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

“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.

Iwent 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.

We ate junk food at a table surrounded by brickies and Chavs, with Eric holding fast to my hand. I felt like we were on a 1950s high school date, accompanied by a sanctimonious parent.

When Brett went for a bathroom break, Eric asked me to score him some heroin from the street dealers lurking outside.

“No! Bad!” I slapped his arm. “I will not allow you to do that.”

Later, Brent Muscat, the guitarist for Faster Pussycat, invited me to stay at his and Brett the cockblocker’s room as Eric trotted off to bed. I started off in Brett’s bed, but soon slipped over onto Brent’s. In the dense darkness of the room, he and I started making out. I slowly moved down on his body to get him nice and stiff to penetrate me. At last, I was gonna get laid. I shook with happiness.

“No, no, no!” Brett suddenly screamed. “He’s not allowed. Brent is married, too!” Brett had become the fuck police.

“But I’m horny!” I kicked my feet, as Brent lay next to me quietly, blue-balled. “Please!”

“Oh, we can just cuddle. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?” Brent tried to be helpful.

“No, it would not, for fuck’s sake! I just want cock. Go and find me a guy from one of the bands,” I ordered them both. “I’m horny and I need to get fucked.”

“What about one of the crew?” Brett said. “I can go find one.”

“Do I look like I fuck roadies?” I was livid. “You’re the one stopping me from getting laid. Go find me an American rocker.”

He left the room then returned a few minutes later. “Everyone is asleep,” he said sheepishly.

“Right. That’s it. I’ll go take care of this myself.”

Walking around half naked in the corridors of the Camden Lock Hotel was as familiar to me as brushing my teeth. I knocked on door after door until an amazingly leggy dude with a gruff voice opened the door to room 112.

“Oh my God. I can’t believe a goddess like you would want to come to my room.” It was Chip from Enuff Z’nuff.

I weighed my options. Chip wasn’t hot, but he’d been sweet and lovely to me on the tour so far, and made me warm with his paternal manner. I went in.

I took off my clothes and lay on the bed. We got cozy under the sheets and cuddled. Immediately, Chip started going down on me, which was my most reviled sexual activity. But I was tired and horny, and since I didn’t really want to have sex with him, I lay there and let him get on with it.