I wrote a book about Julian Casablancas & his 20 year old girlfriend

I'm a fan girl of the worst sort and I've made it into my life's work

My world was rocked, shaken, altered and disturbed when photos were leaked of Julian Casablancas licking his 20 year old girlfriend’s tits in the Museum of Natural History photo booth. She may have been 21, 22, I don’t know, but we know that she was a “nobody”. She wasn’t a star, a celebrity, a singer. She was just some girl named Kaya. But now she’s “somebody”. Now she’s Julian’s ex-girlfriend. Now she’s the girl that pops up in several pictures, cuddled next to him when you Google “Julian Casablancas Girlfriend”.

How did she win his heart? Why her? If he was just picking random nobodies to fuck, why wasn’t it me? I didn’t even think it was an option. I thought he was off limits, locked down and secured for the rest of his life.

I felt jealous of her. More jealous than I ever felt of his wife of 14 years. Juliet Joslin was also just a girl, a friend of Nick Valensi’s (lead guitarist from The Strokes) who signed on to assist the band and who fell in love with Julian along the way. He hasn’t really dated any stars, other than his brief relationship with Regina Spektor around 2004 and maybe Courtney Love? But even those rumors are murky and unconfirmed. It’s never been his style to seek out women of the same societal stature as him.

It meant something to me, that he seemed to love this woman with all of his heart, even more significant because she wasn’t a model or actress or any of that, she was just Juliet. She didn’t want to be in the spotlight. They had their two sons under the radar, you can’t even find a picture of their second son on the internet and Juliet has no public social media presence. Their love seemed so pure, so real. It’s immortalized in many of the Strokes songs, but my favorite is “Red Light” from their third album, “First Impressions of Earth”

Two can be complete without the rest of the world

All the girls could never make me love them the way I love you

I would cheat and lie and steal, now I'll stay at home and kneel for you/I was waiting for my baby to arrive/Right by my side

Though other Strokes songs are more sonically significant to me, the lyrics to “Red Light” have always had a special place in my heart. I wanted this kind of love. I wanted to be loved by Julian like that, and if not that then at least by some wannabe rockstar who looked like him. I listened on repeat, I couldn’t get enough of his deep, raspy voice pouring out his love for her, for me.

We’ll never know why Julian and Juliet got divorced, just like any relationship it’s between the partners and not outsiders. I don’t blame her, I imagine he can be quite a handful. Although he’s claimed to have gotten his drug use and drinking under control, still he has always been notoriously difficult and easy to anger. What was the final straw? Was he a bad father? Was he cheating on her? I’ll never know, it’s not my business, but I’ve somehow made it my business. I was crushed by the divorce of two people I do not know personally, because I looked up to him and I’d put him on a pedestal. I thought he was different. I thought he was not like the other rockstars. Not that monogamy is a sign of virtue, I’m actually more of a non-monogamist. But there was something romantic about their ordinary love amidst such an extraordinary world.

I guess it doesn’t help that my own father cheated on my mother and broke up our family. I no longer blame either of them; I think they both made mistakes that hurt me and our family. I resent the secrets that my father kept from us, but I understand more now why he kept them. Sometimes relationships just don’t work out and people don’t know how to say that it’s not working so they cheat or hurt others as a way out. I can’t ascribe my own familial trauma to the relationship of these strangers, but I can employ my own experiences to better understand why men cheat and specifically, why they so often cheat with younger women.

So how could he do this? After he saw what his father did? John Casablancas, founder of Elite models, left Julian’s mother’s Jeanette Christensen, in 1983, when Julian was 5. He then publicly dated Stephanie Seymour, a 16 year old. He went on to date many other underage girls, speaking unabashedly and publicly about his proclivity for young teens. It’s sickening. He got away with it because he was handsome, successful, and wealthy. He was close with Donald Trump and Jeffrey Epstein and allegedly provided young models to be sent to Epstein’s parties or flown to his island. I cannot fathom having a father like that. Surely it was scarring, though Julian has said he was never close with his father and didn’t know him well.

So when I learned of this new relationship I wondered - how could Julian perpetuate this trauma, repeat this cycle? Sure, he did it with someone Barely Legal, as opposed to his father’s actual sex crimes, but it’s still disturbing. Did he get too famous, too wealthy, and when faced with his aging legacy, he became cursed with the Old Man tendencies to be a fucking creep? To be fair, I don’t think he’s an old creep, he’s only 46, but you know what I mean.

