The Last Living Slut (17 page)

I told her to fuck off and leave the bus.

Around seven a.m., the bus started to move. The grateful boys and Donny-fed girls stumbled out of the bus. I hadn’t slept, so I climbed into Mad Pete’s bunk and cuddled up with him, the bus vibrating so violently I felt it in the marrow of my bones. Mad Pete was a gentleman throughout. He asked me about my childhood in Iran, and I told him about my father and how that whole experience, combined with my recent seizure, had made me hate drugs. Lori was in The Rev’s bunk; Dirk had passed out; and Donny’s dick was probably falling off from the five or so girls he’d ravaged that night.

We arrived in Hull—or Hell. The city was an absolute shit hole. We headed for the hotel room so the boys could take a shit, shower, and spray their hair to the high heavens.

“I came so hard this morning thinking about you,” Dirk said, taking me aside to make me feel special. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“I was in Mad Pete’s bunk,” I said. “You were already asleep.”

“Are you gonna come to my bunk tonight, then?” he swaggered in his fantastically overblown sexual way.

Sex on a tour bus bunk is fucking hard enough with two people, let alone a threesome. After the Hull gig, The Rev, who’d taken an E, was all lovey-dovey. Donny was in his bunk with a rotund Chav girl, whose fat spilled out the sides of the tiny sleepwear chemise she wore as outerwear. “Kellllyyyy, Keeeellyyyy!” We all heard him screaming her name as his balls slapped mechanically against her pussy.

Kelly’s friend waited patiently on the upper deck hoping one of the other band members would take pity and have sex with her, but she was even more oxen-built. Soon Kelly came out of Donny’s bunk with a proud smile on her face, on cloud fucking nine.

Our legs swinging from The Rev’s bunk, Lori and I nudged each other and stifled sniggers. The Rev pulled us into the bunk, and the three of us packed like tuna into the coffin-size space, trying to have a threesome. Lori was on the wall side of the bunk, with The Rev in the middle and me on the outside, my legs spilling out of the curtains.

“Suck his cock,” I instructed Lori; then I started kissing The Rev. I didn’t actually fancy him, even though he had the rock-star look in every sense—arms packed with tattoos; hair long, black, and spiked, falling over his eyelinered eyes. His guitar fingers alone should have done it for me. But the chemistry just wasn’t there. I did enjoy those fingers, though; they played my vagina like nimble toy soldiers, like Maradona dribbling his way through a whole team. Drummers have the big arms to hold me down, but I decided that night that guitar players—or anyone who uses their fingers so intricately and creatively on an instrument—could play my clit just as well. Just before the bus started to move, the two Chavs were kicked off.

“I really wanna fuck you both,” The Rev purred to me in his northern accent. But we didn’t have the space to move our limbs. For a moment we lay there like three hot dogs, frustrated. Then I strained my neck to put The Rev’s cock in my mouth and sucked it as yummily as I could, giving it all my love and attention.

“How’s your girlfriend?” I asked, looking up at him.

“C’mon! Being with you is like being with a porn star compared to her. No one is like you, Rox.”

“Thanks, mate,” I said, and slid out of the bunk to go sleep with Dirk.

Dirk and I fucked like animals. Once again his unhuman cock hurt me to the point of tears, but I didn’t care. Even in the drawer-like narrowness of the bunk, he managed to slide himself on top of me and look into my eyes. I moaned, my breasts slithering with his sweat, nipples red-raw and standing up for attention. He wanted to keep me quiet, and put a finger over his lips as soon as my moans became howls. So I put my hand across my mouth, stifling my cries of pleasure.

When we were both done, we lay back, orgasmed out and simmering like tender cabbage.

“Can you go and find me some food, Rox? I’m starvin’, babe.”

So I ventured out. Everyone was asleep and the bus was silent. Among the crushed Red Bull cans and empty vodka bottles, which the band had guzzled like tap water, I found a can of soup and some sandwiches. I microwaved the soup and took Dirk the sandwich. I looked into Tommy’s bunk and asked him if he wanted some cheese, knowing how much he loved it.

