I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO DAVID BOWIE

By LORI MATTIX   AS TOLD TO MICHAEL KAPLAN  11/03/2015

 

IN THE EARLY 1970S, the Sunset Strip was a magnet for rock stars: Bowie, Zeppelin, Iggy Pop, Mott the Hoople, The Who. They all hung out in the VIP rooms of louche LA nightclubs like E Club, the Rainbow, and Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco. And with them, of course, came groupies. Scantily clad 14- and 15-year-olds like Sable Starr and Lynn “Queenie” Koenigsaecker sipped cherry cola, dropped pills, and evolved into pubescent dream girls for the platform-shoed rockers who could get anything and anyone they desired. 

 

Decades before Drake dissed Tyga for dating 17-year-old Kylie Jenner, and R. Kelly faced multiple allegations of having sex with minors, the most visible rock stars in the world blithely made it with girls who were barely out of junior high school. It was all glorified in the pages of a glossy magazine called Star, which reveled in the underage groupie scene for five issues. Other publications, such as the rock ‘n’ roll bible Creem, flicked at the Sunset Strip doings without so much as a wagged finger. Hell, in 1973, a leisure-suited Tom Snyder devoted an entire show to interviews with some of LA’s highly desired teenage groupies.

Starting from the age of 15, Lori Mattix ranked among the most desired of these so-called baby groupies who were helping to satisfy the sexual appetites of Jimmy Page, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and others. She hung out at the Playboy Mansion and modeled in the pages of Star. In time, she and Sable Starr helped inspire Kate Hudson’s character in the film Almost Famous.

These days, she has found success as a partner and buyer for the Glam Boutique on Melrose Ave in West Hollywood. But the past is never too far behind. Over cheeseburgers at Father’s Office in LA, she told me that when the 71-year-old Jimmy Page, now dating a 25-year-old, recently came to town, they met up. As Mattix remembers it, “He said to me, ‘Lori, we were both children back then.’ I felt like telling him, ‘At least one of us was.’” 

Here she is, in her own words, with the occasional interjection:
 

Sable Starr lived to fuck rock stars. She was so glamorous, totally one-of-a-kind, wearing scarves for shirts and going topless without hesitation. My junior high school friend Queenie became friends with Sable and introduced me. I was 14. Sable was the same age. I felt completely in awe of her. My mother owned a concession at the movie star restaurant Chasen’s. On weekend nights, while she worked, I snuck out of the house to hang with Queenie and Sable at the clubs on Sunset Strip. 

What I remember most about the E Club was Bowie. I met him when he was doing the Spiders from Mars tour. I had not yet turned 15 and he wanted to take me to his hotel room. I was still a virgin and terrified. He had hair the color of carrots, no eyebrows, and the whitest skin imaginable. I grabbed on to [DJ and club co-owner] Rodney Bingenheimer and said I was with him. So we all just hung out and talked. I had probably kissed boys by that point, but I wasn’t ready for David Bowie.

Next time Bowie was in town, though, maybe five months later, I got a call at home from his bodyguard, a huge black guy named Stuey. He told me that David wanted to take me to dinner. Obviously, I had no homework that night. Fuck homework. I wasn’t spending a lot of time at school anyway. I said that I would like to go but that I wanted to bring my friend Sable. She was dying to fuck Bowie. I figured that she would sleep with him while I got to hang out and have fun. At the time, Sable and her sister Coral were both dating Iggy Pop, spending time at the home of Tony DeFries [then-manager of David Bowie and Iggy] up in Laurel Canyon. People there were so high all the time — Quaaludes, heroin, whatever. In the limo ride to the Rainbow, Sable said, “If you touch David, I will kill you.” I didn’t think she was kidding.

We sat at this corner table in a private room. Stuey rolled enormous blunts. John Lennon and Yoko Ono stopped by to say hello. We were drinking cocktails and looking at menus when some crazy guy dove over the table and said to David, “You flaming fucking faggot. Kill Bowie!” Next thing you know, Stuey’s got the guy pinned down and we’re being escorted out a side door and back into the limo. “Danny’s Song” was playing on the radio and Sable started singing to David: “We ain’t got honey, but I’m so in love with your money…” He laughed so hard. He thought it was hilarious. 

