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I Thought the Sun Rose and Set on His Sicilian Ass
Sonny Bono was one of the most charming — and possessive — men Cher had ever met.
When Sonny was young, the family moved to Englewood, a working-class suburb of L.A. After being kicked out of high school for hiring a Black band for the prom, he did every kind of job, including delivering meat and working as a masseur — until the day he spilled rubbing alcohol into the crack of a client’s ass when the bottle slipped from his fingers. Aside from keeping out of the way when his latest girlfriend was over, I became his housekeeper and general assistant, handing out beer and chips to his male friends who came to play liar’s poker while I sat in the bedroom drawing or watching TV. As the weeks passed, Sonny and I became more like a brother and sister, or perhaps more accurately a father and daughter, because I was the insecure kid full of phobias, the teenager who didn’t like silence and couldn’t get to sleep unless the television was on, which is still sometimes true.
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