“Yeah, can you get us some of that packet noodle as well, Roxie? Cheers,” he said in his little boy voice. He was so cute and adorable. I wondered if he was still thinking about his goat.

I went to the kitchen area and fixed him some food. I loved being the band’s incestuous mummy.

Mad Pete

Chapter 32

As Donny’s Girlfriend waited Next Door, He Fucked Lori in Our Bathroom.

B
loody hell, it was hot that day. Fuckin’ ’ell, I was up for it! I’d just gotten back from Greece, and I was all tanned and lovely, with long, wavy, highlighted extensions galore and a new black-lace-and-scarlet corset and denim mini-skirt. I had just moved into a shared house in Highgate. And I had two all-access wristbands for the
Kerrang!
Day of Rock at the Virgin store on Oxford Street. That day was caviar with chips.

Towers was playing with Bullet For My Valentine and some emo bands. Unfortunately,
Kerrang!
sucked the cock of anything remotely emo, so I’d have to rely on Towers for my rock ‘n’ roll.

Lori and I arrived around three p.m. The first thing we saw was Mad Pete loitering at the store, looking jolly as usual, lost in his Towers euphoria.

“I been queuing up since seven this morning,” he told us. “I got two more wristbands for Punkrokka and Dyler Plummer as well. Wot you doin’ ’ere, fish legs?” I was used to his endearing jibes about my body.

“Where’re the boys?” Lori asked, wide-eyed and peachy.

“They’re signin’ stuff. There’s a barbecue an’ all up on the roof.”

“Free food! Let’s go.” I was starving, ready to wolf down anything I could get my hands on.

“All right, saggy tits. We’ve got to get the lift, mind.”

As we stepped onto the roof, Mad Pete announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, Roxana is here. Can everyone pay attention?” There was a mini buffet of up-and-coming rockers, gorgeous food and drink, and Stuart Cable was there as MC of the event. I was too nervous to eat. After saying hi to Punkrokka and Dyler Plummer, I grabbed a piece of pineapple and watermelon, just for show, and made a beeline for Stuart to make out with him. He looked fucking horny. Before I could reach him though, I saw Dirk following me.

“Roxxxxaaannne!!” he exclaimed, singing the Police song in his effeminate way.

“King Dirk! Baby! Fuck me right here. Now!” Plate of watermelon still in my hand, I put my tongue in his mouth. We kissed each other’s necks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt from Bullet For My Valentine watching us. I knew everyone on the rock scene hated Towers with unparalleled passion because the band was always starting fights, trashing every venue it played, and fucking every girl it could. Just to make things worse, I led Dirk to Stuart and introduced them, then proceeded to get between them and flaunt myself shamelessly.

After kissing them both in front of everyone, I promptly made my way back to Lori and told her we had to go have group sex with Towers at their hotel. They were playing a gig at the Camden Barfly that night, then going to Japan the next day. Tonight they’d be at a hotel near Heathrow airport.

A bunch of us—Lori, Mad Pete, Punkrokka, Dyler Plummer, and others—hopped in a van to the Barfly.

It was a hot night. Every Towers hanger-on was outside the venue drinking and hanging out. Pug, the gay Lemmy guy, was there with an older hippie woman who reeked of coriander. There were the teenage Japanese twin girls, the band’s families, a scary-looking fetish model from Hong Kong, some circus-performer types, and, as usual, girls of every type, shape, color, and motivation, including the older groupies, wobbly in their best knickers and their hope for a bit of young punk meat.

The Hong Kong fetish model’s face was set in a frozen look. She stood motionless in front of the mosh pit with Lori and me, cartoon-size mammaries on display. She kept staring at Dirk. I retaliated by elbowing her in the chest with all my might—accidentally on purpose—as I danced up and down and screamed “On a Noose,” “Good Times,” and “I’m a Rat” as loud as I could, right in her ear.

Because we were known to be with the band, random girls kept coming up to Lori and me and telling us how beautiful we were. “I can’t get you backstage, sorry, sweetie,” we’d say laconically. We were so happy then, hugging and dancing, unified in our love for this band—these boys who ran our lives.