We got to the Beverly Hilton and all went up to Bowie’s enormous suite. I found myself more and more fascinated by him. He was beautiful and clever and poised. I was incredibly turned on. Bowie excused himself and left us in this big living room with white shag carpeting and floor-to-ceiling windows. Stuey brought out Champagne and hash. We were getting stoned when, all of a sudden, the bedroom door opens and there is Bowie in this fucking beautiful red and orange and yellow kimono. 

He focused his famously two-colored eyes on me and said, “Lori, darling, can you come with me?” Sable looked like she wanted to murder me. He walked me through his bedroom and into the bathroom, where he dropped his kimono. He got into the tub, already filled with water, and asked me to wash him. Of course I did. Then he escorted me into the bedroom, gently took off my clothes, and de-virginized me. 

Two hours later, I went to check on Sable. She was all fucked up in the living room, walking around, fogging up windows and writing, “I want to fuck David.” I told him what she was doing and that I felt so bad. Bowie said, “Well, darling, bring her in.” That night I lost my virginity and had my first threesome. The next morning, there was banging on the door and it was fucking [Bowie’s wife] Angie. I was terrified of her. David said not to worry about it. They were already at the point where they had separate rooms. She probably knew he’d be in there with girls… or boys. He was totally bisexual. I saw David many times after that, for the next 10 years, and it was always great.

THRILLIST: Still, you were a 15-year-old kid and he was an adult man with a lot of experience, and power, and drugs. You don’t see any problem with that now? 

I was an innocent girl, but the way it happened was so beautiful. I remember him looking like God and having me over a table. Who wouldn’t want to lose their virginity to David Bowie?

THRILLIST: But did it ever feel like there was something unusual about it?

No. You need to understand that my life has never been normal. I have always been special. I always felt like the universe was taking care of me.

THRILLIST: Did your mother have any idea what was going on?

I think she knew. But what could she say? My older sister was fucking lowriders and surfers; my dad was deceased; I was with rock stars. Besides, I had been the last virgin in my high school. In some ways, I was not different than one of the Kardashians. At that point, you could say, I was viewed as a groupie. People on the scene knew that I had been with Bowie and that brought out the paparazzi. But in my head I was still a virgin. As far as school went: forget it. I couldn’t concentrate on classes. I had been pulled into this rock ‘n’ roll life!

 

Not long after my night with Bowie, I got a call from some guy saying he was Jimmy Page. I knew it was a prank phone call. Led Zeppelin was the biggest rock band in the world. Why would Jimmy be calling me at home? But then, a couple of weeks later, Sable and I were at Iggy’s place where we found out that Led Zeppelin was staying at the Hyatt House. They had the entire ninth floor. On the way over, Sable said to me, “You keep your hands off Jimmy. If you touch him, I will shoot you. He’s mine.” I told her that it was okay. I wanted nothing to do with him.

So we got to the Hyatt. Everybody was hanging out at the pool, throwing each other in, and Jimmy walked up to me. He said, “Are you Lori? I’m Jimmy. I told you I would be with you.” It was him on the phone! I couldn’t believe it. At that point, though, especially after the Bowie incident, I was truly afraid that Sable would beat me up, kill me, crucify me, 86 me out of Hollywood. She was the queen of the groupies. You did not fuck with Sable Starr. 

That night we all wound up at the Rainbow, where I got approached by Led Zeppelin’s manager Peter Grant. He was like 700 pounds and scary as hell. He said, “You’re coming with me, young lady.” I wound up in a limo and didn’t know where I was going. But it was to the Hyatt. I felt like I was being kidnapped. I got taken into a room and there was Jimmy Page. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and held a cane. It was perfect. He mesmerized me. I fell in love instantly.

Zeppelin was starting its tour for Houses of the Holy and Jimmy stationed himself in LA. The band had a private jet, called the Starship, and he flew back and forth from the gigs. But I was underage and couldn’t travel with him. So I would stay in the room and wait for Jimmy. At that point, I was 15 and totally in love with this man. I put him on a pedestal. It became so serious that Jimmy asked my mom for permission to be with me. 

THRILLIST: Wait — he asked your mom? Did he ever seem at all nervous about having sex with a minor?

Looking back, he had to be afraid of getting sued for being with such a young girl, so maybe he thought it would be better if he cleared it with my mother and told her he was in love with me. And I do think he was in love with me. He bought me beautiful maxi dresses to wear and wouldn’t let me do drugs or anything. 

