The Last Living Slut (32 page)

“I’m sorry it’s grossing you out. You can finish if you want to. Or you can come in my mouth.”

He finished in my mouth. He was such a sweet guy. I felt bad he was grossed out.

When I stepped into the corridor to find a bathroom, Stevie the guitarist—who’d been with Ostara in Oxford—came over to me and touched my leg.

“I have to go find Josh,” I said, as if he were the only remedy.

On the bus, Josh was eating a sandwich and salad, and watching a James Bond film with the character Jaws in it. I think it was
Moonraker.
He offered me food and water. I wiped my leg with a tissue and started to put mango body butter on my skin. My blood was flowing heavier now. I hoped it wasn’t too visible.

Stevie, Keith, Xavier the drummer, and a couple crew members were on the bus. They all wanted to watch me play with myself, and I obliged, spreading my legs and rubbing my dildo along my pussy for them. One of the crew guys asked me if I wanted to have some fun; I declined. Then Stevie and Xavier asked if I wanted to go with them to the Welbeck Hotel, which was located next to the tour bus. Keith wanted to come, too. I took a deep breath. I could always say no. I looked at Josh, but he was quiet, wearing his glasses. He didn’t seem to want me tonight, but I wanted to talk to him.

Three of the other guys in the band took my hand and led me to the hotel. We took the elevator to a room that was so pretty. Keith turned off the lights, because he couldn’t face the blood. His cockring hurt me again, but I was as quiet as a mouse. Then Stevie climbed on me from behind and fucked me as I tried to please Xavier, while he tried to enjoy a butch girl with a mound of crusty pubic hair and B.O. that nearly made me throw up. I wanted the band to be happy. Once they were done fucking me, they left. I gathered my belongings in my plastic bag and caught the early morning train home.

Chapter 51

A
lthough the Buckcherry guys were nice, they didn’t numb the pain for long. I still wanted to be with Dizzy, to have him comfort me. I needed him so much. In September, a few days after my birthday, I texted him.

“You forgot my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” he replied. “Can we fuck soon? That would be neat.”

I scolded him for being so blunt, then told him I missed him.

“U r beautiful,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

“You should see me without my makeup. I look like Godzilla!”

“No u don’t. I’ve seen u in the morning, more beautiful than ever.”

Seeing a post-abortion therapist had helped a bit, but all I could think about was Dizzy. I would have given up everything to be with him, despite everything I knew about his women and his ways. I loved him with all my heart.

But he had become cold. He rarely answered my texts or e-mails, and I wondered whether I had hurt or offended him in some way.

In October I had to go to Toronto, Canada, for a family wedding and also to see Mötley Crüe in concert. I knew it would be the perfect time to fly to Los Angeles like he had asked me to. But all Dizzy sent back were vague, confusing messages.

“I have been through a lot because of this abortion,” I finally texted. “I feel I need to see you. Just be cool with me.”

“Why don’t you hitch a ride with Mötley?” he responded. “Much cheaper. I’m sure they’re heading back to the States.” He seemed so bitter. I couldn’t understand why. And then he continued: “I do like u and it would be neat to c u but I sort of feel like I became attached to the wrong person. U r somewhat of a notorious groupie. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. I can’t have you in on my pass hanging out with the openers anymore. That sucked. The more I thought about it, the more it just fucking hurt.”

That made me furious, especially after everything I had told him about how much I adored him and how much I loved him. This was clearly just a flimsy excuse so he could evade his responsibility in the aftermath of the abortion.

“Please don’t call me a groupie again,” I texted back.

“Well, look it up in the dictionary. Would you prefer hardcore fan? I mean that’s cool. I’ll go with that. You are a notorious hardcore fan. Where would you like to meet?”

Nothing he said made sense to me. He was like an actor who had stumbled into the wrong theater and was spouting dialogue from another play. It scared me a little, his sudden shift in character, his silence. I just missed him so much and needed him to tell me everything was going to be okay.

By the end of my two-week stay in Canada, I was falling apart. Dizzy wasn’t replying to any of my phone messages or e-mails. I saw babies wherever I went, and every time I burst into tears like an idiot. They seemed more striking and conspicuous than usual, as if they were all staring at me with the secret knowledge of what I had done. To explain to everyone around me why my eyes were streaming, I told them I was wearing faulty contact lenses.

