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

Troy and Scott Griffin were in a bitter rivalry to see who could fuck more chicks. They hated each other with a competitive intensity normally reserved for Mortal Kombat. And even though they both fucked many girls, Troy was boyfriend material, more romantic and loving. With Scott, what you saw was what you got. He never tried to hide or pretend. He was just a simple old horndog in heat, prowling the streets, sniffing pussy, and ramming his cock into at least two females a night. Any female would do: crusty old pussy, young fat ugly pussy, anything he sniffed, basically. Perhaps his hunger and childlike need for acceptance stemmed from the fact that, at thirty-eight, he still hadn’t made it, and was penniless and forced to beg girls for coffee, booze, and food.

The sexual double standard of our society made its ugly form known to me more and more as I remained in LA. When I saw Troy one night at the Rainbow, he interrogated me about my sexual activities and history, his voice charged with disgust and disappointment—as if my promiscuity made me a bad human being while it was heroic and awe-inspiring when he and his “bros” fucked so many chicks and then patted one another on the back. Of course they had a problem with it when females did the exact same thing.

Later that night at the Rainbow, as I cooed over Troy with my usual doe-eyed adoration, he told me he wanted to take me to Scott. My heart sank. We snuck around to the back of the now-forbidden Cat Club and saw Scott sitting by himself.

“Scott, take her back and spoon her,” Troy said.

I was so fucking upset. He was clearly giving me to Scott because he was pissed off that I’d slept with Scott before him. But I was lonely and needed someone to be with. So Scott came home with me that night and stayed with me for two days.

“I’m gonna get kicked out of the band,” he muttered. “And this isn’t helping any.”

“Then why are you seeing me?” I asked.

He looked at me with those needy puppy eyes of his. “Because I like you.”

I liked this honest whore. He had balls. He was risking his livelihood for pussy. I believed he really must have liked me.

“That’s insane,” I said. “You’re Dizzy’s friend.”

“He’s told me I’m not allowed to see you, but I told him I really like you and want to keep seeing you.” It was strange: Here he was, a guy in his late thirties, being ordered by his friend who he can fuck and who he can’t.

“Dizzy is going to kill me,” Scott repeated as he fucked me next to the mirror, grabbing my hips from behind and ramming himself into me. I screeched and whimpered like an animal as we watched our reflections writhe and he grabbed my hair and nipped the back of my neck.

All night, Scott’s phone kept going off; it was Troy, leaving him messages that Dizzy was going to fire him. Scott went pale every time he saw a fresh text come in, as if they were death threats. I felt so bad for him.

The next morning, his phone was flooded with voicemails. “Fuck it. Fuck them,” he said. “I can see whoever I want.” We ate lunch at a cute little Mexican restaurant, holding hands and feeding each other. My admiration for Scott bloomed. He had guts to risk getting fired from his job just to be with me, even though being in the band was his only bread and butter.

That night, though, he failed to show up at the Rainbow, where we’d planned to meet. When I called him, his voice eked out of the phone like a pigeon. He seemed crestfallen, as if he were speaking to me from the depths of a well.

“I’m out. I’m out of the band. I don’t have a job anymore. Dizzy fired me.” He sounded drained of life. “I can’t see you anymore. My life is fucked.”

I cried. I was gutted. I felt like shit. All I wanted was to live my life, be happy, and move on.

“You’re like Yoko Ono,” Kenny, the barman at the Cat Club, said to me one night after I’d snuck into the club around closing time.

“And why is that?” I giggled.

“Well,” he said, his bulldog features shifting with a bitter guarded vibe, “you broke up a band.”

I chuckled. “Hookers N’ Blow aren’t exactly the Beatles, are they?”

Nonetheless, part of me got a bit of an ego high from deseaming the band the way I did. Although Scott and I kept talking on the phone, he refused to see me because he was scared of Dizzy.

After a couple weeks, Scotty couldn’t take it any longer. One night around one a.m., he called, whispering like he was on a secret mission.

“I’m at the corner outside your hotel.”

“Come to me,” was all I needed to say.

Five minutes later, he knocked. We didn’t say a word. We ripped each other’s clothes off, breathed each other’s smell, sucked each other’s mouth. The door was still open. We tore at each other like two animals. Low yowls gushed from our throats as we fucked. My lacy nightdress was shredded in the carnage as Scott pushed me down and pump-fucked me, roaring into me as I spread my body so wide open for him to absorb his hair, his smell, his fucking. We moaned so loud I was sure someone would think I was being beaten to death. By the time we both came, I was like a rag doll. I had spread my pussy so wide for him that I ejaculated all over him.

Afterward, though, his fears returned and overwhelmed him. “You’re gonna destroy my life, aren’t you?” he kept saying. ”You’re gonna tell Dizzy, aren’t you?” His voice was defeated, drained, fearful. “Don’t tell anyone. Please. Dizzy will kill me if he finds out.” He was trembling like a scared little boy. I wished I could take him back to England with me and protect him.

My experiences with Troy and Scott—and eventually with Alex Grossi, the fourth member of Hookers N’ Blow—were like drug highs, only temporarily masking the pain I felt from Dizzy. The vitriolic texts from him that followed, on top of the months of trauma I’d endured, were the last straw. I’d felt lost since the abortion and one night it all came to a head. When I was unable to eliminate the pain any other way, I swallowed forty-five paracetamols. Fortunately, my friend Danny Demure, who played in a band called Nothing Sacred, showed up, worried by the texts I’d been sending him. As soon as he saw the empty pill containers and my blanched face, he made me vomit up the pills. I spent my last two weeks in LA with him looking after me, bringing me food, and taking me on drives through the Hollywood Hills.

When I returned home, I remained tired and ill for another month—from a combination of pills, the emotional intensity of the battle between Scott and Troy, and my own efforts to purge myself of Dizzy. My overdose hadn’t helped anything and it didn’t make me feel better. I cried like a lunatic, which made me mad as hell. All spring I walked around like a zombie, not caring about anything or anyone.

Then, one night, I just got out of bed, put on my makeup, and returned to the place where it had all started, the Underworld in Camden. I needed to see my friends, who were hanging out with a band called Bang Tango.

Ostara had adored Jizzy Pearl since the Adler’s Appetite days; now Jizzy was back singing with Love/Hate, who were on the double bill with Bang Tango. She’d spent the day with Jizzy, walking in the park and fucking. I saw her backstage, glowing, looking like the sweet beautiful fairy doll that she was.