Shannon Tweed - Kiss and Tell

KISS AND TELL

Shannon Tweed

With Julie McCarron

Foreword by Gene Simmons

Dedication

I want to dedicate this book first to Gene: the man I was looking for, the father of my beautiful children Nick and Sophie, and the man who keeps me grounded and safe, loved and needed.

To my kids, who accept me and love me in spite of my faults and flaws.

To my mother, Mrs. Louise Tweedwho forgives me for quitting school and sneaking out at nightfor sacrificing the best years of her life to give us a better life. For not falling into despair. For keeping it together against insurmountable odds. For doing her absolute best! I love and admire her.

To my sister Tracy for being my best friend. To my niece Emily, just for being Emily.

To my friends, especially Janis Kay, for loving me (even when Im fat!) and making me laugh.

To Dad, thank you!

To Hef, thanks for the memories.

Love to Kim; Kyla; Lance; Sara; Spencer; Nathan; Tarry; Keith Anders, Cole and Erin; Jeff; Casey; Cheryl; Ted; Jake; and Hunter.

A Word from Gene Simmons

S uddenly there she was. She was wearing a very revealing corset that just barely kept her beautiful breasts and ravishing figure inside. Just barely. She was standing with her sister a few feet away, looking at me. I was in my silk pajamas at the Playboy Mansions Midsummer Nights Dream party. It happened to be on the night of my birthday, August 25th, and the event was an invitation-only affair for four hundred guests. The ratio of men to women was one to three (three women for every man). The men had to wear pajamas, the women as little as possible.

I had come there with two Playmates and wasnt really looking to flirt with anyone elseI was busy. Then she walked up to me and looked me over. I must have said something, but she quickly turned and walked off. I was stunned. I found her instantly desirable and quickly forgot that I had come with two other ladies.

She walked by again and I threw her my best lines. My patois had worked many times in the past. Not this time. I watched her walk away again on her stiletto heels. She was as sexy from behind as she was from the front.

I found myself walking aimlessly around and finally settled inside the Mansion. I was looking at a Dali painting on the wall and heard a whistle. It was her. We sat down and started talking. I found myself looking into her eyes and actually having a conversation. I told her about myself. While I was listening to her voice, I felt my manhood stand rigidly erect against my silk pajamas. I didnt dare stand up, although she wanted to go somewhere. We sat and continued to talk until things calmed down.

She invited me to go with her through a secret door to a basement wine cellar. We were there alone. I knew she was inviting me. Normally, I would have ravaged her right then and there. On the floor, on the pool table. Anywhere. But I did not. I cant for the life of me figure out why.

I wanted to see her again.

That was 22 years ago. Ive been living with her ever since.

I continue to paw at her, and she keeps smacking my hand away. I continue to tell her she is the most desirable woman in the world, because she is. She ignores me. When she was pregnant with Nicholas, all I wanted her to do was stay in bed with me. I found myself continually being aroused by her. When she slept. When she walked by. When she talked.

I was crazy about everything she did.

She, on the other hand, couldnt stand the way I chewed my food and left crumbs all over the place. She hates how I rumple the sheets in our bed. She thinks I talk too much. Outside of home, Im a very important person. At home, Im usually in the way. And most shocking is that she doesnt feel any reluctance to ask me to take out the garbage. Me! The God of Thunder. The guy with the lasciviously long tongue! The guy who is adored and desired by millions of fans throughout the world.

While on tour (Im in a band called KISS) I call her every day. She never asked me to; I do it because I want to. And I usually find myself being cut short by her. She doesnt like to chat. Our calls usually end with her saying, Well, gotta go. Bye.

She has never asked me where Im going. She does not play the female torture game. She has been in my hotel room (on the few times she would join me on tour) when girls would call in the middle of the night. She would answer the phone, and they would run for the hills.

She does what she wants when she wants to, and doesnt check with anyone to see if its okay to do itme included. I usually ask her where shes going and if I can come along. Often, the answer is no. Im lucky if she lets me tag along to the movies with her. And when were watching the movie, she will often shush me when I whisper a comment to her.

We have never been married. We have two wonderful kids together: Sophie, who has robbed me of my soul, and Nicholas, who I hope to be like when I grow up.

She is everything I never knew I wanted. She makes me a better man. She gives me more freedom than I want. I love her more today than I did when we first met.

I had been reluctant to say I love you too much in the past. It always sounded like bad soap opera dialogue. Honey and sweetheart seemed to me to be clichs people uttered. I preferred to say what I meant and mean what I said. But every day when Sophie and Nicholas leave for school I find myself yelling after them, I love you. When Nicholas says something kind to me or when Sophie brings me a piece of toast, I well up with tears. When we watch a movie that centers around a family being reunited with their kids, my eyes fill up in the dark.

Thats when she turns to me and says, Youre welcome.

She calls me by many names: Stinky, Stink, Stink-ola, Pops, Papparoonie, Popo (which, to her delight, she found means ass in Hungarian), Pappo, Pony, Boney (Im sure you can figure that one out), Boney Maroney, My-Opia, O, Old (she even wrote a little melody that goes something like Older than time, older than wine , etc., that she, her sister and my kids often sing to me), Olie, Andre (as in the Giant), and numerous others.

On tour, Im The Demon. At home, Im Stinky.

The reason I havent said her name yet is that she doesnt like it. She doesnt like the sound of her first or last name. She doesnt think shes beautiful. She does not think she is special at all. But the truth is, Shannon Tweed, you are the most beautiful woman in the world.

Can I go to the movies with you???

Introduction

I was considerably overdressed for my first party at the Playboy Mansion. At the famous annual Midsummer Nights Dream celebration, where required attire for guests consists of pajamas, lingerie, or nothing, I wore a see-through peignoirvery Canadian of me. You know those Canadians: wild in the bedroom, but conservative in public. At least they were back then.