THRILLIST: What did your mother make of him?

She liked him. She used to be an agent and was savvy to show business. She knew that I was dating the biggest rock star in the world. She used to say, “My daughter is like Priscilla [Presley].” I was Jimmy’s little angel.

We really didn’t do much besides go to parties in LA; other than that, Jimmy never took me anywhere amazing. We just sequestered ourselves in the hotel room. Then there was an incident at the Drake Hotel in Manhattan. The band was staying there while doing some shows at Madison Square Garden. They had $200,000 stolen from the Drake’s safety deposit box. The FBI thought it could have been an inside job. Ultimately, when the band came back to LA, Peter Grant told me that I had to get out of the hotel or else Jimmy might go to fucking jail. The FBI was all over them.

But that blew over and Jimmy and I stayed together. When he was in England, he would call me every day. I hung out with Sable and Queenie and went to the clubs and waited for him. I stayed loyal. My whole life was about waiting for Jimmy. I tried going to high school, but I couldn’t concentrate. And after Jimmy Page and David Bowie, what was I going to do with a North Hollywood boy? I didn’t go to high school prom because I was too busy living the Hollywood prom.

When he came back for a party to celebrate the launching of the band’s record label, Swan Song, I made the biggest mistake. I knew I would be staying with Jimmy and told my friend Bebe Buell [then a groupie who later dated Steven Tyler and is the mother of Liv Tyler] that she could have the room next door. I didn’t know she would steal my man. I had a key to Jimmy’s suite, walked in, and saw them in bed together. I looked at him and said, “What did you do to me?” I never trusted him again. He was like a god to me and instantly destroyed this whole image I had of him.

I remember going to a party they had at Bel-Air Hotel that night. I probably took a Quaalude or something and wound up with a bloody nose. I wore a white dress and got blood all over it. That was an awful night. I don’t even like thinking about it. My relationship with Jimmy ended and my heart was shattered. It was hard for me to trust again. He will always be one of the great loves of my life.

 

 

THRILLIST: Do you think in retrospect that he might have exploited you?

No. I feel blessed. I feel like I was protected rather than exploited. I feel like I was very present. 

After Jimmy, I grew up and got over it. I was still modeling. My life was still rock ‘n’ roll and rock stars. Of course there were other guys — and amazing situations. I remember being 17 and hanging out at the Record Plant in LA. I was friends with the owner and everybody recorded there. I saw three of the Beatles with Mick Jagger and Stevie Wonder having this great jam session. But then Mick started fighting with McCartney or Lennon over who would sing on a particular song. Mick got pissed off. He took me to one of the bondage-themed bedrooms that the studio had. Mick said, “Let’s go fuck and get high.” We did blow all night and talked and hung out until the morning. We tried to have sex all night, but, at a certain point, he couldn’t get hard anymore. We were both very high. Another time, Mick [had me] on a bathroom floor while Bianca was getting ready for surgery. The sex was very consensual. 

THRILLIST: Still, a lot of people would have a hard time with an underage girl having sex with rock stars.

But you need to understand that I didn’t think of myself as underage. I was a model. I was in love. That time of my life was so much fun. It was a period in which everything seemed possible. There was no AIDS and the potential consequences seemed to be light. Nobody was afraid of winding up on YouTube or TMZ. Now people are terrified. You can’t even walk out your door without being photographed. It has become a different world.

But, I should add, things haven’t really changed. Look at the Kylie and Kendall Jenners, the Gigi Hadids. They are the modern-day versions of teenage groupies. The only difference is that the Internet blows them up in a way that allows them to make a fortune. And then there’s Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and all those kids who were fucking partying at 15. It is just a different era. It has evolved into something else. 

For me, now, I’m in the fashion business and look back very fondly on those years. I was really special. I knew it the night after I lost my virginity to David Bowie, when I went to see his concert at Long Beach Arena. It was still the Spiders from Mars tour, and, literally, the night that he became a star. But he had the spotlight shined on Lee Childers [Bowie’s publicist], Sable, and I, sitting in the audience. That’s when he thanked me for being there. Who cares what people said about me? I feel like I was very present. I saw the greatest music ever. I got to hang out with some of the most amazing, most beautiful, most charismatic men in the world. I went to concerts in limos with police escorts. Am I going to regret this? No.  SOURCE

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READ MORE   Reconciling David Bowie’s genius with rape??

