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

As he was eating me out, suddenly an earthquake rumbled under the sheets. His mouth, his tongue, were Godlike—better than any vibrator I had, better than any porn I had jerked off to. I shuddered and exploded my cum into his mouth. He kept making me come, as if I were a slot machine. He was a magnificent artist.

“You’re so beautiful—and so nice, too,” he said in his rough, gangstery Chicago voice.

I let him cuddle me safely in his sweeping, warm eyes. Chicago. I love Chicago.

In the morning, I got up and, like a bitch, went back to Eric.

Having fun with bands was the playground I needed to live in to stay in one piece. But it was also a quicksand marsh full of land mines, and I never knew which one could end up being love, the one that destroyed me. When I stepped on a mine and triggered that love, I needed to go back to the playground of rock ‘n’ roll to cleanse myself. It was a vicious circle.

Soon after I got my master’s, I started thinking about going for a PhD so I could teach at university. The idea made my mother ecstatic. After my experience with Dizzy, she was petrified by the thought of me going anywhere near “garbage, low-class psychopaths that are not worth your intelligence,” as she put it. She also hated my belly dancing, which she considered beneath me. She didn’t understand that rock ‘n’ roll was my plaything, my outlet, full of fun and volcanic orgasms—and that my sexual appetite could only be sated by American rockers. It had consumed my life.

I was especially horny that summer, and dying for some real rock ‘n’ roll. I needed a real man, one who knew how to fuck me like a rock star. Thankfully, Tracii Guns came to town.

Tracii Guns had been the original guitarist in L.A. Guns. After parting ways with Phil Lewis, the band’s singer, he now led his own version of the band. With him was Jeremy Guns, as the posters always billed him; the promoters liked the idea that Jeremy (who’d also been with Tracii in Brides of Destruction) was Tracii’s son, though they weren’t actually related. Everyone knew Tracii wasn’t Jeremy’s dad, but the elaborate charade gave the band a father-son trademark. To me, Jeremy was just a cutesy little hedgehog-haired kid I’d cock-teased a year or so ago on the Brides of Destruction tour when I’d been with Scot Coogan.

I had never paid much attention to Tracii, except to acknowledge his presence on the Brides tour briefly when he kept teasing Scot and I about our intimacies. But after the tour, my friend Abigail had salivated to me about his sexual prowess—and she hardly talked like that about anyone.

The L.A. Guns gig was in Crewe, another northern shit hole. So I packed up my dildo, condoms, KY Jelly, and high heels and got on the train. Across the aisle from me, a young Pakistani boy looked at me with hope, and I smiled. He clearly had a quivering wish of getting his penis in the vicinity of my vagina. I could see the sheer need in his lamb eyes. In my bag, nestling among my warm silk clothes, my dildo suddenly made a buzzing noise and the Pakistani boy jumped.

It was pitch-black in Crewe. The venue was surprisingly roomy, with the charm of a working men’s pub. Several layers of flooring, like layer cake, twisted into dark, cryptic corners. The Red Star Rebels, who were opening for L.A. Guns, greeted me as they always did: with japes and piratey smirks and a bottle of port, which was an extension of their lead singer Blacky’s hand.

I went down to the basement, where hordes of fat, depressed biker types watched old-fashioned movie clips on a flimsy screen. I wore slutty clothes—clothes to get me fucked to orgasm—and stood at the front of the room, getting disgusted looks from the females in attendance. In particular, a fat goth girl, who kept telling anyone who would listen about being on tour with L.A. Guns and meeting Buckcherry, was shooting vitriol my way. She was moon pale, raven-haired, and rotund as a barrel. She talked loudly so I’d be sure to hear how many bands she had hung out with.

“I’ve been on the whole tour. I got to hang out with Tracii.” I could actually see her chest puffing up with pride.

“That’s nice.” I smiled at her.

“I’m really close to them now,” she continued. “Maybe, if I have time, I’ll introduce you to them later.”

“I’m gonna be busy,” I said. “Getting fucked by them.”

A roadie with a horse face had been eyeing me all night. He had long straggly hair and bony features. The Red Star Rebel boys kept whispering to me that he had a huge dick, as if that would magically beef up his roadie status. Eventually, he got up the nerve to approach me.

“I want you up there on the stage when L.A. Guns come on,” he said in a hoarse voice. “There’s a song I want you to dance to.”

Joining me onstage was a balloon-like blonde with Miss Piggy hair and trotters to match, who was sweating plentifully at her escalating status there onstage with an American rock band. I like soft girls—young, innocent soft girls in particular—so I grabbed her crotch and sucked her mouth, eating her tender teenage face, which smelled of home hair-dye kit and cheap perfume. There was a brunette, too, skinny and Bambi-like, hopping around in glitter jeans. I kept my tongue out of her throat.

When we came offstage, the horse-faced, allegedly horse-cocked roadie put his head to one side, as if he were expecting a lump of sugar.

“Gimme whatcha got!” he sneered. I sneered back as I walked past him to go to the toilets.

When I returned, he was still standing there waiting for me, his mouth split in a smoky-toothed grin. I ran over to Tracii.

“Hello, Daddy.”

“Hello, sweet pea.” He gave me a hug. Then Jeremy wandered over. It was weird seeing them without Scot Coogan. I ruffled Jeremy’s hair. I wanted to spend the night with both of them.

On the way back to the hotel, I sat at the front of the bus, my legs closed tight for fear of the roadie. He was still sneering at me. White bits of spit had caked in the corner of his mouth, as if I were a prime rib he was preparing to devour. I could practically smell the sperm, straining to fountain out from his trousers and splash in my lap.

In Tracii’s room, Bambi girl and her companion, a dowdy introvert, smoked Marlboro Lights with Paul Black, the lead singer. I was stuck with the roadie. I dreaded the prospect of becoming his reward, of being subjected to some sort of groupie-etiquette fine print just because he’d gotten me on the bus.

So I ran over to Tracii, and the two of us started getting high. He was a stoner—loved smoking the herb. Tonight he was smoking out of an empty Coke can. We stumbled and giggled for a while, until Paul and his two companions got the hint and left. The roadie stuck around for what seemed like forever, staring at us. When I buried my head deep in Tracii’s neck, the roadie huffed and puffed, stamped his foot, and slammed the door behind him.

Jeremy, the “son,” was sitting on the corner of his bed, fiddling on his mobile phone, trying not to look at Tracii and me, who by now were in a state of undress and in a semi-sixty-nine position.

Poor young lamb. “Watch me, Jeremy,” I purred to him with urgency. “Watch us.” I spread my legs in front of him as I let Tracii fuck me. Jeremy watched from the safety of his bed as my tits pumped up and down with Tracii’s every masterful thrust.

“Come here, come to me,” I whispered, my voice cracking with moans. Jeremy came closer. He touched my arm shyly, and then all along my breasts. He started massaging them and putting my nipples in his mouth to suck on them. I could see the outline of his erection in his jeans.