I returned to London dazed and dejected. Strangely, that very night, a couple hours after I’d landed, Dizzy actually called.

“I am not blowing you off honey,” he said. “I have just been very busy. I’ve been rehearsing with three bands. Our drummer quit.”

“You know how much I needed to see you.” I felt defeated.

He told me he was seeing a few women, and I didn’t care. That wasn’t the issue at all. It was that I needed his emotional support. He had brainwashed me with his persistent promises of tenderness, his constant imploring for my care and companionship, and his sincere pleas not to break his heart. He had conned me with a sea of love and trust, until the thought of having sex with anyone else repulsed me. It was my constant stream of bereaving for my baby that kept me thinking of him. All I wanted was for him to make love to me. It was insane.

We didn’t talk for six weeks after that phone call. I hated myself for the abortion. I couldn’t get out of bed because of the grief and aching. I was like a fly in honey, and my legs weren’t strong enough to escape the density. My mother tried to help with kindness and comforting Persian foods. My friends tried to keep me sane with their talk and love. It was an ugly time, and it was about to get uglier.

In November, we finally spoke again. I had been through horrible times in my life and had managed to get by, but this abortion had fucked up my head so much. I had this idea stuck in my head that I needed to see him to get closure. So we made plans to meet in Canada, where Guns N’ Roses were playing. “Quebec, Montreal, Ottawa, Halifax,” he said, reeling off the band’s itinerary. “Sure, I would like to see you, too.”

I worked all night, and any day possible, belly dancing. I spent all the money I had in the world on the flight and hotel in Ottawa. I was buying my sanity, so it wasn’t much to pay. I’d get to see him, find out why he had been so angry with me, be healed, and move on. How naïve I was.

Chapter 52

I like All Human Beings. You’re a Human Being, aren’t you?

O
ttawa was glacial. Governmental gray buildings sprouted throughout the city like giant icicles. It was like walking around a city-size office. The only thing I found interesting was a bagel shop, which served the sesame bagels with cream cheese I loved. My hotel was grand, majestic even. I bought fake tan lotion so my skin would glow amid the November bleakness and make me beautiful for Dizzy.

The night before, I’d flown from Montreal to Ottawa on the tiniest plane. It had only ten rows of seats. Its old-fashioned propeller clunked and whirred during the half-hour journey.

“You must be in love with this guy to come all the way to see him here,” the old man next to me said when I explained why I was going to Ottawa. But I knew it wasn’t just for love. It was for peace of heart.

I waited for two days in my hotel room. I went to the bagel shop as often as I could. I found a movie theater and watched the only film showing apart from Disney cartoons,
You, Me and Dupree.

On Friday night, Dizzy called. “I’m on the tour bus,” he spat down the phone. “I have a little time before the concert. Come here if you want to talk.”

“What? I thought you were going to be at a hotel.”

As soon as the words came out of my mouth, he started screaming. “I fucking told you. I fucking told you we’re traveling on the bus. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I? I fucking told you.” He was like a madman, screaming so much I had no chance to speak.

I took a deep breath. Then, as calmly and lovingly as I could, I said, “Okay. You did not mention one word about the fact that you were not going to be at a hotel. But tell me where to come and I’ll get a cab, okay?”

It was ten p.m. and freezing cold. I put on my special new coat, new jeans, and a pink corset, and I got in a cab. I was nervous and excited. I wanted answers. I needed to know if he was still the guy who had been nothing but kindness and empathy to me before.

The Guns N’ Roses concert was in a desolate spot out of town. Miles and miles of nothingness and black highways rolled into a wasteland. When I got there, college kids and older fans who had grown up with Guns N’ Roses were swarming their way into the arena. I walked to the box office, picked up a ticket Dizzy had left for me, and asked directions to the tour buses. Walking in the destitute lamp-lit field of tour buses felt eerie. I walked around for ages through icy wind, down a hill, and amid a forest of giant trucks, until I saw him standing outside a bus.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. He hugged me without a word and I started crying. He kissed me on the lips, and I pulled away. He had lost the key to the bus, so we went backstage to find Del.

