INTERESTING REVEAL: At 75, Agnetha Fältskog reveals seven artists she’d sleep with…. “I’D LET HIM F**K ME”
Agnetha Fältskog sits under the soft glow of studio lights, her golden hair still shining like it did in her ABBA days, her eyes carrying decades of secrets, songs, and silent temptations.
She leans back with a mischievous smile, unafraid, unfiltered, and ready to confess what once would have been unthinkable.
The interviewer, both nervous and excited, finally asks the question that has lingered in whispers for decades.
Who were the men, the voices, the stars, that stirred something more than admiration in the heart of ABBA’s blonde angel?
Agnetha laughs softly, her voice warm yet daring.
“At my age, why hide the truth anymore? I’ve sung about love, loss, and dancing queens. But behind the lyrics, there were nights when my thoughts weren’t so innocent.”
She leans forward, eyes gleaming with youthful fire.
“There were seven men who haunted my dreams. Voices that stirred my soul and… other things. And tonight, I’ll tell you exactly who they were.”
She begins with a chuckle.
“Benny Andersson. Everyone thought of him as the quiet genius behind the piano. But those fingers—oh, they didn’t just create music. They made me imagine things that had nothing to do with melody.”
Her tone grows sultry, confessional.
“There were nights in the studio when he’d play just for me. Every note felt like a tease, every chord a secret message. If I’d let the music take over, I don’t think we’d have stopped at harmonies.”
She pauses, laughing as if to wash away the heat of the memory.
“But temptation stayed temptation. Maybe that’s what kept the magic alive.”
Then her expression softens, almost nostalgic.
“Andy Gibb. Oh, that boy was beautiful—too beautiful. Those eyes, that voice… he was a melody wrapped in danger. He had this innocence, yet when he looked at me, it wasn’t innocent at all. I knew he wanted me. And maybe, just maybe, part of me wanted to see how far he’d go.”
Her voice dips into something smoky and sweet.
“If I’d given in, I think we’d have burned out like a song played too fast. But what a song it would have been.”
She grins, playful again.
“Then there was Rod Stewart. Wild, wicked, and utterly irresistible. He flirted like breathing, every grin a dare, every glance a promise. One night, he whispered something so scandalous in my ear I nearly dropped my drink. That man was a walking sin in tight pants. I often wondered what would’ve happened if I’d said yes.”
Agnetha laughs, shaking her head as though still scandalized by the memory.
“And then—Frieda. My partner, my sister in song, the other half of ABBA’s soul. On stage, it was harmony. Offstage, sometimes it felt like electricity. The way she’d lean in, the warmth of her voice against mine—it made me wonder what might happen if we ever stopped pretending it was just music.”
Her smile turns secretive, wistful.
“Tom Jones—now there was raw power. His voice could undress you before he even looked your way. He had a magnetism no woman could resist. Once, he whispered something I couldn’t even remember the words of—only the feeling it left behind. Like the air had turned to fire.”
She sighs, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Elvis Presley. The King. He wasn’t a man, he was a force. I never met him properly, but I dreamed about him often. Those hips, that voice, that presence. He made sin look sacred. If he’d ever invited me into his world, I don’t think I’d have had the strength to say no.”
Her voice softens, reverent yet dangerous.
“He was temptation made flesh, and I’d have followed him straight into the flames.”
Finally, she grows quiet, thoughtful, almost entranced by memory.
“David Bowie. He wasn’t from this world. The eyes, the mystery, the way he looked right through you. When I met him once, it felt like time stopped. He made you feel seen and undone all at once. He could’ve asked anything of me, and I would’ve given it willingly.”
Agnetha leans back, laughing freely now, her confessions echoing like the final chorus of a song long held inside.
“At 75, I don’t regret a thing—not what I did, not what I didn’t. But these seven men—they were the soundtrack of my secret fantasies. The songs I never sang out loud.”
She winks, unapologetic, radiant as ever.
“Maybe that’s what kept me young all these years. The music, the desire, the dreams. And now, I don’t care who knows it.”
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