 

What Should We Say About David Bowie and Lori Maddox?  Jia Tolentino 16/02/16

David Bowie died on January 10, 2016, two days after his 69th birthday and the release of Blackstar, his 25th album. The news came meteorically; we were dazed and flattened, looking at the world through debris and glitter that suddenly it seemed we’d borrowed from him.

David Bowie died on January 10, 2016, two days after his 69th birthday and the release of Blackstar, his 25th album. The news came meteorically; we were dazed and flattened, looking at the world through debris and glitter that suddenly it seemed we’d borrowed from him. Lady Gaga paid extended, exhaustive to him at the Grammys on Monday night; in the week following his death, there was a second line for him in New Orleans, a shrine outside his apartment in Tribeca, a series of farewells from his musical echelon, a million Instagrams, a segment on SNL. Bowie was that rare thing, a revolutionary who was also near-universally beloved. He gave off an uncanny combination of generosity and brilliance, in which he seemed to give everything to and ask nothing of the people who idolized him—except for, I guess, the bodies of the young teenage girls he fucked.

Word choice is hard here. Should we say “raped” automatically if a grown man has sex with a teenager? Does it matter at all if the 15-year-old, now much older, describes their encounter as one of the best nights of her life? What is our word for a “yes” given on a plane that’s almost vertically unequal? Does contemporary morality dictate that we trust a young woman when she says she consented freely, or believe that she couldn’t have, no matter what she says?

These questions became prominent on the day of Bowie’s death, which was—as with all celebrity deaths now—a day in which people all over the internet tried to marry a dead celebrity to something which is important to them, which is easy enough to ignore when that something is a brand of novelty koozies (“Jezebel, today we celebrate individuality”) or Twitter stances about how grief is best packaged for public consumption (“badly,” seems to be what people say), but impossible to ignore when the thing is present-day decency and David Bowie violated it, likely night after night.

The story widely recirculated after Bowie’s death was that he’d had sex with a 13-year-old, specifically the famous “child groupie” Lori Maddox (who was, by her account, 15 at the time of the encounter, and told Thrillist her story last fall). As the piece recirculated, people emailed us, saying that it was our political obligation to write that David Bowie had been a rapist, even a pedophile, too.

The facts are not debatable. Bowie was accused of rape in 1987 by a 30-year-old woman named Wanda Nichols (though never indicted, due to a lack of evidence; through a spokesperson, he called the accusation “ridiculous”), and he participated in a groupie scene that normalized and valorized statutory rape. The usual first line of defense in these arguments is “separating the art from the artist,” which is in many cases a necessary coping mechanism for women to be able to enjoy anything produced before men began to be held accountable for their behavior—but in this case, it doesn’t apply. Bowie’s artistic life was tied up in an ethos of seeing, validating and inducing intimacy with anyone in front of him; the fact that this ethos turned sexual in the case of painfully young teenagers is inseparable from his art.

On the day of his death, we considered posting his first reply to a fan letter:

In answer to your questions, my real name is David Jones and I don’t have to tell you why I changed it. “Nobody’s going to make a monkey out of you” said my manager. My birthday is January 8th and I guess I’m 5’10”. There is a Fan Club here in England, but if things go well in the States then we’ll have one there I suppose. It’s a little early to even think about it.

Written in 1967, the letter was sweet and generous and easy, closing with: “Thank you for being so kind as to write to me and do please write again and let me know some more about yourself. Yours sincerely, David Bowie.” It’s incredible, and also, he wrote it to a 14-year-old girl.

Lori Maddox, according to her as-told-to Thrillist piece, was also 14 when she met Bowie. “He wanted to take me to a hotel room,” she wrote.

I was still a virgin and terrified. He had hair the color of carrots, no eyebrows, and the whitest skin imaginable. I grabbed on to [DJ and club co-owner] Rodney Bingenheimer and said I was with him. So we all just hung out and talked. I had probably kissed boys by that point, but I wasn’t ready for David Bowie.

Next time Bowie was in town, though, maybe five months later, I got a call at home from his bodyguard, a huge black guy named Stuey.

