The Last Living Slut (18 page)

“It’s that girl from the show,” Lori whispered, elbowing me violently in the ribs. “She snuck in.”

Sitting ghostly next to the goth girl, I saw a pig-tailed Asian girl hiding in the shadows, trying to camouflage herself. She opened her mouth and let out a giggle, but said nothing. She knew her place.

At a gas station stop, Donny’s girlfriend skipped out to get cigarettes and Red Bull. She was the ultimate fresh-faced girl next door. I felt so bad when I talked to her, knowing that I—and so many other girls—were fucking her boyfriend. I wondered if she knew. As soon as his girlfriend was out of sight, Donny’s hands spread all over Lori, jabbering dirty filthy talk fast and furious in her ear in the limited window available to him.

At the hotel an hour later, Lori and I were hurriedly ushered upstairs by The Rev and Dirk, who were sharing a room. I knew The Rev was dying to fuck me, as he was the only one who hadn’t yet (apart from Tommy, but Tommy didn’t count). I was still really into Dirk, though, so I snuggled up to him while Lori and The Rev left us to it and went downstairs to join the others for a drink.

While I rubbed Dirk’s back to melt the kinks, I promised him that I wouldn’t try any funny stuff—just the massage, because he was exhausted. But I had a plan. Massaging him with one hand, I briskly whipped off my corset and skirt with the other, swapping hands rapidly so he wouldn’t catch on. Soon, all I had on were stockings. When he rolled over and saw me, he had no option but to get turned on. Exhaustedly, he flipped me around and climbed on top of me. He held me down, because he knew I liked it. And I pulled his blond, punky hair.

Mad Pete

“Don’t touch the hair, Rox. Don’t. Touch. The. Hair.” He was panicked his punk spikes would go limp. I should have realized how much hairspray it took for those blond tufts to stand starch-stiff.

He spread my legs open. I forced them shut. He forced them open again. Then he slapped me, and I whacked him back. I told him to punch me (“not too hard”), and he laughed that boy giggle; this was all a little weird for him. But he did hold me down, and fucked me so hard with that canoe-size museum piece of his that I got pissed off that my vagina was so tight. My knees were weak, and my heart—my heart liked him. I wanted to cuddle and kiss him. I wanted tenderness, but I had to behave myself and not show emotion. Especially to Dirk Tourette.

We heard a knock on the door and I grudgingly peeked it open. Donny stood there sheepishly. His girlfriend was in the room next door.

“Can I come in?” he asked, shuffling nervously.

He was miffed that he wasn’t getting any playtime. Seeing as I’d only been sandwiched between two brothers once before, long ago, I gave it some thought at first. But tonight I only wanted to be with Dirk. I don’t know what was wrong with me, except I was getting warm and fuzzy toward Dirk, which was as vile as getting addicted to smack. Donny got the vibe and left.

We were lying on the bed when The Rev and Lori barged in. ”Everybody was asking where you two were,” Lori cooed over us in the bed. “Everyone is always like, ‘Oh, Rox and Dirk have disappeared again!’ ”

The Rev gazed hungrily at me and Dirk lying in the sheets, and climbed into bed with us. Lori followed him.

The four of us lay there in mutual, silent erotic repose. With The Rev on my left and Dirk on my right, soon I was being fingered by them both. I spread my legs as wide as physically possible, cursing myself for not taking those gymnastics classes my mother had insisted on when I was younger.

The Rev was ravenous for a piece of me; on his left, Lori was whimpering for him. “Go on, Rox,” Dirk goaded me. Secretly I wished he wasn’t so willing for me to get it on with The Rev. I wanted to be alone with him. But with Dirk watching me, I climbed on top of The Rev and slid myself on his cock. He swept his hair, languid and lovely, out of the way. And I kissed him as I let him thrust hard and fast into me. After three minutes, he let out a telltale groan.

“What the f—,” I said to myself. I pulled off his cock and swallowed every last bit of his cum. Then I rolled over and went back to cuddling Dirk. Sweaty, sleepy, lovely Dirk.

“Open the door! I wanna come in!” A girl pounded on the door.

