The Last Living Slut (26 page)

“Did your dad molest you when you were a kid?” he suddenly asked.

I was shocked. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

But he made me talk. About my childhood. About everything in my heart, my soul. About my parents, my life. It felt so good. He knew exactly how to get into me, how to make me feel wanted. I told him about my mother’s stroke.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he exclaimed, strangely shocked.

He seemed genuinely interested in knowing everything about me. I was on such a fucking high lying there next to him. It felt like the little girl part of me had finally been given everything she’d never had in life. It was better than cocaine, better than every happiness I’d known put together. He had a kindness merged with an explosive charisma unmatched by any other man I’d ever met. Nothing bothered me: not the noise of the buses on the street; not the blasting air-conditioning as I lay there naked when I always liked to sleep in pajamas; not sleeping in someone’s arms when I normally wanted my own space. Dizzy was so gentle, kissing my back, my neck.

“Would you still like me if I wasn’t in a band?” he asked.

“If you were how you are now—the same guy—then, yes, I would,” I said truthfully.

“So it’s not just because of who I am and the band I’m in?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I actually didn’t even know the answer. I wanted to be honest but not cruel. I wasn’t even sure myself if I only liked him because of Guns N’ Roses. Either way, I was floating over the bed with adrenaline.

I checked my phone’s clock when I awoke. It was really early. I’d only slept for about four hours. I looked over at Dizzy. He seemed to be asleep. I couldn’t let him see me without proper makeup on, so I grabbed my bag and shot through the room to the toilet. I crayoned on my thick foundation paste to cover up my acne scars, retouched my now Alice Cooper–esque eyeliner, and applied a light daytime blush. If I didn’t look good when he woke up, he might think, “Lord, what have I done?”

I slunk back into the sheets and lay still as concrete. I touched Dizzy’s dreadlocks. They were fuzzy and rough and itched my skin, which was still raw and tender from the elation of being with him. Dizzy had taken sleeping pills, so I didn’t want to disturb him. I was so happy that morning, but nervousness was creeping in again like a hail of darts. Today was the day of the concert. What was expected of me? I was used to small, beer-stained hotel rooms, hordes of young, half-dressed, drunken groupies, and angry tour managers. This hotel room was so pretty. And clean. I cuddled Dizzy’s back tightly and placed kisses all over him until he woke up.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asked as he kissed me. “I can order room service.”

“Oh, don’t order room service,” I said. “It’s expensive. I’ll go get us some Starbucks. Would you like that?”

He kissed and hugged me again, and I ran out in a denim skirt and red shirt into the sunny, smiling Manchester streets.

Strolling through the city center was like walking in the past. I was ten years old again, smelling the leather of new shoes, eyeing toy shops full of glamorous dolls, and gazing at brand new toasters and kettles in the Argos store, the kind we could never afford growing up. I remembered how my cousin and I used to go and look at the porn magazines in comic book stores and steal them because we were too young to buy them. I’d jack up my hair with stupendous amounts of hairspray, and wear purple eye shadow, long lacy white gloves, and thrift-store jewelry as I walked through these streets.

I remembered my mother calling me a whore when she saw my tiny ripped skirts, fishnet tights, and ripped tops. Stung by her words and unable to contain my tears, I began to believe her.

As I grew older, I transformed myself, within and without. I changed from proper clothes to my shredded outfits in public toilets in the park, where I smoked cigarettes and drank cans of Guinness. I embraced a life in the shadows.

The thick smell of coffee at Starbucks snapped me back into reality. “Chai latte, please, and a decaf caramel macchiato.”

On the way back to the hotel, I saw Tommy Stinson shopping with the big-toothed, blond mermaid woman. Then I bumped into Del.

“I bet you’ve been up all night,” he said in his sweet, uncle-type way. “You kept him up, didn’t ya, you bad girl?”

“Yes, we’re both tired.” I blushed.

“See ya tonight, sweetheart.”

Del was so adorable. I still didn’t know who he was.