Inside the tour bus, it was just me and him. The interior of the bus was exotic, with Moroccan-influenced finery and decor. The mosaics around the mirrors and the thick lull of the peach lights felt like a distant harem out of
A Thousand and One Nights.
We sat down and Dizzy gave me a glass of Jägermeister, which I gulped down.

“Why have you been so angry at me?” I asked him. “What’s going on? It’s been so hard for me—you know that.”

Dizzy sat across from me just staring, as if he were comatose.

“The way you’ve been the past couple of months: Ignoring me. First asking me to come stay with you in LA, and then cutting off all communication after the abortion. What’s going on?”

“I don’t remember,” he stated. “I must’ve been drunk.”

“You were so incredible to me in England and so supportive before the abortion. What’s happened to you?”

He stared at me vacantly.

“I’ve come all the way from England to this tour bus so we could talk. You know what I’ve been through. Why can’t you talk to me?”

I knelt in front of him, looking into his eyes. I wanted to see if he was still there, that person who’d been so adoring to me, so caring. It was like looking at a different person. Slowly we kissed. God, I loved him. I’d missed him so much: his warmth, his embrace.

“I’ve missed you so much.” I melted into his arms, even though I knew it was a mistake. He wouldn’t even talk to me, after I had flown all this way. But my heart—my heart wanted to be near him. I untied his light brown leather pants, took his dick out, and started to put it in my mouth. He drew the curtains together and pulled his pants down, pushing the back of my head down as I sucked.

“No!” I stood up suddenly and pulled away. “I can’t do this. You’ve hurt me so much and now you won’t even talk to me.”

Dizzy just looked at me blankly.

“You told me over and over that you would never fuck with my head and heart. Day after day, you drummed it into me that I should trust you and not break your heart.” I stood up and looked at him. He kept staring at me wordlessly. “All that time, all those things you said to me. Why are you treating me like this? Don’t you like me?”

“I like all human beings. You’re a human being, aren’t you?” His eyes were dead, like two stones. I thought my head would explode with the shock.

“Here,” I said, pulling out the picture of the scan they had given me at the clinic. “This is the reality of things. This is why it hurts so bad.”

“I can’t look at it,” he said. “It’s too hard.”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“I have a concert now,” he said. “You should leave.”

He walked me to the bus door. And then I ran. I ran so fast in my black boots that I thought my legs would come off. It was hard to breathe, as if I had cardboard in my chest. Where would I go? It was 11:30 at night. Everyone was inside at the concert. I was howling with pain and my heart would give me no comfort.

I ran inside the venue and waited until Guns N’ Roses came on. I was blank. It had been so different in England. I’d been so happy then. As fat college kids hit on me, I sat frozen to my chair and watched Dizzy play the piano so beautifully.

After the concert, I left the hall, went to the VIP section, and waited for Dizzy. But only Del came to talk to me. As he planted a kiss on the top of my head, I told him everything: about Dizzy, the pregnancy, the abortion.

“There should never be any skin-on-skin contact,” was all he said.

Dizzy never showed up. All I got from him was the inevitable text: “We’re leaving.”

I walked out into the early hours. The place was icy and deserted. There were only gray roads and bleak wilderness around me. I was in the middle of nowhere.

“Thanks for telling my road manager about the pregnancy,” Dizzy texted.

“I don’t know how to get back,” I texted him. “Please, Diz, I know you are not like this. I am out here and I’m scared. And it’s freezing.”

I started sobbing. Was I nothing?
Nothing?

I made my way out of the venue through the pitch-black night, the wind and rain slapping my made-up face raw. I walked for miles, past dark fields, along empty roads, until I finally found a taxi.

Back in the hotel room, I paced up and down, hysterical, sobbing. I felt so alone. There were just walls and Ottawa and me. Where could I go? I was going mad with grief.

I lay on the bed and degraded myself by answering the stream of abusive texts he was sending me; it was the only thing I could do to make things seem coherent and real. It felt like a terrifying jigsaw puzzle had sharded around me, and for some reason I felt like I needed him to put the pieces back together. I stared at the balcony. I wondered what would happen if I jumped. Would I get broken bones and that’s it? What if I did and my life became no more than a series of hospital visits?