“It always works with rockers,” she said in a genteel accent. She reminded me of a porcelain doll, freshly packaged and sealed, complete with quaint mannerisms.
“I’m going to have Steven Adler. He’s my idol,” she declared delicately.
“Good luck with that,” I said. “There’s a Swedish girl who’s gripped on to him like a koala bear.”
“Oh, I really hope I get him,” she sighed, dreamily. “I’ve wanted him for so long.”
In her fairy voice, she told us how much she liked pain when having sex. Incredible, orgasmic, jaw-breaking, passing out, sweet darling pain. Then, courteous as a lady, she asked whether Lori or I was with any of the band members: she didn’t want to be stepping on anyone’s territory.
After the show, the three of us girls got in the band’s van. I noticed that Jizzy was digging Ostara, while Adler was cuddling the silent Swede on the front seat.
We drove to the edge of Bristol and pulled in at a rundown motel, where truckers took breaks on their long night drives. When this bunch of half-naked, thigh-high-booted chicks nuzzling on the ears of dirty rockers fell through the doors around two a.m., the elderly woman nodding off behind reception looked as if an electric rod had shot up her anal tract. She watched in silence as fifteen of us stumbled up to the rooms.
I thought Jizzy liked pain, so it made sense that he and Ostara took off together. A few girls left a confetti trail of lost-puppy looks after Steven as he stumbled off to his room with the Swede. So I left Lori and Keri in his room and launched a voyeuristic spree down the corridors.
Peeking into Jizzy’s room, I saw Ostara naked and straddling him. She had a big red mark on the side of her arm and he had red raw cuts on his chest, so I figured they’d already consummated their pain. Ostara grinned wide as a canoe as she climbed off to nestle in his arms.
“You gonna come join us?” Jizzy asked.
I ran off.
Though we were exhausted and broke, a few days later Lori and I bought dirt-cheap flights to Belfast to see the band again. We missed them all so much—even their tour manager, Tommy, a big hulk with a handlebar mustache who worked his fucking ass off for the band.
Belfast played host to a gray February sky. The band was performing at the Rosetta Bar, a smashed-up biker’s joint. We were merciless in our dress and makeup. Our dagger stilettos were a motherfucker to walk in on the shards of broken bottles and debris strewn on the floor. Planted on benches inside was a sweaty smorgasbord of pissed-off, middle-aged bikers, animated milky white kids, and pouting teenage girls.
In the back, Steven sat on a couch surrounded by his adoring fans, who dangled on every dribbling word. He was smiling and lovely but seemed to be tipping on the edge of violence.
“Here are my girls!” He beamed when he saw Lori and me. “Come sit here!” he said, motioning to his lap. We kissed his cheeks and positioned ourselves lightly on each thigh. As usual, he ordered everyone to fetch stuff and bring him more alcohol. He was also getting ravishingly stoned. Considering that he was a recovering heroin addict, I asked him whether he really ought to be consuming any mind-altering substances. But he ignored the advice, basking in the adoration oozing from his young boy fans, while Lori and I took off our tops to let our tits sway in the stale dressing-room breeze. That was the most fun these little northern Irish boys were going to get in this town.
“Can you help me take a piss?” Steven mumbled to me, stumbling toward a big sink piled with dishes in the corner. “Honey, can you help me out here?”
I didn’t know exactly what he meant by “help,” but I walked over. He was holding a joint in one hand and a can of beer in the other. Then I understood what he wanted. Everybody’s got something to hide except for me and my monkey. The lyrics rang in my head as I held his dick for him and aimed it at the sink. When he finished peeing, I shook it and put it back in his pants.
By the time we left for the hotel, Steven was a wreck. A broken-looking skinny blond girl followed us, waiting for anyone who would do her. As soon as we all got to Steven’s room, it became clear that it was an utter urgency for him to have Family Guy play at full volume on Tommy’s portable DVD player. Steven then proceeded to get fully naked, which served as a signal for Lori to go down on her knees and start sucking.
“I said suck it, not lick it!” Steven whined in his baby voice. Lori looked crestfallen.
Stung by his whining, I instinctively jumped into my mommy role.
