The Last Living Slut (14 page)

Anthony darted over to me in a shot. “Do you wanna come upstairs to the dressing rooms?” he asked. I looked over at Lori, who was wasted, leaning back in the midst of all the crew guys. One of the guys, named Tom, was pulling her up by the arms as she giggled, falling back to collect her belongings.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Anthony put his arm around my waist. He reminded me of a truck driver, and I felt a bit disgusted, but I still followed him. Lori and Tom trailed behind.

The four of us walked into a catacomb of narrow corridors and up tiny stone steps to the very top of the venue, where empty, compact rooms with lightbulbed mirrors were parceled into hidden corners. It seemed like a forbidden tower, desolate and out of reach to anyone else. Even in my cloudy state, I wasn’t surprised that no one else was around. I knew what Anthony and Tom wanted from us in those tiny silent rooms. They switched off the lights, and Lori and I knelt down, as if in prayer, and did what we did in pitch blackness.

I was in full sleaze mode that night, so when we went back to the crew’s hotel in Kensington I was delighted to find a party going on in one of the rooms, with beautiful girls sprawled across deep cushions and guys lounging with guitars and beer. Someone put some Mötorhead on full blast and Lori started to tongue a girl who looked like Demi Moore. “You’re so beautiful,” these model-type girls kept whispering above us—seducing us with a candy swirl of compliments until we were drunk with feathery sighs and kisses. As random people ran in and out of neighboring rooms, half naked and drunk, Anthony pulled me aside and poured thick, brown liquor down my throat.

“Can you come outside with me?” he said. “I wanna talk to you.”

Once we were in the corridor, he looked at me hard. I got worried.

“You know the guy who was doing the sound stuff tonight?” he whispered.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Look, he’s an old guy. He’s tired and he hasn’t gotten laid in months. Please.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Anthony knelt down in front of me, hands clasped, begging. “Go see him.”

Roadies. I lost my head in their laps. They were waiting for me at the hotel bar. By morning my jaw ached and my lips were swollen. And I hadn’t even gotten laid.

Chapter 28

I
got so bored after the Velvet Revolver experience—not just because of the comedown from the Tony Montana portions of white powder, but because the whole experience felt less like reckless, sleazy rock debauchery than like a corporate event. Lori and I were craving another high. So we said, “Fuck it, let’s go see Steven Adler’s band.” They were playing Guns N’ Roses songs at Camden Underworld a few nights later.

The club was packed with bandana-wearing long hairs, flailing and swinging their arms as if anticipating salvation. Two goth girls I’d seen stageside at Velvet Revolver stood patient as snakes, peeping at Steven onstage. So many people who had been in the mosh pit at Velvet Revolver were here, too, ramming their young bull horns forward to the very front.

“Steven Adler, man, he’s a fuckin’ legend,” said a boy with a fluffy beard. Two other excited grinning boys, one with a big mane of blond hair like Adler’s, were doing donkey drop-kicks with merriment.

We bored our way to the lip of the stage, where we stood firmly, compressed from all sides and baptized with beer, as we watched Adler’s skintight–trousered singer, Jizzy Pearl, shriek my favorite songs. The guitarist, Keri Kelli, was the sexiest in the band, but small-boned. And the bassist, Robbie Crane, was cute and raven-haired, but kind of big-boned.

Steven reminded me of a cross between a California surfer dude and a Labrador puppy, with his wild blond mane and constant cheery enthusiasm. Lori and I slid our hands between Kelli’s leather-clad legs to make him desire us. “You’re so beautiful,” Steven mouthed from behind his drums.

Our crotch-stroking was successful. When the band came out to sign merchandise on a table next to the bar after the gig, a voice whispered in my ear: “We’re staying at the Holiday Inn in Camden. My room number is 210.”

I started hurling chunks as soon as we got to the band’s hotel—especially when I saw the two buck-toothed, cross-eyed chicks Jizzy had brought back. There was a shaggy-permed German biker chick of hefty proportions who’d been following the band all over Europe. She was swigging from beer cans enthusiastically, so delirious to be there. There was a short, silent Swedish girl who followed Steven around like a bulldozer. She wouldn’t even look at anyone else in the hotel room. Instead, she just stood quietly next to Steven as he ordered everyone around like a toddler tyrant. I had to look up to Steven: He’d been part of a legendary record,
Appetite for Destruction,
by a band whose lyrical and musical weight I really respected. But he had a weird, whiny voice, and talked out of the side of his mouth, lopsided due to a drug-related stroke. I soon passed out, as Lori gnawed away at Jizzy’s cock.

The next night, I stashed a fat baggie of coke in my blood-red silk purse, along with condoms, makeup, and mints, and headed out to meet the band at the Hard Rock Café. The place was jammed with Euro-tourist teenage types eating hamburgers with joy in their hearts as they sat worshipping huge posters of Jimi Hendrix. Steven was serene at the center of the action. He sat glowing like an angelic little child, smiling sweetly and bouncing his blond waves around his face.

I was bored, so I stood up to do an erotic dance for the whole place when Robbie and Keri came over.

“Man, she’s loaded!” Keri said to Lori.

They decided it would be better for my general disposition if I packed more drugs up my nose to cancel out the drunkenness. I followed the guys’ orders and staggered to the bathroom for medicinal purposes. My gums and throat went numb. It felt like there were too many teeth in my mouth, which was bitter and dry. But I was turned on and fucking happy. Minutes after the first escalating rush to my head, the fuck-me-hard passion followed and ignited. I wanted to fuck now, like an endangered species moments from extinction. I hurtled out of the bathroom, with what I was sure were red flames flaring out of my nostrils, and headed straight for Keri Kelli, poor little skinny guy.

“So are you gonna just flirt with me or are you gonna actually fuck the shit out of me?” I hissed in his ear.

He looked scared. In fact, I’m sure he was shaking. I just wanted him to do me right there—to hold my head down and feed me his cock in every hole. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Umm . . . yeah, I will. Later.”

What a fucking wuss.

A few days later, Lori and I were at the Bristol show when we saw the silent Swede slink out like a vole from a back lair. Jizzy was pissed off that night, but then Jizzy was always pissed off. His face always looked angry. That was the night I met Ostara. She had a cherubic face, child-like and devoid of makeup, with naturally golden ringlets tumbling around her face. She was dressed starkly plain for a groupie, and I wondered why. But then she explained: the dorky, homely look was part of her game plan.

“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.

A
lthough 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.