The Last Living Slut

by Roxana Shirazi

  “Hey, Roxie, have you been walkin’ around topless like that?” Tracii said as he tolerated his blowjob. “Fucking love this chick, man! I thought you’d be with Scot.”

  “That’s not how you deep-throat, honey.” It pained me to see someone giving such bad head. “You have to loosen your throat and breathe through your nose.” Even in the murky shadows of the room, I could see her justifiably give me a fuck-off look.

  I walked back into the corridor, where mayhem was spreading; the police had been called. Body after body scampered off into one room after another. What a fabulous sight! I walked past a room and spotted Ostara sitting on a bed, surrounded by four members of the Rebels. She looked so serene that she reminded me of Titania, the queen of fairies in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The hotel staff, hunting for any further signs of mischief, passed by in the corridor and saw me topless, so I decided it was time to go back to Scot.

  Inside Scot’s room, I found Blacky squatting in the bathroom, and Scot telling him to be quiet. I told Blacky playtime was over.

  “But I can’t leave. The hotel people will kick me out ’cause I already got a warning.”

  I felt bad about getting rid of Scot’s little play-buddy. I turned to look at Scot and saw the sweet way he was looking back at me—and it scared me. I had to keep it together. He was leaving in the morning.

  He held me so tight that night, like lovers in a video for a sugary ballad. We kissed and had sex, and I cried at the insane intensity.

  “I’ve been feeling like shit,” he said. “When I saw you tonight, I almost didn’t want to spend it with you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He looked at the wall.

  “It’s because I’m feeling things,” he said in an almost whisper. “I like you.”

  “You mean you like me as more than just a friend?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

  “Yeah,” he nodded and looked away.

  I hugged him and kissed his cheek. I just wanted that moment. I didn’t care about tomorrow or consequence. I wanted the smell of his hair, his sweat, his chest.

  That night, he joked about the phrase “I love you,” but I had to believe in this fairy tale. The way he looked at me and held me and kissed me that night, I knew I had fallen for him, and I knew it was going to be a glass ride to misery.

  In the pale sunshine of the morning, I walked hand in hand with Scot in his woolly hat and baggy coat to get coffee. We were silent as thieves. People gawked at me in my thigh-high boots and tiny skirt, but even the old lady who stopped in her tracks and shook her head at me didn’t matter. I was angry and bitter, knowing I wouldn’t be with him again—my darling, my love, the one who had taken my heart.

  Disneyland was officially closed.

  I cried so much when he left. I had an audition that day for a short film, and on the train there I couldn’t stop crying. I failed the audition: it was for a happy part.

  Archiesicecream.com

  Chapter 37

  Synyster Gates from Avenged Sevenfold Unleashed His Hot Pee All Over My Breasts in The Moonlight.

  After Scot, I was like a blind bull in a china shop. Rock ‘n’ roll was supposed to be a wild and free playground, but all those warm romantic feelings kept getting in the way. I needed to have some fun. I needed to forget Scot. I could not miss him. So I went to hang out with Avenged Sevenfold. I’d heard from girls on the scene that they were the kind of boys who’d show you a good time, the kind who’d make your troubles disappear.

  They were from Huntington Beach, California, and they looked like an instant cake batter mix of inbred serial killer: part white supremacist with a pinch of rabid animal. Even looking at a photo of them for too long scared me—especially the lead singer, M. Shadows, and their drummer, who just happened to have the same name as the Towers guitarist: The Rev. I wasn’t a huge fan of their sound. Even though they had ditched their hardcore screaming, they were still too nu-metal for me.

  Though their look seemed aggressive at first glance, their reputation for excessive behavior unfortunately reeked of public-relations press release. Like many young metal bands, beneath all the biker grease, charcoal-thick eye makeup, and metallic teeth, I had a feeling they were just soft, Cheerios-fed, Californian beach boys.

  I got ready for the gig with Lori in her windowless room in a basement flat she was renting in East London. I wore a buckled and belted metallic dress.

