramrod. Even if there wasn't a party for a thousand miles, he could start one wherever he liked.

None of that was my concern, though. Back at the hotel, Joanie would take over. My responsibilities began and ended in the limo, because that was where the fans were most dangerous. And Rick was at his most vulnerable.

"Go!" Lisa, another of Rick's backroom staff, shoved me in the back. I'd been so bound up in the intricacies of the video shoot that I didn't even realize the director had wrapped. I pelted down the corridors, with a helping shove in the back every few yards from the rest of the staff as they were stationed along the way, and a final flunky opened, and then slammed the door behind me. Two minutes later, Rick flew in just as precipitously, and the limo was already on the move before he realized he wasn't alone.

I tried to introduce myself; he shrugged and told me he didn't do names. Then he peeled off his layers of spandex and gave his dick a couple of shakes, before throwing himself back on the plush leather seat. "Go on, then."

I looked at him, blankly.

"Suck it, you daft cow." He had the world's worst English accent, but someone had told him it won the ladies over, so ... well, this was him winning me over. Or so I learned later. After I'd looked around, more panicked than I had ever felt, and caught the limo driver's eye. "What do I do?" I mouthed and he smiled. "Suck it," he mouthed back. So I did.

And that was my job. He'd come off stage, hot, sweaty and ready not only to fuck his brains out, he'd fuck the fuckers back in again, too. And I'd be there to calm him down, to suck him and blow him and everything else him, so he'd get back to the hotel so radiantly bathed in post-orgasmic bliss that there wasn't a single groupie in the world who could nudge him out of that state for at least a few minutes. Till he was safely in the elevator on the way up to his wife, and she, I assumed, took over from me.

All of which... come on, you're fascinated, aren't you? It's the way of the world. We all do it, and some of us do it better than others. But somehow, we've convinced ourselves that the rich and famous do it better than everyone. That wealth and fame somehow confer an extra dimension of sexual knowing upon all whom Dame Fortune chooses to fluff, and the rest of us can only dream of what that dimension might be.

So, Rick Ramrod. Was he, as the Enquirer insisted, so hot that he literally burned a hotel to the ground?

Could he, as the English Mail once announced, fill a bath with one orgasm, and then, while he watched, summon seven nubile maidens to lick the tub clean again?

Did he, as a certain French scandal sheet once whispered, send a woman to the emergency room with the force of his cum? And I don't mean send her there in an ambulance. He literally blew her out of the bedroom window, and through the doors of the neighboring hospital.

Was he, as the Puff-n-stuff Post giggled once, so richly endowed that if he ever had one leg amputated, he could just wear a boot on the end of his dick?

And was he, as a German expose exposed, so fond of having sex in moving elevators that one leading Berlin hotel had posted "out of order" signs on all the doors, to ensure he was never disturbed?

Well, you're asking the right girl. Who do you think planted those stories in the press in the first place? A sex symbol needs to keep feeding the flames. Needs to keep the pussy fires burning. Needs to fill every woman in the world not with the dream that she might one day tame him. But with the far more exciting reality that he might one day tame her. Every woman has a wild beast inside, and Rick Ramrod held her leash. So that was the other part of my job, and that involved inventing stories, I quickly learned, that were also, often, almost too much to swallow.

What, then, was the reality, you ask? What was it really like to be the girl who licked Rick's ramrod? How did it feel, when I listened to his lyrics, to know that I had (or soon would) already experienced every thrill that he rhapsodized so magnificently?

It was amazing! Do you remember... no, you don't. We've already been there. But his third number one. The one that Bob Dylan, possibly sarcastically, but more likely resignedly, suggested made him want to give up writing.

"You Lick My Stiff Dick Like The Saints Just Licked The Colts" was written during Superbowl 44, after the Who had played their own set and left Rick raging and cold. If the greatest rock'n'roll band in the world could not come up with a song to catch the magic of the Superbowl, then the greatest singer on the planet would have to. But it was also written about me, because we were in the limo on our way to Milwaukee, watching the game on the in-car TV, and I was... well yeah, I was.

You don't believe me? Ask the Grammys. "Best Muse in American Lyricism, 2010" - that's me. Okay, so it's just the regular songwriting award that Rick himself received, with its original inscription crossed out in crayon, and a new one stuck on with a PostIt. But it's the thought that counts.

I have an Oscar, too. The moment Disney picked up "Whore's Lipstick," and Rick was in the running for "Best Original Song in Animated Feature," he was telling folk he'd never have written it without me. Or at least without what he used to call my "unique conception of organic cosmetics." Whore's lipstick, whore's eyeshadow... whore's shampoo, not so much. Too viscous. But whore's cold cream? That stuff's like a miracle cure.

Grammys, Oscars, BRIT Awards, a movie deal. A book deal that made him a paper billionaire before he'd even switched on his laptop. There were even Rick Ramrod action figures, and I probably don't need to tell you what kind of action figured in that.

He had everything. And then?

What happened? How did Rick Ramrod plunge from hero to zero in less time than it's taken you to read this story? Well, you know how they say a picture's worth a thousand words? Here's what happened in considerably less.

"I Love It When You Gargle Cum" had just missed out on the number one spot, and Rick was in despair. Forget the fact it still outsold almost every other record of the year, barring a few of his own releases, and the only reason it did stay stuck at number two was because another of his records was number one. He saw it as an unmistakable sign that his fame was faltering, his appeal was ebbing. There was just one thing he could do.

On the Wednesday, I was relieved of my duties - by Rick, not by Joanie. On the Thursday, I was introduced to my replacement, a handsome young Australian boy known as Bondi; and, that afternoon, Rick came out on the Oprah Winfrey show. He was gay, he had always been gay, girls were just a publicity stunt dreamed up by his manager. And, to prove he was secure in his new lifestyle, he was having the tinted windows replaced on all of his cars. From now on, the world could watch whatever he was doing. And if we thought he was a stud when he was straight, you couldn't even imagine how virile he'd become now he was gay.

Joanie begged him to reconsider. But not because of the gay thing.

His manager begged him to reconsider. But not because of the gay thing.

Even his driver begged him to reconsider. But not because of the gay thing.

I kept my counsel, but I thought he was crazy. And not because of the gay thing.

You see, it wasn't only the groupies who mobbed that limousine whenever Rick was inside. It was the photographers, too, the wild paparazzi, and all of them angling for that one exclusive photo of Rick with his ramrod straight up and streaming.

And now they got it. Boy, did they get it. Photo after photo after photo, splattered across the front page of every newspaper on Earth. And all of them focusing on just one thing. The one thing that nobody had ever wanted to get out. The reason why groupies were banned from his presence, the reason why cameras were banned from backstage. The reason why I'd blown him daily for the best part of almost-three years, and I still suffered from intermittent TMJ.

Rick Ramrod had the tiniest penis in the world. Tiny, titchy, mini, midget. You know those candy bars that the wrapping insists are fun-sized, but they're actually so small they're gone in one bite? Rick's dick made them look like the biggest bag of laughs in the world. Or, as one of the British scandal mags put it, "Rick Ramrod? More like Michael Matchstick." Another rag came up with Bonsai Bob.

And that's what everyone started calling him. Everyone, that is, who still remembered him... which, by the Saturday afternoon, seemed to be not so many. And by the Monday after that, even fewer. The rocker who rode into the year on a cultural erection the size of Goliath's, leaked out of it like the last drops of cum from a brutally over—fucked ball bag.

Until today... "Rick Ramrod? Never heard of him. Are you sure you didn't just dream this all up?"

I'm sure. But if I had... what a crazy, amazing, dream it was.

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