I could never fucking relate to the dudes who were married and doing all kinds of fucked up shit on the road. They didn’t seem to think so, but it fucks with your mind, and it sure as hell fucks with your relationship. What the fuck is the point of getting married if you plan on fucking around? I’m not naming names, but I’ve seen guys do crazy shit I really couldn’t believe. Their wives would be coming up the elevator while band security took hookers out of their rooms and tossed them down the stairwell. That’s not just wrong, it’s fucking insane.

Worst of all, I always got stuck talking to my bandmates’ wives while their husbands were off fucking groupies, or “girlfriends,” who lived in whatever city we were in. Now that shit sucks. When you’re in a band, you’re in a family, so my friends’ wives were my friends and they’d always feel comfortable asking me what their man was up to on the road. What the hell was I supposed to say? I’d hear myself mumbling some transparent lie like, “Um, hey, sweetie, you should probably talk to him about that because I don’t really know what the fuck he does.” I just couldn’t understand how a guy could have his wife join him on tour while he fucked everything with a pulse backstage, even while she was around. Those situations are such a mindfuck because your morals are at stake on the one hand and your professional relationships are at stake on the other. Aside from the music, a successful band is a fucking business that keeps its members paid and no one wants to fuck up their livelihood. But it is a tall order to tell a woman who deserves respect and who is either completely in the dark or holding on to some vision of reality that is so not what is really going on. These women would always be so psyched to be on the road for a few days watching their husbands rock shit. They’re at the side of the stage, all happy, never knowing that band security strategically parked them there early so their husbands can get in a quickie in the dressing room before the show. I’d watch it all go down but I’d never say shit.

Sometimes I didn’t have to say shit. Some guys’ wives had a fire burning in their eyes that said, “I know that motherfucker. I know he’s lying, and I know you’re lying.” Girls have radar, they know. I’m a shitty liar, I didn’t stand a chance.

Touring is fucking lawless, so you’ve got to show up with your own set of rules. When I first started touring, I was seventeen, so I learned as I went, and it wasn’t always easy. When your life is lived out of a suitcase, and some days you’re too wasted to even open it before you’re off again, shit gets weird. Every night after our show, we’d party all night in whatever town we were in—and when we were really in tour mode I didn’t even know what town it was—then show up in a new town the next morning, rock the fuck out of it, fuck the fuck out of it, and move on again. The only constants are a tour bus, a private plane, the show, and the after-party, as well as the after-the-after-party party, the before-traveling-again party, the pre-preshow-party party, and, of course, the preshow party. It’s like traveling in a human aquarium where you can see out but no one can get in and touch you unless you want them to. It’s a circus with every vice on tap, and you’re the ringleader. Believe me, you get worshiped in all kinds of weird ways that change you, no matter who you are.

I’m not big on rules and regulations, but the one rule I have for myself is that I am monogamous when I am in a relationship. That’s it—everything else is up for grabs. I’m one of the horniest, most sexually interested people I know. But if you’re really in love, it isn’t hard to be monogamous. My rule has its downside: It fucking sucks on the road when all I’ve got is long-distance love because the phone is wack. I don’t like talking on it ever, and trying to maintain an intimate relationship for weeks or months at a time using a telephone, when the only body I want to be next to is so far away, is fucking torture. Plus there are so many beautiful women who want to play that temptation is everywhere. It’s a test of character and of a relationship every single night. All I can say is, watching is good. Watching doesn’t count... does it? I used to believe that head didn’t count. Then I thought about turning the tables, and when I pictured someone else eating my girl’s pussy, I changed my mind. Yes, head counts. Head really counts.

There’s an old saying that’s been said in many ways: What happens on the road stays on the road. Las Vegas stole that shit from us, please believe. But I guess Mötley owed the city—well, at least the Aladdin Hotel. We pushed that rule to the limit too. One of my bandmates took the pursuit of pussy to a whole new level. I am going to omit the names here to protect the innocent. Fuck the innocent, I’m just protecting myself, because this next story has lawsuit stamped all over it—and I sure as fuck don’t need another one of those. There was one guy in the band who was married but couldn’t seem to get enough of matrimony. This guy had more than what I’d call a mistress—in fact, he had more than one of them. He’d set these girls up with apartments, jewelry, clothes—all of it. And then, he’d drop the Big Lie?. A girl would come rushing into our dressing room backstage and show off her new engagement ring to the rest of the band. We’d be totally silent, like, “Oh... right on.” It always ended up bad, of course, because he was already married! Duh! It was just a matter of time before the girls would rush into our dressing room again, asking us all what happened and wondering why he broke it off. Well, let me see, hmm, I don’t know... uh, maybe... let me see... maybe because...he’s married? How could she not know that? It wasn’t hard to find out. And what the hell was that guy thinking anyway? What can I say, we were young and it’s only human to make mistakes. You never know, maybe he was thinking of moving to Utah and converting to Mormonism.*