“It’s okay. Let me take over.” I stepped in to relieve Lori from her heinous duty. I did my very fucking best, teasing and blowing him like my very sanity depended on it, to stop him from whining like a baby. It hushed him up for a bit, so he must have liked it. I didn’t. I wasn’t even attracted to him, but I kept going to shut him up.
However I wouldn’t have sex with Steven, and that pissed him off big time. Snarling, he moved on to the skinny blonde, just as she came out of the bathroom, all happy and shiny with one of the band members’ sperm on her face. I hopped over to the other bed and Lori and I snuggled like babies, listening to Steven fucking as Family Guy blared in the background.
Chapter 29
Sometime Between Anal Sex and The Early Hours, I Passed Out.
Although I went on occasional binges, I was never really that into drugs. When I did coke from time to time, it was only to feel glamorous. One trip to Cardiff, Wales, though, ended everything.
It was March 3, 2005, and I was weary and full of stale vomit. All I wanted was to dig a hole in the fresh ground and sleep with the moles. My mind felt like a crumbling building, vacant and dumb with Colombian powder, sleepless nights, and bed-hopping. I was like a doll: fully made up, huge breasts, tiny corseted waist, cherry-plump lips, and vacant eyes. Though I’d had another fuck-feast with Stuart Cable, formerly of the Stereophonics, it hadn’t moved me like the first time back in August. It had been a night of black hair against black hair. My womb was fed from his rock-starriness, but my mind and body were like a flour mill, and ill with cocaine and exercise. Still, I began planning to write a letter to FHM magazine, telling them that since Marilyn Manson had already claimed the title of God of Fuck, then Stuart should be the King of it.
I hadn’t even been thinking of going to see a band that night, let alone the Towers of London. But Lori was pulling at my apron like the whining child she could be. To me it sounded like, “Mommy, Mommy, please can we go and see those bad punk-rock boys we saw last week? We might have some fun this time, since it’s not a home show.”
We had seen the Towers the previous week in London at the Camden Underworld, and it had been a disaster. It was winter, it was cold, and I was too tired to fight the sugar-rushing hyperactive child that Lori had turned into. Hanging around bands had become like food for her. Ever since our detachment from Adler’s Appetite, she’d been like a wounded animal. She needed a pack, a family, as she didn’t have one herself.
We were used to American bands. They knew the game, and carried out the routine with natural choreographed precision. Girls were handpicked by the crew or the band: during sound check, from the front of the stage during the show, or afterward if they hung around to talk to the crew. It was the tour manager’s responsibility to make sure there was sufficient transportation to carry the girls to the hotel and that enough rooms would be available to handle the band’s desires—whether they wanted an orgy, threesomes, or just one-on-ones. That was the etiquette, and it was understood.
The Towers of London were the first English band we’d been with, and even though they looked cock-rock and Mötley Crüe, they didn’t seem to know the game. Englishmen never fail to disappoint me with their all-talk, no-cock act. But we’d been lonely since Adler’s Appetite had gone back to America, so Lori and I had scoured the rock magazines to find somebody new. In our fragile state, the small color photo of the Towers on page seven of NME brought a bit of hope and color into our lives. The one called The Rev looked like Nikki Sixx; therefore, he was going to be mine.
&nbs
p; The Towers were a hair band, but their sound was punky, which isn’t exactly a leg spreader. Still, I stuck myself to the front of the stage, displaying myself to the band, waiting patiently until the end so I could get The Rev and give him some fun.
After the gig, a bunch of music industry types and Kerrang! staffers were milling around the Underworld. Suddenly, The Rev tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a piece of paper with his hotel and phone number written on it in red marker.
But things didn’t turn out so rosy. There was no gathering of the chosen girls, no taxis or buses waiting outside to take us to a hotel, no planned action. And so Lori and I had no choice but to follow The Rev and his hangers-on along Camden High Street, past the market and past late-night garages and dealers. My shoes, of the eight-inch, needle-thin variety, gave my calves a workout hard enough to produce blood blisters. But that was all right: I was gonna have fun with The Rev.
By the time we finally reached the Camden Lock Hotel in Chalk Farm, the initial small crowd had become The Rev Army and I was not even sure that I’d get penetrated that night. And I didn’t give a fuck anymore. I was used to being looked after, to being made to feel special. But this just made me feel like a hobo, a Camden tramp trailing behind people just to get a sniff of The Rev.