“I need to go shopping for my kids,” Dizzy said when I got back. “Will you come and help me? I have to get Manchester United stuff for them.”

“Are you sure you want me to come shop for your kids? I don’t want to intrude.”

“I really like you. It would mean a lot to me if you came.” Dizzy looked at me dead-on. His honesty was so refreshing, so endearing.

Going shopping in the Arndale Centre mall with someone from Guns N’ Roses was surreal. The place epitomized the unpleasantness of my childhood life in England. It looked exactly the same to me: the same smell, the same hollow lights, the same gurgly echo of kids’ voices and Mancunian accents. We went into a sports shop and started picking out Manchester United shirts for Dizzy’s children.

“Do you think this would fit a nine-year-old? Would she like it, do you think?” Dizzy was intense. We’d only been together for one night; I didn’t feel I had any authority to shop for his kids with him. But, at the same time, the fact that he would ask me made me feel good about myself.

As we walked back to the hotel, Dizzy took my hand. It melted into his with trepidation and joy. Then, as we reached the hotel doors, he suddenly stopped and faced me.

“Why do you like me?” he asked. “I want you to be honest. Why me?”

“Why
me
?” I said. “You can have models if you want.”

I didn’t understand this at all.

Chapter 43

R
iding on the Guns N’ Roses tour bus felt grand. Dizzy and I sat at the front on the way to the Manchester Evening News Arena. And Del gave me a gold laminate granting me VIP access for the European tour.

Back at the hotel, we had bumped into Izzy Stradlin outside. He was with the most beautiful and fragrant Frenchwoman and a young girl of about twelve, who I assumed was their daughter. They were traveling in a separate car because Izzy was higher up in the band’s ranking system.

I wondered how the rest of the band viewed me. I wondered if they were aware of the state of Dizzy’s supposedly open marriage. Each band member seemed to be in a world of his own, like office workers shuffling in quietly to do their day’s work. It all felt very corporate—so different from traveling with other bands, where it felt like one big family.

When we reached the venue, the bus went through giant metal gates. We parked next to Bullet For My Valentine’s bus, which was a vomit-inducing emo surprise. If they hadn’t shared the same management company as Guns N’ Roses— Sanctuary—they probably would never have gotten the support slot.

Towers of London was also supporting Guns N’ Roses. It would be weird to see them in these circumstances. Usually I’d be so excited at the thought of seeing my boys—I was as proud as a mother hen to know they were playing such a huge venue—but this time was different: I was with Guns N’ Roses. As we got off the bus, I kept wondering where Axl was and whether I’d meet him tonight.

After walking down a labyrinthine maze of fluorescent-lit stone corridors that felt like a maximum security penitentiary, we entered a dining area where the catering girls from the previous night ladled out soup and distributed shepherd’s pie, crunchy veggies, and puddings with custardy things. The whole band—minus Axl—sat down for supper.

Afterward, I followed Dizzy to the dressing room. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, as if at any moment someone would jump out and say, “Hey! This isn’t right. You’re not hot enough. You shouldn’t be here!”

So I entered the room meekly. A long table with a vast array of fruit, a juice extractor, finger sandwiches, hummus, and other dips awaited the band and its entourage. There was a shower room and a large bathroom. In the corner, Robin Finck, the lead guitarist, was doing leg lunges and yoga stretches in his white long johns, looking like a yeti. Dizzy introduced me to everyone he could. Then he brought out his keyboards and put his headphones on for a warmup before the show. I knew it was time for me to leave, but I didn’t know where to go, so I decided to venture out into the corridors.

Just as I came out of the dressing room, there he was—Axl Rose, striding briskly toward me like a cougar, surrounded by a wall of security. He was wearing shades and smirking. His face was alabaster white. He was still as beautiful as Dionysus. I felt my body lengthen and bloom like a glowing flower. I smiled seductively, presenting myself to Axl with kittenish fuck-me eyes. He looked me up and down and smiled back. My heart beat super-fast and I was so happy that I was looking hot as fuck.

