Recently, my husband and I went to see a relatively well known musician. “Are you going to hook up with your boyfriend after the show?” my husband teased. As we circled for a parking spot he said, “You should have asked your boyfriend to send a car for you.” When we purchased tickets: “I can’t believe you have to PAY to see your boyfriend!”

When he took the stage, my husband hopefully quipped, “You can’t blame him for being bad in bed. He was probably just tired, or nervous about his next gig.”

I think my husband was more jealous of his stardom than our history, but once upon a time, I did sleep with that musician. A friend of a friend had a connection, and we ended up sharing drinks backstage, eats in an all night diner, and eventually (energetic and not at all disappointing) sex at my place.

He’s an attractive man and a talented musician. His lyrics are eloquent and heartfelt. His stage presence is powerfully seductive. Off-stage, he’s funny and charming, and his southern drawl could drop panties on its own.

These are the reasons I slept with him, but if I search my soul, I can’t totally discount fame as a factor. Did I enjoy sharing the story with close friends following day? Definitely. Did I post the news to Twitter? Of course not. If for no other reason, his notority sped things up because in the morning he’d head to a new city. There’d be no magical third date for us.

(Incidentally, there would be a second. We stayed in touch, and when his tour cycled back through Virginia a few months later we shared and equally energetic evening in his hotel room.)

Our relationship fizzled the way that relationships that aren’t actually relationships do, and it’s been a lifetime since we spoke. Standing in the crowd, watching the lights play on his face and witnessing his emotion in every verse, I was just a little bit seduced again. A pretty brunette in front of me swayed her hips and ached for eye contact. I thought, “she doesn’t know that one morning he woke up tangled in my sheets and gave me a crooked kiss.”

Then I thought, “who’s to say he’s never been in her sheets?”

While I don’t suspect this particular musician has slept with most of Richmond, it’d be silly to assume I was his only former partner in the crowd. And since I WAS in the crowd, and I DID pay for a ticket, and I DIDN’T have a car sent for me, did that make me a groupie?

Cue: Google.

Wikipedia says that a groupie is more interested in having a relationship with a musician than in the music itself. For me, the opposite was true. My relationship with the music encouraged me to invite the musician home.

Urban Dictionary states that a groupie is “often underage” (not me, even then) and that she seeks status by sleeping with musicians or roadies. Unless you’re devoting your life to it, you kind of have to be underage to think you’ll achieve status by sleeping with a musician.

Of course, if you’re willing to put the time in, a career sleeping with musicians could be pretty rewarding. Tawny Kitaen’s Whitesnake video fame should really have expired long ago and all Karrine Steffans actually did was have a troubled childhood and a slack gag reflex. In my opinion, Cynthia Plaster Caster is the only groupie who deserves her fame, and that’s because she added art to the mix. (Also, Jimi Hendrix spontaneously fucking plaster is the stuff my fantasies are made of.)

So that musician I slept with, he was just another two night stand. The fact that his booming guitar still resonates in my jeans just means we were a good match.

Those times I banged Phil Varone, though, that was groupie as shit.