The Last Living Slut (16 page)

I stood groggily, trying to leave. I really didn’t want to be in his company, but he was wild-eyed, relentless, sticking his hand up my skirt and fingering me even as I walked away. Starting to snap out of my drunken haze, I fumbled my way through some sort of sexual activity, so he could just cum and leave me alone. I took him so deep in my throat, I thought his cock was going to reach my heart. There was no reaction from him, just silence. I got the strongest feeling that this was a ritual he had to fulfill solely because his image compelled him to do so. I wondered if he was even truly enjoying it.

Sometime between anal sex and the early hours of the morning, I passed out. At some later point, I heard Lori come into the room. She was merry drunk and had energy to play. And so it started all over again. Donny took turns devouring every inch of our skin, every drop of energy, every bodily fluid like juicing the life out of a battery. His cocaine must have been nuclear-powered; even after Lori and I became carcasses, he was still buzzing raw like a werewolf.

The three of us were in the middle of copulating when I heard someone come into the room. It was Snell, the band’s tiny drummer, wearing their uniform of bleached tight jeans and spiked blond hair.

“Oi Snell, come on. Come over ’ere!” Donny shouted.

“O’right, what’s goin’ on ’ere then?” He was so sweet and cute, with a little boy’s smile.

“Come and join in. Go on, get in on the action.” At this moment, Donny reminded me of Dickens’ Artful Dodger. He was nimble-footed and naughty, positioning all our bodies into a ménage-à-quatre, with Snell inside me, Lori sucking my tits, and himself in my mouth.

An hour later, at around eight a.m., Donny decided he wanted to film us so he could send the footage to his buddy back home, someone he called the Kid. So Donny shook me awake and directed me and Lori to fuck each other. The room was airless, and stank of unwashed genitalia. I willed myself to climb onto Lori and cooperate so Donny would leave me alone. I went through the motions like a pornographic robot. Afterward, Donny sent the video to various friends of his and had us speak to the Kid on the phone. Then, finally, we were allowed to rest.

The next time I looked at my watch, it was 9:10 a.m. and I had to get the train back to London for work. I’d just started an afternoon job in an animal rescue shelter, and I didn’t want to let the abused cats and dogs down. I stood up, brushed my teeth, and gathered my belongings. Still in last night’s clothes, I felt groggy and worried about missing work. I kissed Lori and Donny on the mouth, told them good-bye, walked toward the door to open it—and it all went black.

I remember waking up and wondering why I was on the floor. My feet were pointed toward the bathroom and there was a man in an ambulance uniform above me, shouting my name.

“What happened?” I asked no one in particular.

“You had a seizure,” the ambulance guy said.

I had never had one of those before. I turned my head to see Lori and Donny in the far corner of the room talking animatedly. The ambulance man gave me an oxygen mask. He asked some routine questions and helped me to my feet. Then he gently laid me back on the bed, on which I’d tried so desperately to get some sleep the night before.

I rested, holding tight to the oxygen mask. It was lovely and made me happy. I loved the ambulance man for being so nice to me and taking care of me. I felt like I needed him. As I drifted off to sleep, I realized I’d been right about wearing all-black clothes: they were bad luck.

Part 3
FOUND

Andres Lesauvage

Chapter 30

I Straddled Him Right There and Then, In The Middle of Night, Amid The Thicket and The Flowers.

A
fter my seizure I felt like a zombie, as if my head were under water and my senses were blocked. I felt disconnected from reality, as if in a dream. During the convulsions, I had bitten my tongue so badly that for a couple weeks I had to suck liquid food through a straw. This was what cocaine had done to me, and I was terrified it would get worse. I was convinced I had a brain tumor or a hemorrhage. Even though my brain scan and EEG revealed nothing abnormal, a Nurse Ratched–like neurologist I saw a week later in Bristol, near my mother’s house, confirmed that I’d had an epileptic seizure, which scared the fucking shit out of me. How had I done this to myself? Was I being punished by God for living the way I did?

I went to stay with my mum for a while. She was happy I was home safe and cooed gentle words of love, letting me rest as much as I needed. I slept for what seemed like a week in her spare bedroom. I couldn’t get out of bed, and I couldn’t slip out of the not-with-it feeling that consumed me. So I stayed in that room, afraid I’d have another seizure if I left the house, hoping every time I woke up that I’d feel normal again. Text messages and calls poured in from the Towers boys, asking me and Lori to join them at their gigs, their studio, their home. I wanted to—so badly—but I just didn’t have the strength.

About a month later, still shaky and frightened, I finally decided to leave the house and go out into the world. Lori came along to look after me in case I had another seizure. We went to an EMI Records promo event in Leicester Square. And that’s when The Rev called, telling us to go to their place in Buckinghamshire. Even though it was midnight, and I was yearning for pajamas and cuddly pillows, my heart got happy.

We jumped into one of the illegal private mini-cabs offered up by the greasy wolfmen lurking on the corner after midnight. I checked to make sure I’d shaved every trace of pubic hair and brought my condoms. By now I’d decided never to drink or do drugs again; the thought of another seizure terrified me.

The Rev texted me an address to meet them at, but it soon became evident that it was going to be one of those remote hideaways that was near-impossible to find. The farther we burrowed into the womb of the country, the more the cab driver’s rage flared, until he was spitting obscenities, banging his hands on the wheel, and stressing out about how the fuck he was supposed to get back to London. I didn’t give a fuck; I was going to see Dirk. It would all come up roses in the end.

Dirk was waiting for me in the driveway with a straw farmer’s hat on. He ran up to me as soon as the cab driver angrily kicked us out. I straddled him right there and then, in the middle of night, amid the thicket and the flowers. Inside the dorm-like building that the band lived in, I was quickly introduced to real pain when Dirk slipped his cock into me. His dick wasn’t normal; it was animal. It felt like being fisted by a very plump wrestler.