We were all in bed, trying to sleep. Sasha the Goth had arisen with the moon like a possessed doll.

“We’re going to have to open the door.” The Rev got up angrily. “She’s gonna get us thrown out.”

So in she came, scraggy arms everywhere, drunk and disorderly, ranting that she couldn’t find a place to sleep and couldn’t go into the streets, because we were in the middle of nowhere and it was four a.m.

“Here’s a pillow.” Rev threw it at her. “You can lay your head down in the corner.”

“Ooh, you’re so beautiful, look at you,” Sasha said, gawking at me as she stumbled around our bed. “You . . . you are like the Queen of Sheba.”

“You still can’t sleep in this bed, luv,” I said, smiling back. It made me laugh, the way these newbies tried to butter me up.

The door opened again, and a slab of light wedged its way in. Donny entered the room. Walking over to the bed, he grabbed Lori and took her to the bathroom. As Dirk, The Rev, and I lay there in silence, we could hear echoed moans coming from the bathroom and Donny barking out dirty, nasty words.

“You like that cock? Yeah? Do ya? Do ya?”

Silence.

After a few minutes, I heard Donny say in a more somber, childlike voice, “After you’ve been with someone for a few years, sex isn’t the same.”

I wondered if his girlfriend next door could hear him. A few minutes later, he came out, wiped his dick, and went back next door to her.

Lori stumbled out of the bathroom. Now it was The Rev’s turn to start fucking her. I walked over to them and gently pushed Lori out of the way, so he could stick his dick in me instead. I hoped this time he’d last longer than three minutes. He alternated sliding his cock in and out of me and Lori until he couldn’t take it anymore. We knelt down in front of him until he gave it to us. We swallowed it all—plenty. The whole time Dirk just kept on snoring and sweating, and Sasha kept coming in and out of the room.

“Anyone wanna cuppa tea?” The Rev was up bright and early, pouring cups of tea for everyone.

Lori began harassing Dirk, wanting to see his museum piece. “I’ve heard so much about it,” she whined.

We all sipped tea while Sasha sat in the corner quietly. The Rev didn’t offer her any tea as punishment for shredding the ambience during the night. We all went down for breakfast and found Tommy, Snell, and Stoksie. I kissed them one by one as they climbed on the bus for the airport.

“Don’t do any Japanese groupies,” I whispered to Dirk.

“Not into Japanese girls anyway, babe,” he lied and gave me a kiss.

Chapter 33

I
was standing with Lori on the side of the stage under a marquee tent in the cloudy, humid Belgian summer. I wore my new corset from Sluts R Us, also known as a Camden market stall. It was scarlet, with black lace on top worn with the vapor of hope and the sweet sweat of Cacharel’s Amor Amor. My denim skirt, also new, made itself useful by being short and starched. Inside, I was happy but Lori was ecstatic. We loved our boys, their songs, their playing, their stage presence. And we loved and supported them everywhere they went, sending out our energy and vibes to them, inspiring them, making the crowd go even wilder for them.

That day, everything felt different. For a start, it was the first time we’d gone abroad to see the band and the first time we’d been with them at a rock festival. The band had started saving us a bunk whenever we wanted to travel with them. They’d asked us to come to Belgium, and then travel back with them.

Lori was newly platinum blond after I persuaded her to dissolve her raven-black locks so we could come as a blond-brunette pair. Right then, at that very moment, our long hair was congealed with sweat and orgasmic thrill. In her borrowed blue outfit, with her peaches-and-cream skin, Lori looked more like a kitten than ever. I hugged her against my breasts, and we giggled like crazy children. Mad Pete, who by now was the only person following the band to more shows than we were, lurked around snapping photos. The Kid, in his cowboy hat and weathered burgundy leather jacket, walked out of the boys’ dressing room. It’s an unspoken rule: whatever you might be up to in the dressing room, when it’s showtime, you just get up and leave. No words required.

