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

“How have you been?” she asked in her hushed, love-filled baby-doll voice. My attire said it all: For once I was wearing my normal student clothing to a gig instead of my usual fuck-me heels.

As Bang Tango played, I sat with a seventeen-year-old boy who was working as a roadie for Kristy Majors, the former guitarist in Pretty Boy Floyd. The only person in the room with us was Jizzy, who was warming up his voice. Jizzy scared the shit out of me. He was always pissed off, and his vibe bordered on militant and antagonistic. He scared me even more tonight, because I thought he’d probably been brainwashed against me by Dizzy.

“I hear you’re doing Hookers N’ Blow,” he said with a sneer.

“I haven’t done all of the members yet,” I replied, trying to make a joke out of it.

He looked at me with a warmth that caught me completely off guard.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” he said.

This cheered me up for a moment, so I went off to slip into the slutty clothes that I’d brought with me.

I stood on the sidelines watching Love/Hate, surrounded by my friends, and made a conscious effort to be happy. It felt like Christmas in a warm, family living room. I so wanted to find my cheerfulness again.

The crowd creamed themselves for Jizzy, chanting his name like a hypnotic mantra. The Underworld rarely went that crazy for someone like this. I had no idea Jizzy had such cult status. When he came offstage, the dressing room was filled with horny young girls, thick-booted and raucous-haired, as well as sunken-faced, older groupies, secretly optimistic.

“Only the people who are with the band, please,” a roadie shouted at the crowd. “The rest of you get the fuck out.”

“Oh, she can stay.” I felt a hand grip my shoulder and looked up to see Joe Leste, the lead singer of Bang Tango. His eyes were Frisbee-round pools of sympathetic brown; his face lit up in a toothy grin with trenches of dimples dancing around it. He didn’t stop staring at me the whole time we were backstage.

“You are mine! You’re coming back with me—no one else!” He kept saying this, as if I were prize game. Back in LA, I’d told my friends I wanted to fuck that hot lead singer from Bang Tango, and Scott had balked with horror. Now I was about to get what I wanted.

I knew Joe’s voice was powerful, as was his persona. In the ’80s he’d been fairly successful riding the hair-metal wave. And tonight he wanted to act the part of rock star. He had a wide, red bandana tied around his raven hair, chains hanging from his leather trousers, and black wristbands. He also had a funny grin and a bit of a paunch. Nevertheless, the crowd of hot young girls backstage was dying to sleep with him.

He held my hand and we headed off to a late-night café by Camden Lock Hotel. The residue from the Underworld crowd trailed behind us in the form of about twelve rock chicks, their tongues hanging out as if they were stray dogs and Joe were a late-night kebab. They swarmed the streets, dragging their stilettoed heels, inebriated, smudged and eyelinered, sticky, camera-phoned, pumped with beer, and exuberant in unison. They were like a military march of the rock zombies.

Ostara had left to meet a friend, and a brunette had moved in and stuck herself to Jizzy like a stick insect. These young, gorgeous girls were cock-hungry for these middle-aged men. I wondered how many would be doing this if the men were not in a rock band. The way they lusted to lay open their young, pert, nubile bodies to these men astonished me in a most pleasant way. This was rock ‘n’ roll—my happiness, my soul.

Yet something in me had died. I was uniformly happy—all my friends were around me and I was gonna get fucked by an American rocker I had a crush on. And though I was happier than I had been in over a month, my spirit still dwindled. I felt exhausted, like a cardboard cutout stewardess.

Joe kept looking at me in awe. “You really are a stunning woman, aren’t you?” he asked.

I didn’t feel a thing.

When we got to the café, the crowd followed us in. The stick insect was still hanging onto Jizzy. There was something disturbing about it. As I walked over to talk to him, the girl looked up at me, her muted almond eyes narrowing hatefully. I thought she was going to maul me. I backed off.

“So you wanna be with Jizzy then, do you?” Joe looked mildly hurt.

“No. I was just talking to him.”

“Because he’s the headliner, huh?” He looked genuinely injured.

The café was still packed at three a.m., mostly with blokey local types after a night on the lash and sensible vegetarians discussing the wonders of James Blunt and organic gardening. They sipped their red wine, trying to pretend we weren’t there. Joe and I crammed ourselves into the café along with the cock-hungry girls, the rest of Bang Tango, Jizzy, a dozen older groupies, emo kids, and a bunch of over-the-hill goths and junkie DJs. As a blues band played, Joe and I made out, sticking our tongues down each others’ throats. A young girl pulled at Joe’s arm, trying to get a kiss, but she couldn’t even get a glimpse of tongue.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” Joe was like a tonic. Not only was he generous with his compliments, but he was also a generous dispenser of cash for everyone’s drinks.

The congregation of young girls stuck around us like they were waiting for candy and cake. They all wanted to be with Joe. A weathered and prune-haired groupie who looked like Patricia Kennealy sat down and began giving me drunken advice on the pitfalls of groupiedom as if we were still in the sixties, when the optimism in the scene was rife and sunshiny dispositions were plenty. Kristy Majors’ little-boy roadie offered me drugs, and I balked at the insult. Everybody was entangled in drunken group makeout sessions.

When the band launched into a Doors song, I stood up.

“You gonna dance for me, baby?” Joe was like a kind puppy.

Right there in the middle of that rancid floor, I hitched up my skirt around my ass, grabbed two chicks, and snaked and gyrated my body for the audience. As the sensible vegetarians averted their eyes, I took turns gorging on the mouths and tongues of these two young, chubby, delicious girls. I wanted to fuck them so badly, and they looked at me in awe, dripping with tender trust. I could tell Joe’s cock was getting hard.

“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.