In the distance, I could hear Lori getting fucked good by The Rev in the toilets. I was relieved I managed to stay awake without a seizure. When we were done, Lori and I said our good-byes and got a cab back to London.

Chapter 31

A
couple weeks later, Lori and I decided to get on the tour bus. The problem with home shows—as we’d learned the hard way—is that girlfriends are inevitably resident pests, sticking to the band like leeches and scanning every female. We couldn’t even go near the boys in case the glimmer of memory in our eyes and the smell of familiarity on our body was detected by their girlfriends.

Away from home was where the real debauchery could safely take place. We took a train from London to somewhere called Morecambe in the dire north of England, which by a bad stroke of luck turned out to be The Rev’s hometown, where a Bambi-eyed childhood sweetheart waited for him breathless. We were advised by the other band members not to linger around him.

The tour bus, sleek and gleaming, sprawled on the curve of the pavement like a Christmas box full of vile secrets. The band lounged in a pub down the street, their skinny denim legs spread across red plush Northern sofas.

We were dressed in identical outfits, except that Lori’s hair was like Bettie Page’s and mine was layered like trifle. That was the first time I properly met Mad Pete. I had seen this geezer hovering around the band at every Towers gig I’d attended, jubilant as a kid in a sweet shop, fanatical and adoring of the Towers boys. In turn, they made him feel a part of the family. He was probably in his late thirties, with years of tattoos stretched over his body, including one of Axl and one of Sid Vicious. Now here he was in the pub in Morecambe, sitting with the band, ecstatic, childlike joy sparkling in his eyes. I sat across from Dirk, posing while Mad Pete snapped pictures.

“You’ve got such charisma,” Dirk said, flirting with me in his soft, camp voice as I did my narcissistic poses. “You’re such a rock star, Roxana.”

I was really beginning to like Dirk—and that was when I finally learned never to judge a rocker by his magazine photos. The Rev may have looked the hottest in
NME
, but he didn’t have Dirk’s rock-star charisma and sexuality. I pretended to be busy and not notice Dirk’s fawning. This Mad Pete guy was quite a cheeky, chirpy, Cockney type anyway—so cute I wanted to squeeze his cheeks and eat them up. He had an athletic body, close-cropped hair, and a funny little face with flush, dimpled apple cheeks.

“Why are you called Mad Pete, then?” I asked.

“Dunno. ’Cos I’m not. I’m not mad.”

“I know. But how did you get that nickname?”

“The band gave it to me.”

The reason, it turned out, was that he was mad enough to follow the band everywhere. Mad Pete lived in London, but he drove to every single gig—and then usually drove home the same night, sleeping in his car along the way if necessary. Some nights, if they were feeling generous, the band let him stay on the tour bus. The band and its entourage seemed to be the essence of his existence; he followed them around the world.

The band’s entourage consisted of Mad Pete; Stoksie, the tour manager, the most patient and caring roadie I’d ever encountered; Phil, the pink-haired guitar tech, who always had a smile on his face despite working his haggard bollocks off every night; the Kid, a childhood friend of Dirk and Donny’s who always wore a fedora and a ravaged leather coat; Bertio, a big, curly-haired Italian dude who stepped into the middle of even the most vicious fights to bail the Towers boys out; Pug, a Lemmy lookalike who was supposedly the band’s dealer and as camp as a drag queen; Punkrokka and Dyler Plummer, two eccentric, middle-aged men who were friends with Mad Pete and traveled to almost all the shows; and, now, Lori and I. It was a whole new family, and I loved them all.

And then there were the girls: porn star girls; indie girls; fat girls; schoolgirls; actress girls; goth girls; married girls; hippie girls; Chav girls; old, skanky girls; even skinny, geeky librarian girls. Everywhere we went, it seemed, every type and shape and age of female was willing to do anything to fuck the Towers of London—and every guy wanted to hang out with them. What baffled me most, though, were the middle-aged men who got so excited and jittery about hanging out with five young punk rockers.

The Rev, Dirk, and Donny took full advantage of the available women. But I never saw Snell with a girl, and Tommy just talked about his goat, which he called “the goat.” It was quite disturbing. I had taken a liking to Dirk, who was probably the biggest whore in the band. I was fucked.

At the Morecambe show, I watched the opening act with Dirk and we talked about Axl. (He was one of many guys who must have gotten sick of me going on about Axl.) Finally, I managed to stop my mouth and follow Dirk into the dressing room, where girls fawned over Donny. The Rev sat quietly with his girlfriend while secretly wishing he could stick his hand in the cookie jar.

After the gig, the girls swarmed around Dirk and I started to get jealous. So I parked myself right next to him, just like those girlfriends that I detested so much. I shooed the little girls away with a motion of my hand, like I was flicking at flies. Dirk, on the other hand, encouraged them, loading them with crotch-pulsating compliments in his breezy way. Lori, Mad Pete, and I were staying on the bus that night as the band traveled on to Hull. Mad Pete had his own bunk, which made him endlessly happy.

Before the bus took off, the band brought some people on for drinks while The Rev and Dirk played guitar. Donny picked one girl out of the pack outside and took her to his bunk. Lori and I sat downstairs with Dirk, The Rev, and Tommy as an assortment of drunk, scantily dressed girls filtered through the bus doors and climbed all over Dirk for further helpings of compliments. He just smiled, letting them think what they wanted, while I sat across from him, watching like a bitter rhinoceros.

“You’re gorgeous,” I was told by a curvy young blonde who’d been flirting with Dirk all night while trying to position herself on Dirk’s lap.