That was the moment when I understood it all at last.
I was full of heart, full of beautiful love, full of the sunshine my mother and grandmother had fed me every morning, noon, and night in Iran. I wasn’t the simple, stagnant, sexless, meek, subservient accessory these rockers seemed to want as girlfriends. I had tried my best to be, but my mind had kept getting in the way. I had too much passion, sexuality, and wild spirit for them.
I was coming to terms with the fact that I was made up of two very strong, conflicting sides. One was the academic, whose home was the university library and whose passion was absorbing books on gender theory and postmodernism. The other was the nymphomaniac in love with rock ‘n’ roll, who only felt at home sidestage at a concert watching her favorite bands and lovers performing.
Living these two separate lives had exhausted me. It had split me in half.
But that moment of self-knowledge wasn’t enough to heal me. When I went back to England a few nights later, I began to get panic attacks. A weird feeling of fear would come over me, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Then I started feeling disconnected from reality, as if my senses were underwater. This scared me even more, which only increased my panic attacks. And then came the horrific nightmares. I felt drained. I would sleep all day, and wake up with my left hand shaking. I felt like I was losing my sanity.
Around April of that year, my doctor finally checked me into a psychiatric ward. The psychiatrist there diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. I was given Valium and antidepressants, and put in the ward for a month.
It was a hellish existence. Patients wandered the corridors in a zombie-like state. Some had Parkinson’s disease; others had post-traumatic symptoms like I did. We had to have the lights out by eleven p.m. and were awakened at seven a.m. Even so, I had no desire to leave, although I could have checked myself out whenever I wanted. I couldn’t understand why I was so ill—why the panic attacks and nightmares, so horrific they seemed sent from Satan, had engulfed my existence. I wondered if my shredded heart had made my brain give up on me. I had been so in love, and suffered one crushing letdown after another in the space of fourteen months at the hands of two men I had absolutely adored. I think I was experiencing a nervous breakdown. But the antidepressants eventually helped numb my heart to the pain of Dizzy and Scott.
I had once thought of the world of rock ‘n’ roll as a wondrous place, full of free love and free spirits. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t the sex that had led me to this place—it was the love. And in rock ‘n’ roll, love is a dirty, dirty word. Perhaps the backstage world was actually too conservative and limiting for my wild spirit. Rock ‘n’ roll had sold itself as a utopian playground, but as a groupie I wasn’t allowed to be as wild as I wanted to be. What was required of me was just a mere fraction of who I was. I wanted free love, creativity, an abundance of sex and poetry, broken taboos; I wanted to be taken places I’d never gone before. I wanted that thrill I’d felt climbing down into my grandmother’s cellar all those years ago.
This is why my encounter with the embodiment of rock ‘n’ roll, Nikki Sixx, for dinner, was the final nail in the coffin. The god of depraved sex and degenerate acts, the epitome of excess and free-spiritedness, the human whose quest for experience knew no boundaries turned out to be nothing more than a businessman, committed to marketing, gardening, and early nights. That night took the color out of that world for me. Having moments of fun here and there with rock stars had splattered me with fleeting orgasms but no continuity. They were nothing more than a series of little snapshots, like the fleeting images spliced together in the moving-picture box from my childhood in Tehran.
The week after my dinner with Nikki Sixx, I agreed to a date with another kind of man: a well-known politician who had been working tirelessly on environmental issues. Finally, here was someone honorable, intellectual, and compassionate I could sit down with for an intellectual conversation. It was about time I left the world of rock ‘n’ roll and went forward in life with a respectable man.
My mother was ecstatic when I told her about the date. “Finally!” she said, beaming. “He is educated, dignified, and a decent man. I am so glad you’re finally getting away from low-class, disrespectful men.”
Chapter 62
“Your place or mine?” was the first thing Mr. Politician asked me. We had met outside the Leeds train station, where he was picking me up for what I had assumed was a dinner date.