Maddox had implicitly declined the encounter at age 14, and notes no pushback in her account. At age 15, she was less afraid.

We got to the Beverly Hilton and all went up to Bowie’s enormous suite…He was beautiful and clever and poised. I was incredibly turned on. Bowie excused himself and left us in this big living room with white shag carpeting and floor-to-ceiling windows. Stuey brought out Champagne and hash. We were getting stoned when, all of a sudden, the bedroom door opens and there is Bowie in this fucking beautiful red and orange and yellow kimono.

He focused his famously two-colored eyes on me and said, “Lori, darling, can you come with me?” Sable looked like she wanted to murder me. He walked me through his bedroom and into the bathroom, where he dropped his kimono. He got into the tub, already filled with water, and asked me to wash him. Of course I did. Then he escorted me into the bedroom, gently took off my clothes, and de-virginized me.

Two hours later, I went to check on Sable. She was all fucked up in the living room, walking around, fogging up windows and writing, “I want to fuck David.” I told him what she was doing and that I felt so bad. Bowie said, “Well, darling, bring her in.” That night I lost my virginity and had my first threesome.

Maddox, enthusiastic and starry-eyed a full 43 years later, does not recount her encounter as rape; legally, however, it would have been in the state of California, and a strong subset of today’s moral vocabulary dictates that it was, qualitatively, regardless of what Maddox says, an act of coercion—that he was an abuser and a predator no matter what.

There’s a sense right now of a watershed: because of new language, newly open channels, and new consensus on what constitutes abuse, once-beloved men are being exposed on what feels like a weekly basis for having taken sexual advantage of less powerful women. These incidents are brought to light as exceptions, but they’re beginning to feel like the norm—particularly for industries in which women are expected to be both easygoing and sexual to variously exaggerated degrees: comedy, music, acting, porn.

And the “separate the art from the artist” argument has been permanently changed by Bill Cosby, who will be remembered as a serial rapist, as he deserves. For Bowie, the same idea has started to foment—that this encounter with Maddox (and the others it implies) should be, as with Cosby, his major legacy. “RIP a child rapist,” said a tipster. On Twitter, a search for “” pulls up hundreds of people expressing combinations of anger, smugness, contrarianism, righteousness, and sincere conviction that the Grammys should not be celebrating him, that Tavi Gevinson should not be writing about him, the “rapist” description is primary and exactly right.

There are two underlying assumptions here that I question: first, that we either have to write off David Bowie in deference to the women, or write off the women in deference to David Bowie—that we can’t value one without devaluing the other. The second is that it’s a critical dodge to even bring up the fact that we’re talking about the 1970s. Erin Keane makes this point at Salon:

And wasn’t it, as she says, “a different world”? Oh, the ‘70s. Things were different then. But they were not, really, no matter how many times we all collectively wish that to be true. If you can say with a straight face “men don’t have sex with young girls anymore” — well, good luck to you with that. What changes is this, only — which girls, which men, how and where it is allowed.

But “which girls, which men, how and where it is allowed”—those changes do matter. If they don’t, neither does any of the political and cultural movement that distances now from then. Outside a courtroom, it is impossible to overvalue the role of context (which includes but certainly is not limited to age) in a sexual encounter; acknowledging the landscape of a few decades ago doesn’t vanish the blame but enlarge it. It is important, not incidental, that Bowie was part of the norm.

On the day of Bowie’s death, Kate Harding started a thread of discussion on her public Facebook page. The perpetually wise Rebecca Solnit wrote in. “Speaking as someone who actually lived through the 1970s as a teenage girl in the Bay Area,” she wrote, “I want to interject that mores were really really REALLY different.”

She went on (and we asked if we could excerpt this):

The dregs of the sexual revolution were what remained, and it was really sort of a counterrevolution (guys arguing that since sex was beautiful and everyone should have lots everything goes and they could go at anyone; young women and girls with no way to say no and no one to help them stay out of harmful dudes’ way). The culture was sort of snickeringly approving of the pursuit of underage girls (and the illegal argument doesn’t carry that much weight; smoking pot is also illegal; it’s about the immorality of power imbalance and rape culture). It was completely normalized. Like child marriage in some times and places. Which doesn’t make it okay, but means that, unlike a man engaged in the pursuit of a minor today, there was virtually no discourse about why this might be wrong. It’s also the context for what’s widely regarded as the anti-sex feminism of the 1980s: those women were finally formulating a post-sexual-revolution ideology of sex as another arena of power and power as liable to be abused; we owe them so much.

