No, not me personally but I can only assume there are many women among us who can say this phrase with conviction of a by-gone time.
Some may call them ‘groupies’ but it was the time of the mania and electricity was in the air. Young English lads with long hair and dry wit captured the hearts of girls around the globe.
In the hurried pace of promotion, travel, performance, recording the musicians and their entourage had to be fed, clothed, moved, medicated and properly relaxed to keep up with the demands.
While the paparazzi photographed young attractive models associating them as ‘girlfriends’ this increase the frenzied demand to share in the mythical culture of fame. “Who is your favorite Beatle” lead to fans becoming hysterical and who could blame the news media from flaming the lust.
The poor lads had to practice, write, perform for 15 minutes to an hour without hearing their hard work, escape, and then do it all over again in another town for another screaming mass of teeny boppers. It must have been lonely being away from home and no time to get to know anyone long enough before leaving again.
Those who did get into the inner circle became part of the here today gone tomorrow hotel life. Whether treated like room service or having an intimate emotional connection these girls would become mothers and carrying on with life remembering a brief moment in time.
Sex and drugs and rock and roll became the mantra for a wandering lifestyle and consensual or not, boys and girls do what boys and girls do. Dreams were broken and expectations crushed in city after city but the memory will linger.
If not a Beatle, a Rolling Stone, or a Kink, or a Who, or a never ending parade of flash-in-the-pan one-hit wonders young girls offered themselves just to be in the company of an idol.
And the English Invasion didn’t start the trend. Musical stars from Frank Sinatra to Chuck Berry partook of the adulation given to them. Stars in any field (sports, politics, science, education, military, etc.) had their followers, fans and groupies.
Carried and displayed as a badge of courage or a rite of passage the phrase “I f**ked a Beatle” is worth a book or a column in the NYT or at least a 3-minute interview on the ‘Today’ show. No one will care if there was a love child or necessity to contact a medical clinic but want to know about the experience. “Was it orgasmic?” “Who was better Ringo or John?” “Who was better ‘a Beatle’ or ‘Jim Morrison’?”
I salute all your ladies out there who have a certain glint in your eye when “I Want To Hold Your Hand” comes on the radio and a certain smile your partner will never understand.