The Last Living Slut (35 page)

“Excuse me, I was just wondering if you could let me come with you and Joe tonight?” A dainty china-doll hand was tugging at my arm. I turned around in irritation, prickly as thorns, and I couldn’t believe it: it was Steven Adler’s Swedish redhead! The petite, fragile-boned, always-there redhead who had pissed the fuck out of me on the Adler’s Appetite tour.

“Oh, hello. It’s you.” She giggled through her dinky cherry smile. I hadn’t noticed how adorable she was. So adorable.

“Please? I really like Joe. I really want him.”

You bloody lucky wanker, Joe, I thought. How many young, tender, perky-breasted girls would you have dying to fuck you if you weren’t in an ’80s hair-metal band?

“All right. You can come.” I had been in similar situations, and always liked to help out little-girl groupies if they did me sexual favors. She squealed with delight and did a little victory dance, then went off with a friend to the men’s toilets with Michael Thomas, Bang Tango’s guitarist, to celebrate by sucking his dick.

Four girls followed us back to Joe and Michael’s hotel room. One was a giraffe-tall Finnish spectacle with a Mohawk, who wailed and gnashed her teeth at the slightest sexual touch as if she were at an evangelical healing. Her theatricality was scary. Sober, and annoyed to realize that fucking young girls also meant babysitting them, I spread out my belongings on Joe’s bed, and he and I started cuddling.

Immediately, though, thoughts of Scotty swathed me like tumbling sheets. I excused myself and left the room to call him.

“I’m with Bang Tango,” I blabbed to him when he picked up. “I don’t know why. I miss you.”

“Get out of there immediately,” he spat into the phone. “What are you doing there?”

He probably lost a lot of respect for me then. But at the same time, the conversation made me imagine him being with other women, and it just fucking killed me. Knowing he was surely about to go out and pick up chicks for the night himself, I went back to the room and did stuff to myself and to Joe, just to kill the fresh sting of emotion that had started budding up in my heart for Scott.

I got to work, making those girls watch as I showed them how it’s done. The redhead started to join in, hands everywhere, but I kicked her away.

“I don’t want you to fuck anyone else but me,” I said to Joe. I wanted to try out my fantasy of monogamy.

“I won’t,” he promised.

So Michael got all the attention: four girls on top of him like a litter of kittens. He developed the agility of an octopus, fingering, sucking, and fucking them all at once. Suddenly, a girl who looked like the youngest stood up, clutching a can of orange Fanta. “I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s not really me.” She sobbed. “I wanna go home.”

“It’s okay, honey.” I always had to be the fucking mommy in every situation. “I’ll call you a cab,” I said, calling the taxi as Joe positioned me doggy-style.

“The cab’s coming, honey,” I told the scared young girl as the redhead pined for Joe to penetrate her little pussy. Then I relented and disconnected myself from Joe, telling him, “You can fuck her.” I wanted a bit of self-loving anyway.

The batteries in my vibrator were run down, and for a few minutes I went nuts looking for AA batteries. Then I had a bright idea.

“Where’s the TV remote control?” I asked frantically as Michael and Joe swapped girls. I was almost hysterical. I needed my vibrator to work properly. I stamped my feet until Michael, exasperated, got up mid-fuck and found the fucking TV remote for me. I slid out the batteries, kicked the bewildered girls off the bed, and settled down in their place. “I’m gonna ejaculate,” I soon panted as a river gushed out of me, drenching Michael’s bed and leaving a massive puddle.

“Hey, my sheets are soaked,” Michael exclaimed. “I have to sleep on that!”

“Sorry, Michael,” I replied. “You’re gonna have to sleep on the puddle. I’ll put some towels underneath you.”

That night, the room smelled like a Mexican brothel. Girls lay on the floor with jackets for mattresses and shoes for pillows as I cuddled up to Joe. Michael did end up sleeping on the puddle after all—and he did it like a fucking man.

I stayed with the band for the rest of the tour, but most of the time I was in a depressed haze. I missed Scotty, who had become a substitute for missing Dizzy. I’d sleep with Joe, then call Scott right away, and then cry to Joe about Dizzy. My head was a mess.

Chapter 56

It felt so Beautiful to give Myself to One Guy Alone.

T
he problem with Scotty was that he only wanted me when he couldn’t have me.

