February 9, 2023
Lucy Porter jumping for joy next to a framed portrait of David Coverdale



In 1987 I was 14 and having a very difficult time. Puberty was in full swing and most of my classmates directed their frenzied hormonal energies towards proper pop stars: George Michael was the rampantly heterosexual, dangerous choice for bad girls, and Michael Jackson seemed like the most uncomplicated, innocent fella that any girl could kiss a poster of. 

Aaah, they were simpler times. But I had a dirty little secret. One that even now causes me to blush as I type it: none of those pop fops did anything to stir my girlish heart, I was aswoon for someone a little bit more down and dirty. There was something about David Coverdale that just… well, moved me in a way that my 14-year-old brain struggled to cope with. 





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