I want to hate her, I think many fans do, but I’m more impressed by her. Obviously she’s beautiful, she’s cute, she’s interesting, I’m sure she’s intelligent and creative and artistic and probably funny. I don’t think he would be with someone that’s not all of those things. But still, the question taunted me - why her? There must be some quality about her that he found incredibly alluring. For him to post her, allow photos of the two of them to be released, these are behaviors he hadn’t really participated in before. There must have been something special about her. I needed to know. And if I couldn’t know, I would make up a story in my head to settle myself.

Her Instagram was private when they were dating, but of course I requested, as did my friend (a fellow Strokes fan), and we awaited admission, eager to learn more about her. Meanwhile, I trolled The Strokes Reddit threads for updates, for any clue about who she was or what they were doing together. It wasn’t until months later that her page became public, presumably after they broke up, though I could be wrong. I don’t know when or why or even if they did actually break up. She still follows him and likes his pictures. He follows no one. I’ve heard about Julian dating several other girls in their early twenties from LA to NYC, all of whom also fascinate me. I think it takes a certain type of girl to date Julian Casablancas.

When she posts a story I immediately watch it, stare at it and examine any selfie she gives us. I’m eager to analyze any ounce of her that she’ll allow us. Who is she? Where did she come from? What does she sound like, act like? Her youthful eyes look into the camera, into me, and I think of Julian’s eyes pouring into her. Her little red pout shows the slightest hint of a smile and think of Julian’s lips on her, everywhere they’ve been. What did it feel like to be her? I imagined that it might be lonely sometimes. He’s a busy man after all. I couldn’t help but envision their relationship. What did they talk about? Both of them posted photos of their time together, days spent alone in a bedroom. What was it like to have the total, undivided attention of such an influential man?

I’m fascinated by people’s stories of being close to Julian. They say that to have his attention is to be under the sun, warm and loved by his shining rays. When he turns his attention, when he loses interest, they say it’s like your world turns ice cold. His attention seems like the ultimate Attention. Because he has so much attention, because everyone wants his attention, to have it is to have everything. To be blessed.

I had his attention once, only for a moment, and it was brilliant. I met him in 2014 at Amoeba Records in San Francisco where they held a signing for The Voidz album “Tyranny”. The signed record still sits on my shelf, silver sharpie holding on to the words that he wrote “Love, Jules” next to a quickly penned heart. Butterflies consumed me when I approached him, I couldn’t even pretend to act normal. He sat on a raised stool but stood as I neared him, he smiled and said, “You’re tall! I’ll stand for you.” Julian Casablancas said I was tall and he stood for me. I clutched at his side while my friend took our photograph. I have no idea what I said to him, probably something incoherent about loving his music. “Thanks.” His smile was sleepy but genuine “I like your ring.” He pointed to the giant diamond encrusted skull ring around my middle finger. “Thanks! I like your bomber.” He wore a black satin jacket with a red striped collar and I wore the most similar thing I had in my closet because I thought he would like it. He tends to wear one outfit and stick to it for days, weeks, sometimes months (he claims to change his underwear and socks though). So, I had seen the bomber in photos days prior and I figured he’d wear it again today. “Bomber twins!” I said to him like a fucking loser. He laughed, “Haha, bomber twins.” We hugged and I switched places with my friends to take a photo of her and Julian. My hand shook so much that the photo turned out unusable. “I’m sorry,” I told her when we got outside, “I was so nervous.”

Was Kaya nervous when she first met him? Did she act cool and collected? Did she listen to his music, follow his career, know all of his songs? Or did he pick her because she knew nothing about him? It’s like those Wattpad 1D fanfic stories except it’s all real and it happened to her.

In 2020, I had a dream that I was her. With platinum bleach blonde hair and the slim waist of a twenty something, I woke to this world where all of it was real and happening to me. My unconscious imagination took me to a grandiose flat in London, but it also embedded in me this sick sense of regret. I landed in the world of my novel, hiding behind the kitchen island and realizing that his wife and child were home and that I was not supposed to be there. I tried to withdraw from the situation, tried to run out the back door, but he caught me, he told me not to go. It’s okay, he assured me, stay, he begged. He was Julian but he was not. No, I realized, He was some other beast entirely. Suddenly, I was terrified of him. I needed to get far away from him, from this sordid scene I had trapped myself in. I ran and he followed me through the streets of London and I wanted nothing more than to get away from him. I understood that this was a character in a story, it was not Julian and did not look particularly like him, but it was a way of processing my thoughts on his public affairs. The story came to me like a river rushing, the characters showing me their experiences and I needed only to funnel it onto the page.