Pink-haired Phil had set up everything onstage, including beer, water, ciggies, and us—and, for the first time, Janie, the new girl. She was comforting and childlike—a strawberry milkshake with red hair and girly white vintage dresses. And, more important, she knew her place. This weekend on the tour bus, if she proved she knew the rules of being with the band, we’d let her hang around.

Janie liked Tommy, who was equally comforting. Lucky for her, his girlfriend wasn’t there. Lori and I always did our best to make sure there wouldn’t be any girlfriends suddenly turning up—that’s why home gigs were a no-no. We’d made that mistake once at the Garage in Islington.

We grabbed a hot dog, then found our way to a field of tour buses parked side by side on Belgian stones and dust and fuel-stained balding grass hosting rock stars for two nights under the stars. The family rushed up to us. They were so happy to see us. Having these five hot rockers love us injected Technicolor into our lives. I gave Dirk the present I had bought for him, a View-Master with a Pink Panther cartoon. He dug it, and I loved seeing him happy.

After a day of walking in the grass and mud, eardrums perforated with gasoline rock ‘n’ roll, hair smelling of barbecued meat, brains fuzzy with wine, I stood on the table in the front end of the tour bus. I wore a black, lacy, crotchless catsuit, and even though I was wearing super-high heels I danced and danced and danced. Watching me on the surrounding red sofas were Phil, Stoksie, the Kid, Mad Pete, two photographers, Janie, and Lori.

Outside, the grass was wet and the sky lulling and soothing. An hour passed, and the band hadn’t appeared. Someone said they’d gotten into another fight in the backstage area. Lori and I had been there earlier, and it was all industry types sitting around pretending to look important. No debauchery of any description whatsoever. The band were probably sniffing for a fight anyway, as they usually do. I felt so shallow, I wanted an orgy.

The band finally showed up, drugged up to their eyelashes. Especially Dirk. I hadn’t been with him since the airport hotel three weeks earlier, and I’d missed him. It was poison—you cannot miss, or have feelings for, a rocker. I wanted to be with him so badly, but he was so full of chemicals that his eyes were whirring like cuckoo-clock birds and his walk and talk were comedic. When he flirted with other girls, I didn’t care—not this time. He was twenty-five, after all, and in a rock band, with girls throwing themselves at him. But when he made out with my friends, it hurt badly. I knew that it shouldn’t, that he wasn’t my boyfriend, but when it was right in my face, it shredded me like the abrasive side of a scouring pad against my wrists.

Until December 2005, I hung out with Towers in every city in Europe and even Canada. Fucking on tour buses, trashed hotel rooms, backstage love-ins, and fistfights—it was all rolled into one kaleidoscopic photoplay before my eyes like the hum of the projector all those years ago.

But, along the way, I realized I still wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll. I couldn’t bear to see Dirk with other girls. It hurt too much. I was a wuss. So I turned to a teenage glam band: Kid Ego. They were just starting out—and therefore ripe for corruption. Their songs fucking rocked. I wanted to take advantage of them all.

Chapter 34

Tonight, I will do The Whole Band. First, The Sixteen-Year-Old Drummer must be had.

I
had never slept with a sixteen-year-old boy. But tonight I was gonna do it. Nickky was Kid Ego’s drummer. His face looked like it had been carbon-copied from a photo of a teenage Jim Morrison, and he played drums like Tommy Lee. He was a miniature miracle, and everyone stared gape-jawed when he played.

Rookie, the eighteen-year-old bassist, like so many male rock-star wannabes on the planet, used the Nikki Sixx formula to create his image. Zakk, the lead singer, also eighteen, was a bit tubby—he looked more like he had shouted at the donut than the devil—but his voice was magnificent when he belted out their sleazy rock numbers. And there were two others: Phil, with dreadlocks, and Birdy, a dirty, nasty, sleazy, hot motherfucker.

Their songs were volcanic, and swung me to roller-coaster heights. They were playing Cardiff, and even though Cardiff was bleak in my memory—all grayness, dirt, fucking, and seizure—I went there alone. I was nervous as a rabbit, and felt as if my knees had been sucked hollow. My bones were like tea biscuits, ready to snap. I hoped this time Cardiff would be kinder to me.