  The Forum loomed dark and large in Kentish Town, a rough part of London. Litter and dog shit decorated the ground in proud detail. We walked to the side of the venue: me marching ahead of Lori, swaying my hips and sticking out my chest on an adrenaline-pumped mission to find the backstage doors.

  I found the backstage entrance on a drab and industrialized little street on the side of the venue. The all-too-familiar site of tour buses, roadies, and technical gear gave me a head rush of endorphins, and I felt lured into a warm cocoon. I banged my fist hard against a huge set of dirty blue doors with a security camera fixed overhead. A concrete-bodied but cuddly-looking guy opened the door with amusement, like a giant looking down on a mouse. I hated dealing with security. It was futile and unnatural.

  He looked us up and down. I wished Lori had also undone her coat buttons, so he could see her in all her beauty. She was very slow sometimes.

  “Hi.” I smiled, tender but self-important. “How are you?”

  His smile was a half moon of gapped teeth. I could tell he was sweet and lovely, and hoped he’d be easy to deal with.

  “Can we come in?”

  “And who are you?” Another guy appeared behind him with an equally warm and kind face.

  “We’re the band’s entertainment.”

  “And what would you do for the band?”

  “Entertain them.”

  “Are you groupies?”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” People were so ’80s.

  Since it was murderously cold—and we had tickets in our hands—they let us in. Just inside, there was a little area with security cameras and orange lights, with a set of huge doors on the left and a set of steps to the right.

  “Can we go upstairs and say hi to the band? The main band, I mean. Avenged Sevenfold.” We had to be direct and to the point, and my lack of clothing supported me in that.

  “I’ll have to go and talk to them. You wait here.”

  People with laminates and glasses scuttled and bustled between the stairs and the doors, which led to the side of the stage.

  A few minutes later, the security guard returned. “You have to wait a few more minutes. But only you can come up,” he said, pointing at me. Lori was on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

  I heard a voice crackle on his radio, and he motioned for me to go up with him. I bet he just wants me to suck his cock, I thought. Nothing comes this easy without favors. We climbed past the first floor, past the opening act’s dressing area, past tiny rooms with mirrors and graffiti and belts on the ground, until we reached the third floor.

  “Wait here,” he said, then walked up the stairs and knocked on a lone door tucked in at the end of the corridor.

  Waiting mid-stairs, underneath oily orange lights, I noticed that the corridors looked and felt Victorian, like an old opera house. Avenged Sevenfold came down, silent and heavy. They looked prettier in the flesh, especially M. Shadows, whose face was actually less that of a ravaged serial killer than that of a lovely little boy. That damn marketing department didn’t do them justice.

  “Hey.” I looked up at them. Smiled. Chatted with M. Shadows a little. They were about to go onstage, so I asked, “Do you guys wanna party with me and my friend after the show?”

  “Sure. But first we just have to go to an industry meeting thing right afterward.”

  As they made their way to the door leading to the stage, I kissed them one by one on the cheek. Cute as puppies.

  As Lori and I watched from near the stage door, they roared, raged, and rampaged through their set, entertaining and enflaming the young c
rowd into sweaty hysteria and ecstatic fury. I watched Synyster Gates and his fingers make that guitar wail and moan, seducing and hypnotizing the audience. He had smelled of blue-collar machismo when I had kissed him earlier. His guitar fingers danced a frenzy on those strings. I wanted him to play me.

  Five blond girls with piercings on their face, white hair bleached within an inch of its life, and black, gritty jeans began to make their way to the side door where we stood. The security guy didn’t seem happy about this fivesome of Barbie dolls. He gestured a “no” to them. I didn’t understand why: they were hot, in a synthetic kind of way.

  “You’ll have to stand back,” he told them sternly, beckoning me to come forward. “Don’t worry. You’re the only one that’s gonna go upstairs.” Again, I hoped he wasn’t expecting any sexual favors.

  After the lights came up, people emptied the venue in droves as security guards hollered at them to vacate. Lori and the peroxides were tipsily fooling around and dancing with each other. I stood still and sober, waiting impatiently by the door. Finally, the security guy’s scratchy radio talked to him, and he signaled for me to go up.