Solnit has written about this time and place before. From an essay in 2014’s The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness:

For San Francisco in particular and for California generally, 1978 was a notably terrible year, the year in which the fiddler had to be paid for all the tunes to which the counterculture had danced. The sexual revolution had deteriorated into a sort of free-market free-trade ideology in which all should have access to sex and none should deny access. I grew up north of San Francisco in an atmosphere where once you were twelve or so hippie dudes in their thirties wanted to give you drugs and neck rubs that were clearly only the beginning, and it was immensely hard to say no to them. There were no grounds. Sex was good; everyone should have it all the time; anything could be construed as consent; and almost nothing meant no, including “no.”

“It was the culture,” she wrote. “Rock stars were open about their liaisons with underage groupies.” It doesn’t excuse these men to note that there was an overwhelming, meaningful, non-dismissible sense in this decade that sex with young female teenagers was if not explicitly desirable then certainly OK.

Louis Malle released “Pretty Baby” in 1978, in which an 11-year-old and sometimes unclothed Brooke Shields played a child prostitute; in Manhattan, released the following year, director Woody Allen paired his middle-aged character with a 17-year old; color photographer David Hamilton’s prettily prurient photographs of half-undressed pubescent girls were everywhere…at the end of the decade Playboy attempted to release nude photographs of a painted, vamping Shields at the age of 10 in a book titled Sugar and Spice.

[…] In 1977, Roman Polanski’s implicit excuse for raping a 13-year-old girl he had plied with champagne and quaaludes was that everyone was doing it. Polanski had sequestered his victim at Jack Nicholson’s Bel Air house on the grounds that he was going to take pictures of her for French Vogue. Polanski’s victim pretended she had asthma to try to get out of his clutches. It didn’t work. Afterward, he delivered the dazed, glassy-eyed child to her home, he upbraided her big sister for being unkind to the family dog. Some defended him on the grounds that the girl looked 14.

Reading Solnit on this, you can understand how Lori Maddox could have possibly developed not just a sincere desire to fuck adult men but the channels to do it basically in public; why an entire scene encouraged her, photographed her, gave her drugs that made all of it feel better, loved her for it, celebrated her for it, for years. You can understand that the way she consented to the loss of her virginity could have been the way women have consented throughout history—under implicit duress and formative coercion, and yet as wholeheartedly as we could understand.

There are no precise enough words or satisfying enough conclusions to fully account for her story, or any like it. It’s easy to see what Bowie represents here: a sexual norm that has always appallingly favored men, and the abuse that stems from and surpasses even that. It is easy to denounce the part Bowie played in this, even with any number of purportedly mitigating factors: the political context, Maddox’s story, the fact that he lived with generosity and openness, the less generous fact that his synapses were perpetually blitzed with cocaine. It is less easy to turn over what Maddox evinces in this narrative, from the late 1970s to her account of it now—which is that women have developed the vastly unfair, nonetheless remarkable, and still essential ability to find pleasure and freedom in a system that oppresses them.

The persistence of that reality—that we learn to have sex not in a utopia but within and around whatever norms we are presented with—is why it matters that things were different in the ’70s. It is possible to say that there don’t ever need to be any other Lori Maddoxes without saying that there never were. It is possible for me to read all the rape stories in my inbox and still know with certainty that something enormous is different—and, that acknowledging that is the only way to credit the second-wave women who forced that change with rhetorical fervor that girls now would find insane. It’s because of them that we have both the words to identify power and, now, the freedom to do so more ambivalently. It’s their stringency that spared me from having to know how I would have played it if I’d grown up at a time when there was no vocabulary to separate a party girl from a body for the taking, when grown men said fair game at the age of 13.

It is Maddox who interests me, in the end, not Bowie. But if there’s an argument for labeling Bowie a rapist that gets me, it’s how much I owe to the inflexible spirit that calls for it. Look, what a miracle; we are talking about this, when out of all the interviews Bowie gave in his life, he seems to never have been asked on the record about Maddox or any of the other “baby groupies,” or to have said a thing about Wanda Nichols after the case was dismissed.  Source

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