“Ermm.” I swallowed nervously. My hands were clammy. I still couldn’t quite believe I was going to spend time with such a huge personality, whom I’d seen only on the news. But I had imagined we’d be spending it at a public café, not his place or mine.
It was summer, yet he was wearing a heavy coat. In his mouth, a foul-smelling canoe-shaped pipe chimneyed away with pomp and ceremony, the plume of a man who defended the environment.
The politician and I had met briefly at a fund-raising party the previous year and swapped e-mails so I could send him some of the politically themed essays I was planning to deliver at American and European universities. It was only now, a year later, that we were finally meeting again to discuss politics.
The interior of this respected politician’s vintage Jaguar was a fairground of candy wrappers, empty soft drink bottles, and papers. As I tried to keep up with his political chatter, wondering if my university education was too flimsy for his rants about the prime minister and the lunacy of war, the foul fumes of the pipe he perpetually puffed on made me want to vomit.
We pulled into his driveway. Willowy and dusky, his house loomed like a shadow from the distant past. Persian carpets swooned the floors inside like seductresses, curvy and come-hither. Beautiful Arabic paintings and rugs roared from the walls and exotic lanterns hung from every face of the ceiling. Rich cushions with Middle Eastern motifs, curling in deep blushes and tawny yellows, writhed on the settee.
In the sooty black, he didn’t turn on any overhead lights—just a small lamp and candles. The flicker of the TV lit up the murky corners of the living room.
“Champagne?” he asked from the kitchen. “I kept it chilled for you.”
“I don’t drink, sorry.” I felt bad. So he came back to join me, and soon he was off on a rant about Tony Blair.
I was enthralled by his knowledge of the world: the Iraq War, Parliament, the well-known politicians he worked with, Islamic fundamentalists. He seemed to know it all. He was very charismatic, his savage alpha-male fighter’s spirit and rebel’s tongue crowned by a genius political brain. His monologues in support of the downtrodden were inspirational. But his love of the limelight and hero-worship gave him away as the frustrated wannabe rock star he was.
If he couldn’t be a genuine rock star, he seemed content to act like a Spinal Tap version of one. “When was the last time you were fucked?” he blurted, interrupting our talk about Hugo Chavez.
“Huh?” I was too shocked to answer.
“I fucked a nineteen-year-old Somalian girl on that couch last night. Just where you’re sitting.”
I glanced down, looking for stains.
“Met her on Facebook. It’s a great place for getting pussy, let me tell you.”
I nearly choked on my cranberry juice.
“I took her to quite a few sex parties. Have you ever been to one? There’s a beautiful sex club in Paris. No one knows me there.”
“Yes, I like sex, too,” I stammered. “It’s nice.”
I checked my choice of attire: Long skirt? Check. No revealing bosom? Check. Sensible shoes? Check. Nothing that revealed any skin. I hadn’t been this dumbstruck for a long time.
With a flick of the remote control, he hopped through the TV channels. The room was dark and cold. My drink was gone.
“Aha! There!” he stopped at the movie Braveheart. Mel Gibson’s Scottish accent hacked at the screen. He left the movie on, with the Scottish fighting the English in bloody battle, and moved on to me. Pulling up my skirt, he dove down between my legs to sudd
enly lap at my pussy with little bobs of the head like a terrier.
“I’m gonna pick a fight!” Mel Gibson snarled from the TV.
“Ooh. Ahhh,” I fake-moaned, trying hard not to laugh. I was frozen to the couch, wondering what the fuck was going on.
“Oh, yeah!” the politician snarled like Mel as he lapped ferociously at my pussy. I wanted to be kind to him—he was trying so hard to do a fantastic job—but he was nothing more than a barrel-shaped old man trying to be sexy.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said when he came up for air. And I agreed, because I was curious.