I glided on through the corridors, every bend and intersection occupied with security guards poured into elephant-gray uniforms. They were so courteous and gentle with me because I was with Guns N’ Roses. Through those burrows of fluorescent-lit gray stone, I stumbled across the Towers’ dressing room just as the boys were filing out to go onstage. I glanced inside their room, which was pocket-sized and tucked into the back of the venue like a redundant sandwich.
My boys.
Kissing them one by one on the lips as they scuttled off to play, I felt pride swell in my chest like a mommy watching her children at their first school play.

“Oi saggy tits, wot u doin’ ’ere?” It was Mad Pete, the glue to the Towers family. The guy looked so bloody grateful and deliriously happy, as he always did when he was with Towers. I had missed him so much.

“Woz in Glasgow last night. Fackin’ drove back to London and then back ’ere.” He wasn’t called Mad for nothing. “Had to go ’ome for somefin’. Anyway, wot u doin’ ’ere, saggy tits? You’re shagging Axl, aren’t you?”

“I fucking wish. Actually, I’m here with Dizzy Reed. He’s the keyboardist. He’s really nice, Pete. Not like the rest of them you’ve seen me with. I’ll introduce you later.”

“C’mon then. Towers are on!” He pulled me along, his giant tattoos of Axl and Sid Vicious entertaining his arms.

I had to go get Dizzy. I wanted him to see Towers, the boys I had known for so long. Dizzy and I stood sidestage, Dizzy silent and me screaming hoarse to my boys’ songs and jumping up and down like a teenager with Beatlemania.

Such a huge venue didn’t suit Towers. They were too quirky and Donny’s voice was too weak to fill such a large arena. They thrived in intimate venues.

At the end of their set, Towers covered “Free Bird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. “They totally ruined that one,” Dizzy whispered to me disgustedly as we walked back to the Guns N’ Roses dressing room. I felt embarrassed that the band I loved so much had let him down.

I started massaging his tense shoulders and placing kisses on his head while the rest of the band warmed up, strumming guitars, doing yoga, and eating organic food. Dizzy kept looking up at me like a little lost boy with wide blue eyes. I started to realize that he was getting off on being seen with me. I got the feeling that it actually made him feel more important; even after sixteen years in Guns N’ Roses, many people still looked at Dizzy as just another hired hand, especially since there were two keyboardists in the band. But he didn’t need to feel that way. He was so lovely, so sexy, and such a dispenser of cool.

Waiting on the sidelines for Guns N’ Roses to come on that night was one of the happiest moments of my life. The band had been my life since I was a teen. Axl had been my God, and their songs had resonated in my being. Now I was watching them from the wings in a huge arena. And even though it wasn’t the real Guns N’ Roses—with Slash, Duff, and Steven—it was still the music I lived for.

As I strutted on the edge of the stage in my starched skirt and embroidered corset next to Towers, Mad Pete, Del, and the sound technician, I was thrashed by a sea of thunderous frenzy roaring from thousands of sweaty humans chanting “Guns N’ Roses!” from the dark innards of the arena, steeped in smoke and heat. It was a volcanic yearning so deeply emotional that it resembled mass religious zeal. I felt like this was the top of my mountain. I felt at home. Even Velvet Revolver was dribbing penny change compared to this.

When Robin Finck trickled the opening bars of “Welcome to the Jungle,” the crowd poured out a soothing sigh of relief. It quenched the festering frustrations kept stacked and stagnant in their lives. Pyro kept going off every ten minutes, and I saw Dizzy pat on some bongos at the top corner of the stage for the opening of the song.

It was surreal watching the show with Towers. Here I was with a band that I had been everywhere with, sharing girls with, screaming hysterically to their songs; now we were the audience together, excited together, singing together.

Every Guns N’ Roses song was a little plate of heaven—even though they never played my favorite, “Civil War.” After the final notes of the closing song, “Paradise City,” my body felt arthritic. I went to touch up my makeup in the Towers’ dressing room, which was packed with people like steamed fish in foil.