They say that sex is best with the one you love, but in the case of Scotty it was the other way around: I fell in love with him because the way he fucked and made love to me shook me to my core. There has to be a new word for what he did to me in bed. It was animal fucking, but romantic and loving at the same time. My body temperature skyrocketed when we had sex. I went limp; my knees wouldn’t work. For the first time I knew what it felt like to have multiple earth-shattering orgasms. I also fell in love with his carefree spirit and gypsy soul. In my heart I knew he wasn’t completely my type, emotionally or mentally. But I was desperate for love, and here was a man who had pretty much given up a band—given up everything—for me. He was my baby, my darling. Like Dizzy, Scott made me want to be monogamous. I wanted only him.

My friends thought he was the biggest loser they’d ever encountered. Not only because of the way he hurt me over and over, but because they thought he was a whiny, needy, emotionally immature child who was always scrounging for beer and food. And he was the biggest whore in town. Even his own friends thought I was too good for him.

Even though he tried to fuck my best friends behind my back, I still loved him. Even though he repeatedly treated me like shit, I went back to his arms as soon as he started whimpering about his feelings for me. He was dirt poor and I would’ve bought him a house if I could have afforded it.

By then Scott was in the band L.A. Guns, and I was so proud of him. He kept gushing about how charismatic the band’s singer Phil Lewis was and about the amazing group of musicians he jammed with. He wanted me to go with him to Vegas while he was on tour. So in April I scraped together all the money I’d made belly dancing and went back to LA.

On my first night in LA, Scott told me he wanted us to be exclusive. I was ecstatic. I hadn’t realized he was even thinking that way. For days I walked around with the biggest smile on my face. When he left town for a weekend of touring, I proudly turned down calls from other rock stars, delirious that I was finally with someone who wanted only me. It felt so beautiful to give myself to one guy alone.

The day after Scott returned, I was hanging out with Carla, one of my closest friends, when we decided to do a little test. I texted Scott and we made a plan to meet. My friend Carla’s boyfriend was one of Scott’s closest pals, and had hooked him up with a lot of work in the past. As Carla checked her e-mails, she decided to send a message to Scott. She wanted me to see that Scott had no morals—that he would fuck a girl who was not just my friend but who was also dating his close buddy.

“Go ahead,” I dared her. “Flirt with him.”

A naughty glimmer skimmed across her eyes as she threw a bunch of sexual innuendos on the screen.

“I really want to fuck you,” Scott typed in response. “Come over to my place. I’ll go get some beers.” Then he gave her his address.

I felt sick.

Scott knew how close Carla and I were. He knew I was only in LA for two weeks. I was so hurt and humiliated.

Minutes later, he texted me: “I actually can’t see you tonight. I’m just gonna go hang out with my buddies and chill out at their place.”

In the meantime, on the screen, another message from him appeared for Carla: “What time are you coming over? I’m just going to get those drinks.”

“I told you so.” Carla looked at me sympathetically.

All night, as I sat at her place wishing I still drank, Scott kept texting her, asking what was taking her so long. I felt sick.

“Cut him out of your life,” Carla said.

I didn’t listen.

At six a.m., I was still going fucking crazy. I called Scott and left a message. A couple hours later, he called me back. I was hysterical, calling him every name under the sun.

“How could you do this to me?” I screamed. “She’s my friend. My fucking friend. And her boyfriend is your buddy who’s helped you so many times. How could you?”

An hour later we met outside a nearby café. My face was puffy, and my voice hoarse. He fell all over himself apologizing.

“I’m so sorry,” he begged. “Will you forgive me, Roxana? Please. I was so drunk and stupid. I never meant to hurt you.”

I cried quietly as he drove to Venice Beach. It was a beautiful sunny day and we walked along the beach holding hands. He sat me down in the sand, bought me lunch, and started kissing my feet and hands. As his face came close to mine to kiss my lips, I smelled something.

“Your mouth stinks of pussy!” I pulled away in disgust. “Were you fucking someone last night? Be fucking honest.”

“I went to the ’bow last night and picked up this chick. She came back to my place.” He smiled like he was proud.

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “You couldn’t fuck Carla, one of my closest friends. So you went out and picked up some whore at the ’bow?”

“Yeah. Look,” he said in his puppy-dog voice, “I also told your friend, Jenna, that I really liked her.”

I still don’t know why I didn’t cut him out of my life then. Maybe I liked pain. Maybe I felt I deserved to be treated like a piece of shit.