The staircase was lined with photo after photo of famous politicians; his bedroom was enveloped in darkness. He switched on a tiny lantern by the bed and we were off. I lay there and stared into the faces of Fidel Castro and Che Guevara as he humped me, crushing me with his dead weight until I couldn’t breathe. After a few minutes, he stopped, wheezing and gasping for breath. He had come. Rolling over, he re-lit his clunky pipe, talked a bit about Bill Clinton, and thrust a book about the Amazon rainforest into my hand. And that was that.
A few days later, the politician called to say he was speaking at a rally and was having a tough day. He asked if he could see me afterward, but I had plans with my family.
“One day soon you’ll be at my side when I’m campaigning,” he said proudly. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, that would be very interesting.” I swooned with genuine excitement.
The next time I saw him, he took me to an actual restaurant. It was an Iranian place where a weepy Persian singer curdled out grievings about love and roses. I ordered chelo kabab and rice with mast-o-moosir (yogurt with shallots) and various other dips, pickles, and fresh herbs, because I wasn’t worried about having garlic breath. I really hoped this time we could talk about literature and politics, and not about how many young Somalian and Middle Eastern girls he was fucking every night.
Velvety compliments dribbled from his purring tongue. His almond-brown eyes narrowed in a catlike slant. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he announced. And before I had a chance to respond, he continued: “And I want you to come on holiday with me to Portugal.”
It was a lovely gesture, and I was touched. I swallowed divine apple juice and blushed apple blossom. “Thank you,” I stammered, shyly. “That’s very sweet.”
But there were other things about the way he carried himself that made me queasy—like the way he tossed off stories of how he fucked a different young Somali or Middle Eastern girl every night. Then he told me he wanted to take me to sex parties. “I wanna watch you get fucked by ten guys,” he said, bringing his face close to mine. “Ten big black guys with huge cocks. Would you like that?”
He spoke as if he were giving me the gift of a lifetime. The kabab was oozing grease in my stomach. Be his girlfriend? Was part of the deal going to sex clubs so he could watch me get fucked by ten big black guys?
By the time we got back to his house, I felt uncomfortable. Here was a man worshipped by untold thousands of people who voted for him because of the respectful, ethical image he projected—but who spent his free time trawling the Internet for young Somali and Middle Eastern girls to fuck.
“I’m going to New York next week for a conference,” he said as we lay in bed. “I’d ask you to come with me, but I’m meeting an Iranian girl there. We’ve been having phone sex. She’s got big tits.”
“So why exactly do you want me to be your girlfriend?” I asked.
“Oh, I would want you to be free also. Free to fuck as many guys as you want. In fact, I insist on it.”
My stomach began to turn. Looking up at the Fidel Castro portrait was a comfort in comparison. Still, I followed him upstairs again.
“I want you to come,” he panted, handing me a dildo from his bedside table.
I felt nauseated that he wanted me to use some unknown girl’s dildo. “It’s okay. I’ve got my fingers.” As he fumbled his way around my tits, crushing me until the pain made me squeak, I touched myself, looking over at a portrait of Stalin and wondering why he had insisted on such a bushy mustache—and why Che Guevara was such a fucking horndog.
I was bored, but he couldn’t tell. As he humped away, wheezing and squeezing his eyes shut, I reached for the remote control. Flicking through the channels, I froze on just the video I needed: one with Axl Rose.
I concentrated hard on Axl, never taking my eyes off him. As Fidel and Che swirled in my head like cake mix, I sighed and juddered and yowled, bringing my Axl-fueled orgasm to a shudder.
The politician came up, pleased with himself.
“Well done! Well done!” He patted my back.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
He switched off the TV, clicked off the table lamp, and went to sleep. I decided never to see him again. At least rock stars weren’t hypocrites. They were what they embodied. And so was I.
Ella Studios
Epilogue
May 1
I don’t like flying. Something as big and heavy as an airplane isn’t supposed to be up in the air. It’s unnatural. That’s what gravity is there to prevent. When the plane rattles and shakes and drops like a roller coaster, my heart pounds with fear. People around me sleep like babies, but I just squeeze the metal armrests of my seat and pray.