So I started writing the first draft of my novel. But the problem was, I don’t know what it’s like to date Julian Casablancas. Or any true rockstar for that matter. I can only guess, and infer based on my many..many..relationships with men. That’s what separates my book from other fanfics - I fuck. I’ve fucked musicians, actors, models, far too many guys with imdb pages and recording contracts. But none of them were Julian. One of them claimed that “people compare my music to the Strokes all the time”, another mentioned that “people say I look like him” and then proceeded to pull up an actual article comparing a photo of Julian to a photo of himself. I turned and looked at the man I was in bed with, and thought of Julian. I nodded and said, “I can see it.”

When it came to writing the sex scenes, I wasn’t thinking of Julian. I was pulling from these myriad relationships, manufacturing some amalgamation of the many men I’ve known and loved. Strangely enough, I don’t really think of him sexually. He’s more like an idol to me, although I am obviously very attracted to him. I love him in a different way, like a Greek god who is still gorgeous and appealing, but wholly unattainable. I don’t dream of sleeping with him, I dream of listening to him, speaking to him, sharing ideas with him. Just being in his presence.

He captivated me when I was at lowest. When I had nothing to live for. When I was 17 and wanted nothing but to die. More than just him, The Strokes captivated me like no band ever had. Watch any old video of them from the early years - they have this insane magnetism, this brotherly dynamic that borders on romantic. They would kiss, hold each other, never be without one another. They’re not the same anymore, they’ve grown up and grown out of their boyish ways, many years of in fighting has torn rifts through the band and they stick together mostly for the fans and the legacy. But still, sometimes there is a semblance of that unconditional love, like when Julian plants a familiar kiss on Albert Hammond Jr. while they play their hits on a massive stage.

Beyond my own interpretation, Julian is undeniably fascinating. He changed the landscape of music in the 21st century. He brought back real rock & roll. He is arguably the last real rockstar of our generation. I don’t mean among those who are currently living, obviously we still have many greats among us; I mean that he is the last to have spawned. Those who follow were mere replications. Every indie band that popped up after 2001 was just another version of The Strokes - Kings of Leon were the Southern Strokes, Vampire Weekend were the Ivy League Strokes, Interpol were the Strokes for deeply depressed introverts. Obviously, this is reductive. They were all doing their own thing, but it’s true that The Strokes impact was monumental, vast, and expansive. Everything that came after them had a little touch of them in it.

Plus, the way that The Strokes play together is unreal, unlike any group I’d seen before. The music that Julian writes is brought to life so brilliantly by Albert, Fab, Nick, and Nikolai. They articulate every note so succinctly, so synchronously, reflecting through their music this bond that possesses them. Their music means everything to me. I feel a heart-wrenching nostalgia when I listen to it, especially the first four albums. Every time I watch the documentary adaptation of the book, Meet Me in the Bathroom, I end up soaked in tears. I’m consumed by this sorrowful nostalgia for that time. I was alive, but I was in kindergarten. I can never understand what it was like to be in New York during the garage rock revival of 2001, and it will never happen exactly like that again. I have always felt such a draw towards it, such a magnetic connection, that I know I am meant to revive it through my novel.

This novel is my way of reckoning with the awful condition of loving a man. The main male character, Theo, came from my need to make sense of these events with which I have nothing to do. Even if Julian has done awful things, hurt people (and maybe he hasn’t, I don’t know), I will always love him. Just like my father, or the men I’ve dated, my love persists despite their flaws because there is something so beautiful in them. I can forgive the malice, the hurt, because he is beautiful, because he’s a true artist.

Theo is not just Julian. He is Paul Banks, Damon Albarn, Harry Styles, Alex Turner, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, Syd Barrett, Jimi Hendrix. He is all of the men I’ve loved that will always be out of my reach. Lover boys with talented hands and beautiful voices, with poetic thoughts and self destructive tendencies. If I’m going to write about a man, let him at least be a rockstar.