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

“Don’t finger me too much. I have my period,” I told Matt as his palm turned blood orange.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he said and rubbed my clit harder.

Matt’s little-boy drunkenness was naughty, joyous, and giggly. He wasn’t my usual type, but I had a feeling he might be the only man who could match my wild spirit, my abandon, my sexuality. I wondered if I’d be here with him if he wasn’t in Velvet Revolver or an ex-member of Guns N’ Roses, because he didn’t look like a rock star—more like a techno DJ.

I put on my cowboy hat and entered the hotel. The lobby was sweetly lit, delicate and baroque. Kindly Italian guards were posted in every corner. My white dress, virginal and whorish, was a canvas speckled with daisy droplets of period stain.

“Hey, cowgirl!” a guy at the other end of the lobby waved at us. My lack of contact lenses clouded my judgment. To me, he was a blur, a nobody. “Why don’t you come over?” His voice drawled a deep-clipped purr.

“No thanks, roadie,” I muttered under my breath as we walked to the elevator. Couldn’t he see that I was with a rock star?

The elevator doors shut a clean, gold thwack.

“That was Scott,” Matt smirked.

“Scott?” I felt a deep freeze grip my throat. Fuck, don’t say it motherfucker. Don’t say it was Scott…

“Scott Weiland.”

Fuuucccckk motherfucker fucking shit. I felt like I was going to shrivel up with stupidity. I wanted to stop the elevator and run back to Scott, but that would have been rude to Matt.

“Oh,” I grinned through my teeth at Matt. “I thought he was a roadie.” Matt looked overjoyed at that.

Matt’s room was eggshell white, a careful execution of hostile gentility, and stripped of all alcohol to help Matt stay good.

Matt’s assistant pulled me aside. “Don’t give him drugs,” he said.

“I promise. I know about his past history.” I spit on my palm and shook his hand. But I couldn’t help thinking that keeping Matt away from cocaine would be like keeping a kid away from candy. “Please. If the rest of the band finds out, he’ll be in trouble,” the sweaty assistant pled, crumpling.

Matt’s body was strong—pure rippling muscle. He was also blond, clean-cut, exfoliated, moisturized, his skin decorated with more lotions and potions than tattoos. But I liked dirty. I liked long black hair, eyeliner, a non-gym-enhanced body covered in ink, and the aroma of stage sweat and unwashed skin. I liked the imperfect bulk gained from drinking, fighting, and fucking.

But I realized, despite his appearance, that Matt was dirty as hell when he threw me down on the bed and punched me in the jaw.

I moaned with the pleasure of defeat and helplessness. Matt held my face and, in between light kisses and licks, ripped my legs wide open. “You wanna be fucked so bad, don’t ya?” He spat the words in my face as he held me down. Unzipping his trousers furiously with one hand, he held my arm down so hard with the other that I thought it was gonna snap off. At the same time, he placed little kisses like parcels of sugar on my lips. Then he let go and we cuddled. I wanted more of him—more, more, more.

Abigail spread her legs next to me and started to finger herself as she watched me getting rammed. Matt’s cock was big and it hurt. Blood flowed down onto the sheets—lovely light, puffy Italian cotton.

I was getting fucked so hard that my body felt flawless—like one big pulsating sex organ. Matt slapped my face and I punched him hard. His drummer’s arms were giant, packed chunks of rock. I felt like a feather compared to him. But I didn’t wanna give in. I wouldn’t. I bit him, and he pinned me down with his knees. The pain was excruciating. Then he moved on to Abigail. I tugged at his arm as he fucked her, so he turned me around and fucked me doggy style as he fingered Abigail in synchronized motion. Then he decided to eat me, to lick up my menstruating vagina. He lapped at my pussy like a hyena. As he came up, his face looked like he’d been gorging on game. There was blood everywhere. Then he lined up Abigail and me side by side, doggy style.

“Show me your assholes,” he ordered both of us. He wiped his face while deciding which ass to take. His cock was giant; I was a little alarmed at the thought of anal sex with someone so big, and Abi seemed to feel the same. But then we both learned a very important lesson: If you’re turned on enough, anal sex with someone that huge doesn’t hurt. In fact, it’s like a double orgasm.

After a while, I let Matt sit and watch Abigail and me. I hadn’t fucked her in so long. I took her breasts like two heavenly pillows, and sucked her nipples. We kissed so deeply that I fell in love with her skin. I wanted to fuck her so badly. I wished I had a penis.

“Eat me on my period,” I ordered her, my eyes blazing like a wolf. I pushed her face into my pussy. She was reluctant but dived in deep like a good girl, messing up her makeup. I was close to coming. I lay on my back and told Matt to watch me, then spread my legs and rubbed a buzzing egg sex toy along my labia until I exploded, gushing out all over the bed. My vagina contracted.

“Give your cock to me now!” I shouted, my voice breaking, and Matt started fucking me just as I had my second orgasm, wetting and staining his balls.

Matt got in the bed, and I massaged him. “Sweetie, you have to rest,” I said. “You have a big show tomorrow.”

“No, I can go all night. Not bad for a forty-six-year-old, right?” he grinned expectantly.

“Wow! You’re forty-six?” Abi and I looked at him in disbelief.

“Look—I can do push-ups. With one hand! Look!” He jumped out of the bed and did a few fast, furious one-handed push-ups.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, honey, you’ll hurt your back!” Abi and I tried to get him up, barely able to contain our smirks.

“But I can do it! I have a personal trainer. Look at all those protein shakes over there.” Matt got up, took a bunch of protein powder containers from a leather bag, and then got back on the ground for more push-ups.

“ Very impressive!” Abi and I clapped in praise.

“You should get some rest,” I said. “Seriously, it’s six o’clock.”

“Can you get any blow?” Matt asked.

“Oh, honey, no!” I said. “You can’t do that. I’m not gonna let you.” I felt like the mean babysitter.

“Oh, I just want a little bit. Not too much.”

“I know your past. I can’t let you do drugs.” I felt genuinely upset. But Abigail couldn’t resist him. She called an Italian dealer she knew named Emmanuel, and he was at the hotel in ten minutes.

As I passed the array of quiet rooms on the way to the lobby, I contemplated knocking on Slash’s door. But Matt was waiting upstairs for his drugs. I met the dealer, who had brought a skinny, bug-eyed teenage girl along. I felt a pang of guilt for going back on my word to Matt’s assistant, but Matt was so excited and I wanted to experience Matt in his natural habitat: drugs ‘n’ sex, rock ‘n’ roll.

Back upstairs, I ate a bit of mango and apricot as Matt and Abigail snorted their drugs. I fucking hated drugs. I watched porn and played with myself while waiting for them to finish. I wanted to go to sleep, but Matt wouldn’t let us. He wanted to keep fucking.

“Dude, it’s fucking daylight,” I protested. “I wanna go to bed.”

“But there’s still time to fuck some more.” Matt grinned mechanically, like some kind of sex android.

“Dude, go to bed,” I said as Abigail cuddled up to him. “You have a show in a few hours.”

It had been six hours now. Matt had fucked Abigail and me in every possible position, style, and color; in every length, corner, and elevation of the room. And he hadn’t come once. The bed was a blood-and-girl cum bath. Stains of my blood patterned the sheets like a Renoir painting.