The Last Living Slut

by Roxana Shirazi

  “Go ahead,” I dared her. “Flirt with him.”

  A naughty glimmer skimmed across her eyes as she threw a bunch of sexual innuendos on the screen.

  “I really want to fuck you,” Scott typed in response. “Come over to my place. I’ll go get some beers.” Then he gave her his address.

  I felt sick.

  Scott knew how close Carla and I were. He knew I was only in LA for two weeks. I was so hurt and humiliated.

  Minutes later, he texted me: “I actually can’t see you tonight. I’m just gonna go hang out with my buddies and chill out at their place.”

  In the meantime, on the screen, another message from him appeared for Carla: “What time are you coming over? I’m just going to get those drinks.”

  “I told you so.” Carla looked at me sympathetically.

  All night, as I sat at her place wishing I still drank, Scott kept texting her, asking what was taking her so long. I felt sick.

  “Cut him out of your life,” Carla said.

  I didn’t listen.

  At six a.m., I was still going fucking crazy. I called Scott and left a message. A couple hours later, he called me back. I was hysterical, calling him every name under the sun.

  “How could you do this to me?” I screamed. “She’s my friend. My fucking friend. And her boyfriend is your buddy who’s helped you so many times. How could you?”

  An hour later we met outside a nearby café. My face was puffy, and my voice hoarse. He fell all over himself apologizing.

  “I’m so sorry,” he begged. “Will you forgive me, Roxana? Please. I was so drunk and stupid. I never meant to hurt you.”

  I cried quietly as he drove to Venice Beach. It was a beautiful sunny day and we walked along the beach holding hands. He sat me down in the sand, bought me lunch, and started kissing my feet and hands. As his face came close to mine to kiss my lips, I smelled something.

  “Your mouth stinks of pussy!” I pulled away in disgust. “Were you fucking someone last night? Be fucking honest.”

  “I went to the ’bow last night and picked up this chick. She came back to my place.” He smiled like he was proud.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You couldn’t fuck Carla, one of my closest friends. So you went out and picked up some whore at the ’bow?”

  “Yeah. Look,” he said in his puppy-dog voice, “I also told your friend, Jenna, that I really liked her.”

  I still don’t know why I didn’t cut him out of my life then. Maybe I liked pain. Maybe I felt I deserved to be treated like a piece of shit.

  Instead, I just sat on the beach and shook. He couldn’t let his wet cock rest, even for just the two weeks I was there. I listened to him apologize and I let him hold me, as though that would make it all right.

  That night, Scott tried hard to be romantic. He kissed me, held my hand, massaged me. I slept at his place, the sheets reeking of perfume and crusty pussy. It was hard for me, but I really liked him. In the morning, while we were still asleep, there was a thunderous bang at his door.

  “Scotty, please. Open the door. I really need you. Please!” A teary-voiced girl was banging on his door. Scott’s face went white.

  “Do not say anything!” he whispered to me. “If you do, you’re out of my life!”

  “Who is she?” I whispered back.

  “Shut up! Stay quiet!” He put his finger to his mouth.

  We sat there while this girl screamed and banged on the door, yelling, “Scotty, I know you’re in there. Please open the door! I need you today. I have an interview!”

  Eventually, she left. Scott waited two minutes, until she was out of sight, and then went after her. He left me alone for over an hour while he did what he had to do with her. And I still adored him—though he was nothing compared to Dizzy. Nothing.

  Chapter 57

  I went back to London feeling like I had been kicked in the teeth. It all felt so familiar. I wasn’t getting love when I desperately needed it, and so I found myself back in my comfort zone.

  Twelve worn-out rockers and one girl—me—in the belly of a hotel with three ’80s hair-metal bands: Faster Pussycat, BulletBoys, and Enuff Z’nuff. I was wearing my new flowery prom dress, and I was horny. My insides danced a ceremonial frenzy. I was holding the hand of Faster Pussycat bassist Eric Stacy, the most authentic old-school rocker there. He was the rawest male animal, squalid in his appeal—a gravelly, multiple-rehab visitor with heavily black-linered eyes and tattooed, needle-tracked arms. He gazed at me with the adoring look of a pining cat, as if I were his savior that night, giving him momentary relief from the status quo and pulling him into the realm of rock stars again. My body seared with the thrill.