  “The main band has gone to an—” he started to say.

  “I know. I know. An industry thing. Can I go up anyway and see the other band?”

  The name Bullets and Octane was printed on the white paper on the wall. I hadn’t heard of them, but I didn’t care; I just wanted to get out of the audience area and into a dressing room.

  “Have fun, naughty girl.” The security guy winked at me as I walked upstairs.

  “Thank you for being so nice.” I waved.

  As I walked up, I saw a guy with a laminate around his neck. He told me he was Brent, the bassist in Bullets and Octane, and sweetly offered to take me up to their dressing room.

  When we got there, three other guys looked at me timidly amid the clutter. The room had a Victorian texture, with deep velvet sofas and ruby curtains.

  “You want a drink?” a voice offered. I shook my head no to an alcoholic beverage and nodded yes to a soft drink.

  I was sitting on the sofa, trying to remember who was who and wondering what I was going to do with four very gorgeous rockers, when the drummer decided to take a chance. He was the drunkest and therefore the bravest. Sitting me on his lap, he stroked my thighs. And I, in turn, started to rub the torso of James, one of the guitarists. Brent the bassist was such a gentleman. And Gene, the lead singer, could have been London LeGrand’s double. He was tall and lanky like London, and his face and mannerisms were similar.

  “So you’re here!” Lori blustered in, breathless.

  “You better not have done anything with the security guy,” I snapped.

  “No, they just let me in!” she protested. “Honestly.”

  For the first time, I really noticed how beautiful she was, with her natural flawless skin, apple cheeks, and long blond hair thick as chips flowing around her face like a mermaid’s.

  “Come join us,” a voice from the back softly commanded. A fucking roadie had succeeded in camouflaging himself into the furniture.

  “Hey, this is our tour manager, Bobby,” Brent said. “He’s the fucking best, man. Fucker has had to put up with us.” It wasn’t the first time I was struck by the pure affection between bands and their crew. It was an intimacy only achieved by having to witness every experience, every emotion, and every bodily fluid on a tour twenty-four hours a day.

  I felt uncomfortable with the crew being present in a situation where physical intimacy was about to occur with a band. Lori was already whispering sweet nothings into my hair and hugging me. I wanted to suck her perky tender breasts like they were chicken.

  I liked the company of this lovely band. They were fresh meat. They had an air of all-American wholesomeness and fresh-cut grass, which made them pheromone-crazed for a girl in rain-soaked, sleazy London. We partied a little, but a couple photographers and more crew filtered into the dressing room. It felt invasive. Secretly, I wanted the intruders to leave. They slowly trickled out but the odd amateur journalist-type remained, mulling in the corner.

  This scene—inside a band’s dressing room—was the one place I felt truly comfortable and content. Watching rockers playing their instruments onstage was foreplay. Making out with the ravishing rockers afterward was the only way I got off.

  I placed tiny kisses on James’ naked back, and he turned around to face me. From behind, Ty, the drummer, slid his hands between my thighs while Gene fooled around with Lori. The remaining intruders left to the drone of moans and kisses. We were all at play, tremoring to pre-orgasm, when a 250-pound, tattooed, white, skinhead security guy crashed into the room.

  “Get out!” he trumpeted. He looked like an escaped convict.

  “This is our dressing room,” Gene said.

  “You have to leave this place,” he insisted vacuously, as if quoting a manual.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Ty asked from behind me, although his dick had gone soft by now.

  “Just leave,” the security guy echoed.

  “Hey man, this is our dressing room. Can you please leave?”

  It was a standoff: a tableau of soft-spoken Midwestern gallantry amid topless girls versus a mentally challenged Cockney skinhead. What a damned pleasure.

  The skinhead shuffled closer. “You better get your stuff and leave the building.” His pink cheeks were fluffed up like dough.

  “What have we done?” Gene and Ty asked, trying to sound chivalrous.