He was beautiful, though, and that was the only reason I stuck around. Upstairs in the hotel, the singer, Donny Tourette, had smashed his fist through the window for some reason when he was alone in his room; people were lined up outside his door, banging to get in. I walked into another room, where a Lemmy lookalike was sitting on a bed talking about squirrels while around fifteen people lay about listening intently. A really young girl in a knitted bauble hat was making a cup of tea and putting biscuits around a saucer.
“Hello, I’m the band’s dealer,” the Lemmy guy said, extending his hand and smiling at me. The Rev laughed as I sneered my hello, pissed off that there were so many people around. I looked at The Rev, lying back on the bed with little blond girls scattered around him like sheep. And I knew I didn’t want to be there.
“C’mon, we’re going. This is boring.” I tugged on Lori’s arm moodily.
“No, I wanna stay!” she whimpered and stamped her foot. What a baby. I left her there and went to wait in the foyer.
That’s when I took proper note of Dirk Tourette. He was sitting at the end of the corridor on a window ledge, talking to a stressed-out fat girl. He wasn’t really my type: too short and boyish and blond. As I approached him, the fat girl scurried off upstairs. He was grinny like Top Cat and cool, draped over the ledge with his skin-tight bleached jeans, snaked torso, no shirt, and an inferno of peroxide-blond spikes. He reminded me of someone in a sixties film: an arty boy kitten mixed with Jack Nicholson cool.
“Do you want to know why they call me Dirk Diggler?” The words toppled down his lips.
He unzipped his skin-tight jeans and, I swear, this thing rolled out of his pants the length and width of a well-fed baby’s arm. I got scared. I stood silently in front of him as he laughed a low throaty giggle. Then he turned and kissed me softly, never taking his gaze off me. He had very light blue eyes, just like Stuart. I liked his quirkiness; it fit in with my own weirdness. He wasn’t manly, but he had such raw street-urchin energy that I could smell his free spirit. So when Lori finally came to find me, I left that night with at least a glimmer of hope in my eyes.
Now we were on our way to Cardiff to see them again. I had left home with my huge lead-heavy bubblegum pink bag. Inside were a few of my corsets, my black leather and lace bodysuit, and a licorice medley of shoes: some of them movie starlet, jewel-encrusted, baby pink styles; others angry, rock-chick, PVC types.
On the train, I worked on my letter to FHM about Stuart as Lori painted her face. I’d chosen the same outfit I’d worn to the Kerrang! all-nighter. Though I usually considered all-black outfits bad luck, this time I thought it might bring me luck. I wore a black halter top with an open front and four rows of thin horizontal straps that reined in my breasts, and I finished the look with a short black skirt cinched by a pink-bowed trousseau at the back. Lori had on her shaggy Afghan coat.
The venue was near an old castle about a fifteen-minute walk from the station. The March wind was cut-glass sharp, ripping my thin skin. The gig was over by the time we arrived, and people milled around like black and red ants. As usual, each member of the band was followed by bunches of ecstatic and grateful girls—beads of perspiration on their apple cheeks, bursting with euphoric pride. The band’s reputation must have seeped into all the dark pockets of the country, into every village and every groupie’s bedroom, gnawing at their NME-moist panties and making them go find and conquer this band that gave cock so easily and fed on cocaine. It was still early days for the band, so many offers of free pussy from every corner of the land must have been mind-blowing for five twentysomething-year-old boys.
The Rev was signing autographs as we approached. He seemed shy, unlike Dirk. Afterward, we talked with him for a bit. Then Lori and I decided to go join the others in the band’s tiny dressing room.
“I’m gonna take you with me and fuck your brains out. You’re fucking hot,” Dirk whispered discreetly into the back of my hair as he walked past. It made me feel ecstatic and at peace and validated. He had his guitar out, and started playing some song as giggling girls and boy fans watched adoringly. I sat on a white square table across from him. A Marilyn Monroe–esque blonde cozied up to Dirk, but even as she did, he refused to take his gaze off me. He had effortless charisma, raw street spunk, and cunt-wetting sexuality, and I was hooked.
That night became a blurry blare. I was exhausted from days of drinking, drugging, and fucking, but I still carried on drinking and drugging like a traffic jam.