  Eric took me to his room, which he shared with Todd, their new Canadian guitarist. Todd had been wanting to take pornographic photos of me for weeks, but he seemed shy now. I found his little country-boy naïveté nauseating—like looking at a gorgeous piece of cake and then discovering it’s been marinated in animal fat.

  Eric and I sat on the bed. A tiny, doll-size merch girl called Miss Fifi, a fixture on the scene whenever an American band was in town, got the message and vacated the room. I lap-danced slowly for him, grinding my naked crotch on his studded leather trousers, which were drenched in chains. Potholes decorated Eric’s arms—remnants of years of drug use. To someone else it might have been putrid flesh, but to me it was rock ‘n’ roll. His eyes were coagulated with liner and his abundant jet-black hair was tied with a red bandana. I was starting to unzip his pants when a heavy pounding on the door interrupted us.

  “Eric, open up. You have to open up now!”

  It was Brett, the fucking drummer.

  “I need to speak to Eric,” he said. Shaking like a lamb, Eric pulled up his zipper and left the room. I heard whispers punctuated by raised voices outside. Moments later, Brett marched in like a headmaster.

  “Eric loves his wife,” he explained. “You are too tempting for him. Please leave.”

  “I just wanna get laid. Please!” I stamped my feet. “Tell him to come here and say it to me himself.”

  Brett left and I wondered what had happened to rock ‘n’ roll.

  Eric shuffled in with his head hung low, weeping like a child. I held him and let him cry into my back. “Please, I love my wife—and you are hot,” he sobbed with his face in his hands.

  “Okay, sweetie,” I said in my best mommy-is-here kind of voice. “We don’t have to do anything. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

  “Okay then.” Eric nodded and wiped his eyes.

  “Don’t cry. Let’s go out for something to eat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, huh?” I took his hand. Of course, he was even sexier now that he was crying. I found it incredibly hot.

  We went into the room next door to get the rest of the band. As we did, I cursed loudly that I’d probably been in every single room in the Camden fucking Lock Hotel. Eric shot me a look, worried. But I was actually laughing at the absurdity of it all. Todd and Brett were surprised to see me smile, as if they’d been priming themselves for a monumental fit. Eric took my hand, and Brett chaperoned us to the late night café around the corner from the hotel to make sure we didn’t suddenly forget our deal and start having sex in the middle of the kebab-hungry crowds.

  We ate junk food at a table surrounded by brickies and Chavs, with Eric holding fast to my hand. I felt like we were on a 1950s high school date, accompanied by a sanctimonious parent.

  When Brett went for a bathroom break, Eric asked me to score him some heroin from the street dealers lurking outside.

  “No! Bad!” I slapped his arm. “I will not allow you to do that.”

  Later, Brent Muscat, the guitarist for Faster Pussycat, invited me to stay at his and Brett the cockblocker’s room as Eric trotted off to bed. I started off in Brett’s bed, but soon slipped over onto Brent’s. In the dense darkness of the room, he and I started making out. I slowly moved down on his body to get him nice and stiff to penetrate me
. At last, I was gonna get laid. I shook with happiness.

  “No, no, no!” Brett suddenly screamed. “He’s not allowed. Brent is married, too!” Brett had become the fuck police.

  “But I’m horny!” I kicked my feet, as Brent lay next to me quietly, blue-balled. “Please!”

  “Oh, we can just cuddle. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?” Brent tried to be helpful.

  “No, it would not, for fuck’s sake! I just want cock. Go and find me a guy from one of the bands,” I ordered them both. “I’m horny and I need to get fucked.”

  “What about one of the crew?” Brett said. “I can go find one.”

  “Do I look like I fuck roadies?” I was livid. “You’re the one stopping me from getting laid. Go find me an American rocker.”

  He left the room then returned a few minutes later. “Everyone is asleep,” he said sheepishly.

  “Right. That’s it. I’ll go take care of this myself.”

  Walking around half naked in the corridors of the Camden Lock Hotel was as familiar to me as brushing my teeth. I knocked on door after door until an amazingly leggy dude with a gruff voice opened the door to room 112.