  I knew what they had done. They had dared to make out with girls in their dressing room. I could tell from the way the skinhead feigned a pantomime baddie look for Lori and me, that seeing other people engaged in sexual activity twisted and gnarled his insides.

  “It’s okay, guys,” I said, grabbing my clothes. “We’ll go. You stay. It’s your dressing room.”

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” The guys stood up, pissed off that their pussy was being taken away.

  The guard waddled after us and held us back as the band left the building and climbed aboard their tour bus.

  “They’re not comin’ in.” He pushed Lori and me into a fenced-off coop, where hundreds of fans stood huddled in the freezing blackness with markers and cameras. In a flash, Lori made a run for it, slipping through an opening in the fence. I felt my arm yanked as the guard’s sausage fingers dug into my flesh. I screamed, surprised and confused by his intense force. I tried to wriggle my arm from his grip, but he was still as stone. I then tried to appeal to his sense of logic.

  “Please. Why are you doing this? I’m just standing here.”

  I looked around at the scattering of fans, and everything became a coal-smudged blur. His fingernails, deep in my skin, had me choking back ribbons of tears. Suddenly, he started whispering obscenities in my ear, calling me every foul name he could. His words came thick and fast, unexpected, as if I were his sworn enemy. I looked over the fence to the tour bus, and saw Ty and James running over. They started pulling my other arm.

  “If you take her on your bus, I’ll make sure you never play on a stage in this country again,” the guard announced. Fortunately, the band didn’t care. They just wanted to get me out of his claws. My bruises stung raw as I climbed on the bus. Leaning my head outside the window, I saw the fans still waiting and screaming, and I soothed my arm against the cold of the glass.

  The bus stood still, waiting for the Avenged Sevenfold boys to get on the neighboring bus so both bands could make their way to Heathrow together. Ty got me a cranberry juice, and Lori and Brent were fascinated by the vast amounts of pubic hair abundant in the old German magazines they were looking at. Gene was in his bunk with a girl.

  Under the table, James slid his fingers in between my thighs, but he was too all-American lukewarm apple pie to take it further. He needed more time. And I needed him to lay me. So I tried as hard as I could, kissing him and moaning so he would put out. But he wasn’t man enough.

  So when the Avenged Sevenfold boys came on
the bus a little later, I readily agreed to go with them back to their bus.

  “The Rev”—Avenged Sevenfold’s drummer—“wants us,” Lori whispered excitedly.

  But I wasn’t interested in him. His face was squished and angry; he looked like a rodent on crack. I dug Synyster Gates. So I walked over to Synyster, who was standing by the bus door.

  “Hey.”

  Beneath all that rock-star image, he was just a young boy. I wasn’t sure what he thought of me, but I wanted him.

  I was polite.

  “Would you like to do some water sports?” I asked charitably.

  Water sports was something I’d been curious to try. It was a power thing as well as a submissive thing, which I enjoyed. It was also dirty and sleazy, which gave me a throbbing clit and made me want to conquer the world.

  “You ever done it?”

  “No. I haven’t,” he whispered with a cute twinkly smile. God, he was hot.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  I was low-key, trying not to be too loud. Synyster followed me outside, and it occurred to me he might feel obliged to do this to preserve his bad-boy metal persona, just like Donny had. I felt bad.

  I kneeled in the grit and took my clothes off, anxious to avoid soiling my hand-embroidered corset. It was freezing cold, and my nipples stiffened into bullets. Synyster put down his beer and unzipped his heavy-metal pants, full of chains, studs, and assorted accessories. I smiled up at him and he smiled back. He reminded me of Slash: quiet and reserved, but with a heavy presence.

  “Do it to me, baby,” I purred with my boobs pushed together for effect.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I want it.”

  He unleashed his hot pee like a fountain all over my breasts, white and firm in the moonlight. I held my head back to expose my neck. The rush was like a roller coaster. I felt so turned on doing water sports with Synyster Gates. When he was done, we both stood up silently, and he took me on the bus to clean up.