Roxana Shirazi - The Last Living Slut - Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

But I want Nikki Sixx, my Elvis, inside me as well.

“I’m a squirter,” I tell Sixx.

“We like that, don’t we, Tommy?” he says, his voice a gooey slur, marinated in decades of distilled degeneracy.

Tommy takes me to his dressing room and locks the door as his bodyguard assumes the position outside. He cranks up the techno music he’s so in love with to gangrene-inducing levels.

“Can’t you put Mott the Hoople on instead?” I beg him.

“This is the music to fuck to! Fuck yeah!” Tommy says, bouncing around like a hyper child. “I wanna see you squirt, Miss Wet!”

He is so bossy, ordering me with that gravelly roar of his. I obey, spreading my legs from beneath the lovely puffy cotton dress my mum bought me. I never wear knickers. It’s been a habit since girlhood.

Tommy’s eyes eager-up like a boy wolf. I spread my pussy wide open and dildo myself so I can ejaculate all over Tommy’s lucky floor. “Is Nikki coming too?” I wish it were 1983, when they were rock’s most cretinous band.

Tommy, eyes ablaze, plays with me and kisses my flower. I’m so fucking horny. I wanna get double-fucked by Tommy and Nikki. I go to find Sixx.

Nikki tells me to be patient. He wants me to himself when he’s back in England.

London, England

Two Months Later

“You sound so angelic,” Nikki Sixx says.

“I can be a whore in the bedroom later if you want,” I reply.

“So do you and Livia come as a team?”

His voice is nasal and bookish-sounding, and it drags on like syrup. I cannot believe I’m talking to Nikki Sixx on the phone. I am a very lucky girl.

“I’m starving. When are you getting here?” Nikki says.

“Soon… soon.”

“Come to the hotel. I’m waiting. Hurry up!”

My heart is alive, full of the moon. I am going to dinner with Nikki Sixx. Little old me: the Iranian refugee girl with the mustache. The biggest nerd at school, the one who lost her virginity at twenty-four. Suddenly all the others—all the Sunset Strip nobody musicians, the has-beens, the never-wases, the ones who fucked my heart—don’t matter. They have no meaning. Nikki Sixx is waiting for me.

In the taxi on the way to his room, I feel like a coronary is coming on. Livia tries to calm me down in her flowery way. She isn’t fazed by all this. To her, Nikki Sixx might as well be John Regularsmith from the local chippie.

Livia is a model. She is ravishing. We both look like stars. Not too revealing, not too modest. Gleaming, coiffed, perfumed, and moisturized. She, a blond Marilyn; me, a raven Ava Gardner.

Nikki is waiting in the St. Martins Lane Hotel lobby. His feline, aquamarine eyes slant like a jaguar’s; jagged, jet-black hair tumbles and crashes over them. I know a lot of people who would give their kidney or an important finger to be in his presence. I am overwhelmed. I try to be civilized and not spontaneously lactate as my femininity begins to open up like a lotus flower. We hug and kiss and go to dinner.

On the way to the restaurant, my hair flusters and shimmies in the gusty winds and rain of August in London. I listen to Nikki talk about his life and watch him give American hundred-dollar bills to every homeless person we pass. I wonder if he is a lonely spirit, no longer a legend of rock-and-roll excess: Having committed every foul and abominable degenerate and depraved act to man, woman, and self—dying twice in the process from heroin overdoses—what does he have now? Who is he?

“That’s just marketing. It’s business,” he insists adamantly about his image. I am instantly deflated.

“You should have worn flat shoes. Those heels are gonna hurt your feet.” He points at my PVC-gleaming, dagger stilettos as we enter the trendy, paparazzi-infested restaurant Nobu.

“Okay,” I mutter in disappointment, tottering on with no knickers underneath my miniskirt.

Livia looks at me. She is a dream come true: Innocent Lolita sexuality, natural blond hair toppling over her face, wide blue eyes smiling back at Nikki. I wonder if he even has sex anymore, or if it all died within him like some lost, sodden memory of a past life. I hope he does, and I hope he wants us; that way I’ll also get to fuck Livia, whose porcelain body I’ve been reluctant to touch for fear of shattering it.

I eat oysters and massage Nikki’s shoulders. “I want to get into gardening,” he says with such pleasure that I imagine him daydreaming such things as he sits in his Malibu mansion, the lonely rock icon. I try to engage in the conversation, but I know jack-shit about gardening. Instead I talk about the residue of ’80s hair bands: Ratt, L.A. Guns, Faster Pussycat. But Nikki knows jack-shit about what’s going on in the old-school rock world these days.

I tell him about my ultimate teenage sexual fantasy: being double-penetrated by him and Axl Rose.

“Oh really?” His eyes spark. “And what did you move on to after that?”

“Porn, of course,” I say.

He nonchalantly tells me that he likes to sit at home and masturbate. “Date rape,” he calls it. His voice is a monotone drag. And yet he is somehow interesting, like a good magazine: packed full of information and detail. We talk about his desire to travel to my home country of Iran, spirituality, and the weather—at which point he turns suddenly around to face me. His chin points, inquisitively like a teacher, and he asks: “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

I swallow a bite of the funny-looking raw fish he ordered.

A dreaded feeling—one I thought had evaporated from my heart—suddenly surges into my head. I don’t think. I swallow. I tell the truth.

“Because I fall in love.”

There is the band. Any band. Standing there—three towers of high, acid-blond spikes and two raging, dark manes. Bare chests, eyeliner, leather, sweat, I–wanna–fuck–you–baby attitude. Guitars and bass and drums and twenty-five-year-old testosterone penetrate the air like hard-core porn. They face their adoring audience, which gazes up at them from the black mass.

There are the young: a bubbling cauldron of pasty white necks straining inside midnight clothing. Fashions bought from Camden on a Saturday afternoon, some baggy to hide their youthful chubbiness. They have zebra tights and matted hair in flaccid ponytails, black liner tracing their Red Bull–vodka eyes. The girls’ breasts, at least, are firm, all puppy fat and tender skin. The heat sends the aroma of laundry soap off their logoed clothing and into the fetid air, mixing with beer and young sweat. In their emo gear, they will scream the lyrics. And then they will go home to bedrooms tucked safely in suburbia, their walls full of posters and angst, their floors carpeted with crushed cans of Red Bull. They will lie there, in awe of the night.

Then there are the hunters, predators hiding in corners, slim and sleek like cats in heat. Tight corsets and slit skirts, hair tidy-messy and obvious. Sapphire eyes, wolf-shaped and sprinkled with glitter lash from a box. They’re seductive but haughty as a pearl necklace, pouting with arched eyebrows. They want the lead guitarist because “he’s hot.” Their vicious heels and fish-cold faces are emotionless, but their cheekbones could cut glass. Ready to pounce to the rhythm of their night’s strategy, discussed, planned, and dissected in hushed tones in the jaundiced light of the chicks’ toilets, gazing in mirrors covered in lipstick marks, paper tissue, and longing so intense it burns like lava.