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe a goddess like you would want to come to my room.” It was Chip from Enuff Z’nuff.

  I weighed my options. Chip wasn’t hot, but he’d been sweet and lovely to me on the tour so far, and made me warm with his paternal manner. I went in.

  I took off my clothes and lay on the bed. We got cozy under the sheets and cuddled. Immediately, Chip started going down on me, which was my most reviled sexual activity. But I was tired and horny, and since I didn’t really want to have sex with him, I lay there and let him get on with it.

  As he was eating me out, suddenly an earthquake rumbled under the sheets. His mouth, his tongue, were Godlike—better than any vibrator I had, better than any porn I had jerked off to. I shuddered and exploded my cum into his mouth. He kept making me come, as if I were a slot machine. He was a magnificent artist.

  “You’re so beautiful—and so nice, too,” he said in his rough, gangstery Chicago voice.

  I let him cuddle me safely in his sweeping, warm eyes. Chicago. I love Chicago.

  In the morning, I got up and, like a bitch, went back to Eric.

  Having fun with bands was the playground I needed to live in to stay in one piece. But it was also a quicksand marsh full of land mines, and I never knew which one could end up being love, the one that destroyed me. When I stepped on a mine and triggered that love, I needed to go back to the playground of rock ‘n’ roll to cleanse myself. It was a vicious circle.

  Chapter 58

  Have you Guys ever Double-Penetrated a Girl? I asked, Gently. I didn’t want to Shock Them.

  Soon after I got my master’s, I started thinking about going for a PhD so I could teach at university. The idea made my mother ecstatic. After my experience with Dizzy, she was petrified by the thought of me going anywhere near “garbage, low-class psychopaths that are not worth your intelligence,” as she put it. She also hated my belly dancing, which she considered beneath me. She didn’t understand that rock ‘n’ roll was my plaything, my outlet, full of fun and volcanic orgasms—and that my sexual appetite could only be sated by American rockers. It had consumed my life.

  I was especially horny that summer, and dying for some real rock ‘n’ roll. I needed a real man, one who knew how to fuck me like a rock star. Thankfully, Tracii Guns came to town.

  Tracii Guns had been the original guitarist in L.A. Guns. After parting ways with Phil Lewis, the band’s singer, he now led his own version of the band. With him was Jeremy Guns, as the posters always billed him; the promoters liked the idea that Jeremy (who’d also been with Tracii in Brides of Destruction) was Tracii’s son, though they weren’t actually related. Everyone knew Tracii wasn’t Jeremy’s dad, but the elaborate charade gave the band a father-son trademark. To me, Jeremy was just a cutesy little hedgehog-haired kid I’d cock-teased a year or so ago on the Brides of Destruction tour when I’d been with Scot Coogan.

  I had never paid much attention to Tracii, except to acknowledge his presence on the Brides tour briefly when he kept teasing Scot and I about our intimacies. But after the tour, my friend Abigail had salivated to me about his sexual prowess—and she hardly talked like that about anyone.

  The L.A. Guns gig was in Crewe, another northern shit hole. So I packed up my dildo, condoms, KY Jelly, and high heels and got on the train. Across the aisle from me, a young Pakistani boy looked at me with hope, and I smiled. He clearly had a quivering wish of getting his penis in the vicinity of my vagina. I could see the sheer need in his lamb eyes. In my bag, nestling among my warm silk clothes, my dildo suddenly made a buzzing noise and the Pakistani boy jumped.

  It was pitch-black in Crewe. The venue was surprisingly roomy, with the charm of a working men’s pub. Several layers of flooring, like layer cake, twisted into dark, cryptic corners. The Red Star Rebels, who were opening for L.A. Guns, greeted me as they always did: with japes and piratey smirks and a bottle of port, which was an extension of their lead singer Blacky’s hand.

  I went down to the basement, where hordes of fat, depressed biker types watched old-fashioned movie clips on a flimsy screen. I wore slutty clothes—clothes to get me fucked to orgasm—and stood at the front of the room, getting disgusted looks from the females in attendance. In particular, a fat goth girl, who kept telling anyone who would listen about being on tour with L.A. Guns and meeting Buckcherry, was shooting vitriol my way. She was moon pale, raven-haired, and rotund as a barrel. She talked loudly so I’d be sure to hear how many bands she had hung out with.

