Hey Paul. Let's run off to a cottage in the Cotswalds. I make a mean pot of French press–I'll even bring a bag of artisan roasted beans from here in San Francisco if that floats your boat. You wear that sweater and I'll wear, well, not much at all. I'll just snuggle under those fluffy warm covers and we'll watch the clouds travel through the sky.
Bruce. You can be The Boss of me any time. Invite me up to your loft overlooking the Hudson river. I promise not to tidy any of your effortlessly disarranged badass memorabilia. I'll just let you call me insensitive names like 'Girl' and 'Chick'. Betcha you smell like bay rum and leather, huh? And if you don't, there's totally a $200/ounce cologne to fix that.
Oh Mick. Shag haircut, shag rug, it's all the same to me. And to you too, apparently. I'm not sure we can ever be lovers; is it possible to kiss a boy when all you can think about is how jealous you are of his slim legs, his full lips, and his fabulous style? So maybe we'll just hang out and trade secrets for getting the perfectly tailored fit on our trousers…
Bowie. I want to strip you of your makeup, your showmanship, your glamour, and put you back in this leather and shearling jacket. I'll plop you down on the couch, fix you some waffles, admire the line of your jaw as you lick the syrup from your fingers. Because correct me if I'm wrong, but beneath every rocker is a guy yearning for some TLC–and what girl doesn't love that?