That night was the first time I saw Janie. She was clambering onto the stage, a tall redhead with plump, crimson cheeks and all-white clothing, looking like a lost little puppy. She grabbed a pair of spare drumsticks by Snell and danced like a fairy by his side. Then she went and sat sidestage, swinging her long legs like a boy. She irritated me instantly. She didn’t belong in this kind of scene.

Later I joined Dirk in the dressing room and we talked about life. Dirk always spoke as if he were on horse tranquilizers, which I never understood, since he was constantly hoovering all of Peru. He had a habit of looking so deep into your eyes when he talked that it felt like he was looking for more drugs in there. Poor Donny had his girlfriend with him that night, so he looked on wretchedly, a destitute kid, as Dirk drifted into the club to smooch and flirt with any woman he could find. This really upset me. Even though I knew I wasn’t with him in any formal sense, his constant roaming around to perform his brazen seduction technique hurt—especially when it was done right in my face. But that was Dirk. He had to have sex with every female he saw: fat, ginger, blond, old, brunette, young, thin, unconscious—even my best friends.

I walked into the club that night to see him hungrily eating the face of the old hippie woman Pug had brought. She was in heaven: this middle-aged, saggy, henna-stained, herbal-tea-drinking, daytime-TV-watching, fat-arsed, farty old woman. My heart sank. Why would he do that? I just didn’t get it.

Their white van waited outside the Barfly. Stoksie was stressed as usual. And Lori wanted us to go to Japan with them the next day.

“Awww, let’s get in the bus!” Lori squeaked, a pretty but annoying doll. She really needed the band: With no family of her own, she was the ultimate orphan. And I was her Fagin.

“We have to ask them first,” I said in my mommy voice.

Lori scampered off to find a band member to ask, and I floated around the bar, trying to be as cool as the Fonz while desperate hope wriggled like maggots in my gut. I preferred to be asked by a band member.

I was eating Mad Pete’s soggy chips when Lori popped up. “They’re leaving!” she panted. The night creatures were still hanging around, desperate for a scrap of Towers—a chat, a comment, a smile; any Towers residue was licked up with relish.

“Come on!” Lori yanked my arm. Stoksie was huffing and puffing over the band’s itinerary. Snell, happy-go-lucky as ever, already on the bus, sat in the seat next to the driver. Snell was the oldest in the band and the most down-to-earth. He was also the most level-headed and quaint coke snorter I had ever met. I always secretly wondered if his cocaine wasn’t lemon sherbet.

The Rev climbed in, followed by Tommy, tall, posh, shy, and model-boned. Donny’s girlfriend sat next to him with love in her eyes, and Lori jumped in the bus so confidently, as if it were her right. I knew she did this because she had to: It was a matter of survival. Without the band, she would simply die inside.

Tommy pulled Dirk into the bus, stumbling and giggling, drunk and still rancid—freshly unstuck from the lips of the old hippie woman.

I scanned him with nausea, unable to understand why he had no standards whatsoever, why he didn’t differentiate between cool and white trash. Just as we were about to take off, Sasha, a skinny goth girl, slithered her way onto the bus like an eel. No one said anything to her. Maybe they were just being polite. Rolling into a corner, she hid herself in the inky shadows and dissolved out of sight.

That was the first time I noticed the band’s manager, Nathan—a slick, older, Prada-decked smoothie who used to manage the Happy Mondays. Even in the dark of the bus, I noticed a cinnamon glow to his skin. So did the band.

“You been on a sun bed, Nathan?” they taunted him. “You weren’t in Cyprus, really, were you? It was the sun bed!”

Nathan absorbed the ribbing elegantly, with a sort of fatherly pride. I wondered if it violated groupie etiquette to fuck the band’s manager. Maybe it would be okay if the band watched. I’d never done a manager before. As I sat across the aisle from Nathan, I opened my legs and wet my lips, looking him directly in the eye.

Suddenly I felt something shuffling on the ground. I jolted back. “Did someone bring a pet?” I asked. “There’s something moving on the floor.”