  “I’ve been on the whole tour. I got to hang out with Tracii.” I could actually see her chest puffing up with pride.

  “That’s nice.” I smiled at her.

  “I’m really close to them now,” she continued. “Maybe, if I have time, I’ll introduce you to them later.”

  “I’m gonna be busy,” I said. “Getting fucked by them.”

  A roadie with a horse face had been eyeing me all night. He had long straggly hair and bony features. The Red Star Rebel boys kept whispering to me that he had a huge dick, as if that would magically beef up his roadie status. Eventually, he got up the nerve to approach me.

  “I want you up there on the stage when L.A. Guns come on,” he said in a hoarse voice. “There’s a song I want you to dance to.”

  Joining me onstage was a balloon-like blonde with Miss Piggy hair and trotters to match, who was sweating plentifully at her escalating status there onstage with an American rock band. I like soft girls—young, innocent soft girls in particular—so I grabbed her crotch and sucked her mouth, eating her tender teenage face, which smelled of home hair-dye kit and cheap perfume. There was a brunette, too, skinny and Bambi-like, hopping around in glitter jeans. I kept my tongue out of her throat.

  When we came offstage, the horse-faced, allegedly horse-cocked roadie put his head to one side, as if he were expecting a lump of sugar.

  “Gimme whatcha got!” he sneered. I sneered back as I walked past him to go to the toilets.

  When I returned, he was still standing there waiting for me, his mouth split in a smoky-toothed grin. I ran over to Tracii.

  “Hello, Daddy.”

  “Hello, sweet pea.” He gave me a hug. Then Jeremy wandered over. It was weird seeing them without Scot Coogan. I ruffled Jeremy’s hair. I wanted to spend the night with both of them.

  On the way back to the hotel, I sat at the front of the bus, my legs closed tight for fear of the roadie. He was still sneering at me. White bits of spit had caked in the corner of his mouth, as if I were a prime rib he was preparing to devour. I could practically smell the sperm, straining to fountain out from his trousers and splash in my lap.

  In Tracii’s room, Bambi girl and her companion, a dowdy introvert, smoked Marlboro Lights with Paul Black, the lead singer. I was stuck with the roadie. I dreaded the prospect of becoming his reward, of being
subjected to some sort of groupie-etiquette fine print just because he’d gotten me on the bus.

  So I ran over to Tracii, and the two of us started getting high. He was a stoner—loved smoking the herb. Tonight he was smoking out of an empty Coke can. We stumbled and giggled for a while, until Paul and his two companions got the hint and left. The roadie stuck around for what seemed like forever, staring at us. When I buried my head deep in Tracii’s neck, the roadie huffed and puffed, stamped his foot, and slammed the door behind him.

  Jeremy, the “son,” was sitting on the corner of his bed, fiddling on his mobile phone, trying not to look at Tracii and me, who by now were in a state of undress and in a semi-sixty-nine position.

  Poor young lamb. “Watch me, Jeremy,” I purred to him with urgency. “Watch us.” I spread my legs in front of him as I let Tracii fuck me. Jeremy watched from the safety of his bed as my tits pumped up and down with Tracii’s every masterful thrust.

  “Come here, come to me,” I whispered, my voice cracking with moans. Jeremy came closer. He touched my arm shyly, and then all along my breasts. He started massaging them and putting my nipples in his mouth to suck on them. I could see the outline of his erection in his jeans.

  “Jeremy, get your cock out and join in,” Tracii encouraged his “son.”

  Oh, this is so cool, I thought. As Tracii pounded me, I sucked Jeremy’s cock and within a couple of minutes he came in my mouth. I let the cum dribble down my chin. It made a gurgling sound.

  “Did ya come already?” Tracii chided him, as any father would.

  “Yeah,” Jeremy said, staring meekly at the ground. He fell back on his bed, eyes rolled up. I pulled Tracii out of me, walked over to Jeremy, and kissed him all over his mouth, letting his own cum stick to his face.