I pray that the sun’s power will penetrate through the clouds. I pray that the plane will keep still and on an even keel. I pray that my final resting place won’t be in the sea below. I pray I don’t explode in midair and become meat for the fat clouds. I don’t want a permanent vacation.
I’m going where the sun is shining. I’m going where the political weather doesn’t suit my slutty clothes. I’m going back to my childhood home. I’m going to a place that will love me and where I can love. And I’m going to stay there until I am fed full and all the synthetic layers I have lacquered on start molting.
I will walk the sleeping sunshine alleys of my childhood in plastic slippers. I will walk past the fruit trees and the gardens. I will walk into my grandmother’s derelict house and try to be me. I will sleep on the rooftop of my cousin’s home under the sharp blaze of the stars so I can shed this skin and hatch the real yolk of me. I will go to the ancient cities of Esfahän and Shiraz to see the splendor of my country’s epic history. I can’t wait to go to family parties, eat a banquet of Persian foods, and dance like the Iranian girl that I am.
When I was ten years old, I found myself uprooted from the loving nestle of my culture, my community, and my kinship, and thrust into a deserted zone. When I went searching for a new place to belong, rock ‘n’ roll swept me up and took me into its cradle of family. It slathered me in its culture, smudged and daubed me with its emulsion of colors.
But I have seen the utopian playground of rock ‘n’ roll up close—I have lived there for years—and I’ve learned that it’s a place of both euphoria and degradation. A place where the sexual double standards are no different from those in an Islamic fundamentalist country. A place where a female’s active pursuit of sexual adventure, experimentation, and variety dooms her. It’s an extremely limiting place for a so-called wild and free-spirited movement. My view of it was highly, dangerously romanticized.
As the plane descends, past ancient Persian mountains, chalky and restless secret nomads, it jolts and I’m thrown forward. I cling to my Guns N’ Roses and Doors songs. Rock ‘n’ roll is still my love, and I listen to it while my eyes see my other love, beautiful Iran.
I think of my life in rock ‘n’ roll. I think of the fucking, the passion, and the pain. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been sent to England. I might have married my childhood sweetheart, endured the war, and suffered the massive restrictions imposed upon women. But I probably wouldn’t have lost my childhood joy and spirit, and I would have been surrounded by family, friends, and possibly some stability.
My heart swells with love. And I want to give it to the whole world. As the plane lands, I am so happy. From top to toe,
I am fully covered in black Islamic garb.
But underneath I’m wearing no panties. Just in case.
Acknowledgments
I wrote most of this book when I was at university, where my soul was fed by Foucault, Baudrillard, Butler, and Woolf. To my university and my tutors: a big humble hug of adoration for giving me a lifeline by letting me immerse myself in the other love of my life, academia. Especially to Jonathan Neale, who taught me to be really brave inside and to never censor myself.
My eternal love and gratitude goes to my editor, Neil Strauss, who has believed in my writing from the beginning and has tirelessly championed my book. Thank you for dedicating so much of your time to get my book out there and for having so much faith in me. Ever since I read The Dirt, I knew Mötley Crüe was Mary Poppins compared to me!
Anthony Bozza: Thank you for your understanding and generosity . . . and for being so nice and making me laugh during the tough times. I appreciate everything you have done.
Cal Morgan: Thank you so much for your kindness and your amazing support and guidance. Your words of encouragement and wisdom mean the world to me, and I am so grateful. To Karen Louth and Kristine Miller for your time and patience. And a big thanks to Todd Gallopo.
Monique Mayes: Giant thank yous and even bigger hugs for all the fucking hard work you have done day and night. Your unbelievable patience and tender loving voice have been beyond amazing in the process of this book.
Gottfried and Renate Helnwein: I am honored to have been given the chance to use your images in this little book of mine. I have been in awe of your watercolors and photography for as long as I can remember; the images of abused children have resonated in my being since I was a child myself.
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