Instead, I just sat on the beach and shook. He couldn’t let his wet cock rest, even for just the two weeks I was there. I listened to him apologize and I let him hold me, as though that would make it all right.

That night, Scott tried hard to be romantic. He kissed me, held my hand, massaged me. I slept at his place, the sheets reeking of perfume and crusty pussy. It was hard for me, but I really liked him. In the morning, while we were still asleep, there was a thunderous bang at his door.

“Scotty, please. Open the door. I really need you. Please!” A teary-voiced girl was banging on his door. Scott’s face went white.

“Do
not
say anything!” he whispered to me. “If you do, you’re out of my life!”

“Who is she?” I whispered back.

“Shut up! Stay quiet!” He put his finger to his mouth.

We sat there while this girl screamed and banged on the door, yelling, “Scotty, I know you’re in there. Please open the door! I need you today. I have an interview!”

Eventually, she left. Scott waited two minutes, until she was out of sight, and then went after her. He left me alone for over an hour while he did what he had to do with her. And I still adored him—though he was nothing compared to Dizzy. Nothing.

Chapter 57

I
went back to London feeling like I had been kicked in the teeth. It all felt so familiar. I wasn’t getting love when I desperately needed it, and so I found myself back in my comfort zone.

Twelve worn-out rockers and one girl—me—in the belly of a hotel with three ’80s hair-metal bands: Faster Pussycat, BulletBoys, and Enuff Z’nuff. I was wearing my new flowery prom dress, and I was horny. My insides danced a ceremonial frenzy. I was holding the hand of Faster Pussycat bassist Eric Stacy, the most authentic old-school rocker there. He was the rawest male animal, squalid in his appeal—a gravelly, multiple-rehab visitor with heavily black-linered eyes and tattooed, needle-tracked arms. He gazed at me with the adoring look of a pining cat, as if I were his savior that night, giving him momentary relief from the status quo and pulling him into the realm of rock stars again. My body seared with the thrill.

Eric took me to his room, which he shared with Todd, their new Canadian guitarist. Todd had been wanting to take pornographic photos of me for weeks, but he seemed shy now. I found his little country-boy naïveté nauseating—like looking at a gorgeous piece of cake and then discovering it’s been marinated in animal fat.

Eric and I sat on the bed. A tiny, doll-size merch girl called Miss Fifi, a fixture on the scene whenever an American band was in town, got the message and vacated the room. I lap-danced slowly for him, grinding my naked crotch on his studded leather trousers, which were drenched in chains. Potholes decorated Eric’s arms—remnants of years of drug use. To someone else it might have been putrid flesh, but to me it was rock ‘n’ roll. His eyes were coagulated with liner and his abundant jet-black hair was tied with a red bandana. I was starting to unzip his pants when a heavy pounding on the door interrupted us.

“Eric, open up. You have to open up now!”

It was Brett, the fucking drummer.

“I need to speak to Eric,” he said. Shaking like a lamb, Eric pulled up his zipper and left the room. I heard whispers punctuated by raised voices outside. Moments later, Brett marched in like a headmaster.

“Eric loves his wife,” he explained. “You are too tempting for him. Please leave.”

“I just wanna get laid. Please!” I stamped my feet. “Tell him to come here and say it to me himself.”

Brett left and I wondered what had happened to rock ‘n’ roll.

Eric shuffled in with his head hung low, weeping like a child. I held him and let him cry into my back. “Please, I love my wife—and you are hot,” he sobbed with his face in his hands.

“Okay, sweetie,” I said in my best mommy-is-here kind of voice. “We don’t have to do anything. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“Okay then.” Eric nodded and wiped his eyes.

“Don’t cry. Let’s go out for something to eat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, huh?” I took his hand. Of course, he was even sexier now that he was crying. I found it incredibly hot.

We went into the room next door to get the rest of the band. As we did, I cursed loudly that I’d probably been in every single room in the Camden fucking Lock Hotel. Eric shot me a look, worried. But I was actually laughing at the absurdity of it all. Todd and Brett were surprised to see me smile, as if they’d been priming themselves for a monumental fit. Eric took my hand, and Brett chaperoned us to the late night café around the corner from the hotel to make sure we didn’t suddenly forget our deal and start having sex in the middle of the kebab-hungry crowds.