The band wanted to ravage the town. Dirk wanted me to go with him on the tour bus, but I was being pulled from the other side by Donny, Dirk’s brother. As lead singer, Donny had to have first go with a girl before anyone else in the band. That was the rule.
Eventually, I wriggled free and ended up with Dirk, Snell the drummer, Tommy the bassist, and Stoksie the tour manager. The Marilyn Monroe girl looked close to tears; she gave me looks of venom for taking Dirk’s attention away from her. She walked with Donny, The Rev, and Lori, followed by a couple strippers and hangers-on, to a club called Metros.
I was felt up by everyone on the band’s bus, but only Dirk interested my head and sexual organs. Even in my drunken state I saw him for the beauty he was: charismatic, arty, and free-spirited. My friends thought he was effeminate and looked like a goat.
Exhausted, I downed triple vodkas one after the other to take the edge off. As hordes of hangers-on clung to each band member, I danced in the middle of the floor, making sure everyone noticed me. The Rev danced with one of the stripper girls—a cute, petite brunette. Grabbing her away from him, I stuck my tongue down her throat. Then I grabbed The Rev and stuck my tongue down his throat as well. I brought the two of them together, and the three of us kissed. Just to make sure I was getting enough attention, I took off my top to a Franz Ferdinand song. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a guy who was so hot I decided to blow him right there. By now my head was underwater and slow, and I felt myself being grabbed by someone.
“You’re comin’ wiv me!” It was Donny, lead singer and appointed brat.
“No, I’m looking for Dirk. Where is he?”
“He’s over in the corner.”
“I’m going outside,” I said to Donny. “Just stay here and I’ll be back.”
“Put your top on,” he said.
I’d left my bag downstairs, even though I had £100 in it from my belly-dancing tips. A vaguely okay-looking policeman walked past; I tried to kiss him because I’d never kissed a policeman, and I liked uniforms.
“Oh, there you are.” Donny came running up the stairs into the cold of the night. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, grabbing my arm hard, digging his nails into my alcohol-soaked flesh.
Top Photo: Mad
Pete
“But my bag is inside. And what about Dirk? At least let me get my bag and coat.”
I ran downstairs and found my bag and my long brown coat right where I had put them. People had been kind not to steal them.
By the time I left the club, I was falling apart. I had never felt so close to complete obliteration before. I just wanted to lay down and die. But Donny was waiting for me outside. He hailed a taxi. After giving the name of the hotel to the cab driver, he turned to me and started eating my face. I was his catch for the night, and I was too out of it to protest, even though he didn’t interest me in the slightest. He was like a hyena, salivating all over me without a hint of a smile or a flicker of warmth. It was a ritual of the beast: do drugs, catch meat, and feast. So I shut the fuck up, lay still, and let him tuck in.
We reached our destination and I saw yolk-yellow lights through the window. The place was big and glamorous, not what I expected after the Camden Lock Hotel. Donny paid the driver and dragged me into the lobby. By this time, my head was so fucked I was ready for a lobotomy. After lugging my sodden corpse upstairs, we walked through mazes and mazes of corridors that reminded me of The Shining. These were bright corridors, and I wanted bleakness. Suddenly, Donny stopped pulling me and turned to me. Undoing his skin-tight jeans, he brought out his huge erection and pressed into me.
I guess they really are brothers, I thought.
“Lie down, lie down here,” he panted hurriedly, as if his life depended on fucking me right there in those sunshine-bright corridors.
Looking at the bacon-and-egg-colored patterned carpet made me gag. I’d had no dinner, so there was nothing to bring up except the vodkas I had gulped down earlier. “Donny, no, please, I can’t. Not here. I feel sick. Please.”
“Okay, I’ll lie down and you can sit on my cock. Just c’mon here.” Donny lay down as if positioning himself for an operation, and I hitched my mini-skirt up and pulled my panties aside. I didn’t want to be fucking in the blinding lights in the corridor of a hotel; I wanted to run and hide, to find some dark room and pass out. But I climbed on top and let him fuck me the way he wanted anyway. All I kept thinking was that someone was going to open a room door and see us, and that I was blowing my chances with Dirk by having sex with his brother.
The Last Living Slut Page 10
