The Last Living Slut (25 page)

Was I out of my depth? This was Guns N’ Roses, after all, not some little band playing the Camden Underworld. Would I be glamorous enough? Would I have to mix with beautiful models? Did I have what it took? How should I behave? Was I pretty enough?

“Why don’t you eat?” my mother asked. Though still frail, she was on her feet again and back to her signature scoldings. “You never eat anything. You have become so skinny. Look at your eyes!”

“How is your PhD going?” my brother asked. “Which university are you going to be attending?”

I ignored him and stared blankly at my family.

“You look so nervous,” my sensible little sister said, gazing at me with concern.

“I can’t eat,” I told them. “I’ve been invited to hang out with Guns N’ Roses tomorrow and I’m nervous.”

And then I scampered off into the night.

Chapter 42

He had a Kindness Merged with an Explosive Charisma Unmatched by Any Other Man I’d Ever Met.

“I
’m in 304. Text me when you get to the station. I’m a wreck. It’s neat.” When Dizzy texted me, I got nervous. I felt like I was heading to a big interview, a high-stakes audition.

I was on the train from Bristol to Manchester, wearing a red polka-dot shirt-dress and carrying my pink goodie bag laden with lingerie, shoes, a dress, and a skirt. I felt weird. I’d never made a trip like this—in broad daylight no less—to meet a random guy in a hotel. I was so used to staying overnight with bands—on a tour bus, at a hotel—that I didn’t even think about it; my loaded bag had become like an extension of my arm. But now I wondered why on earth I would bring all that along: it seemed so amateur and presumptuous. In the toilets, I struggled to put my makeup on as the train hiccuped and jolted. I came out of that cubicle looking very 1960s, with my hair high, my eyes feline and heavy-lidded.

I’d bought a movie magazine to immerse myself in—as if the old photos of Betty Grable, Ava Gardner, and the rest would soak their essence into my aura.

By the time the train arrived in Manchester, my heart was fluttering, my anxieties overwhelming me. I wasn’t beautiful enough, cool or interesting enough, good enough. My one comfort was that I knew I could give good service in bed. That was my weapon to make me feel sturdy inside. So I walked more strongly, knowing I could use that whenever I felt scared.

I texted Dizzy and told him I’d be with him in thirty minutes. Here I was in Manchester again, the city that had given me my first glimpse of England as a ten-year-old political refugee. I looked at the gray skies and let the thick cream of hops brewing in the beer belly of the Manchester sky soak familiar memories into my snout: Thoughts of gloomy skies, dreary public housing, missing my friends in Iran, hospitals, hunger, and my grandmother—and my orgasms to Axl Rose.

Inside, the Malmaison was berry red and intimate, with velvet gouged in its core. When I pressed the button in the elevator, my hand slithered in sweat like baby oil. I found room 304, held my breath, and knocked. The door opened, and Dizzy fixed me with his familiar wide-eyed, sky blue stare.

I went into that room and my life was changed forever.

“Hi, how are you?” I smiled.

“You know, there’s no air-conditioning anywhere in this country,” he said. “I’m opening all the windows.” He was so insanely stunning. Such a rock star. I felt like I was in the presence of something amazing. I was in awe of him.

“The air con and rail system in this country is so antiquated,” I said, trying to be casual and breezy. With my big bag pulling at my arm, I felt stupid and rude, like I’d come to stay. This wasn’t the normal band encounter after a gig in a club. It was daylight in a hotel room. It felt staged, like a hooker meeting her client.

But Dizzy had a calming influence on me. He gave me a drink.

“I don’t usually drink,” I said. “But I think I will now.” I guzzled the red wine like it was hope. It tasted disgusting.

“So who’s staying at the hotel?” I asked as we sat on the edge of the bed, Axl’s name floating along the tip of my brain but my face not hinting at anything.

“The band.”

He looked at me with those Slavic blue eyes, penetrating me like he knew what I was thinking and this was what he expected from girls who were with him. Wearily, he said, “Axl stays in London.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, my mind flying:
Where in London?

“He has a helicopter that flies him over,” Dizzy said, obviously chagrined that he had to automatically dispense this information to every girl he met. “We wanna go to a club tonight,” he said. “Do you know any good places?”

I called a boy who used to be a regular Towers of London hanger-on and he gave me a name: Jilly’s Rockworld.

“Can he get any blow?” Dizzy asked, looking at me like a lost child. That bothered me for some reason; he looked too sweet, too calm, to be needing that kind of shit.

In his bathroom, I put on the appropriate club attire: designer, Baroque corset and a taut, stiff skirt that would make me a success.

“That looks great,” Dizzy said with a mix of approval and relief when he saw me. His arm candy wouldn’t let him down.

We went downstairs to the bar to meet a few others who were heading to the club. Around a tiny table with red murky lamps sat a collection of very ordinary people quietly sipping drinks. The whole scene felt very uncomfortable: I was used to witnessing a cesspit of activity, with filth on the band’s itinerary and teenage girls giving roadies blowjobs in toilets. Now I would have to act like a lady. I was wild and stormy inside, but I tried to shift into my university-educated persona.

I sat cross-legged and straight-backed, sipping my cranberry juice, and wondered how the others nearby were seeing me—as Dizzy’s road slut or as his date.

I was introduced to Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements, now in Guns N’ Roses, looking kind of grunge; an older woman with white-blond mermaid hair and a slight overbite; and Del, a round, balding, fragile-looking guy with glasses who was as warm and smiley as a teddy bear. Del had an elevated, authoritative energy about him, and I got the feeling that he was someone important, someone in charge. I was introduced to a few others, and as we all sat there drinking from our posh glasses, I went into lady-mode, drawing on my demure, educated side. The older blonde was Italian, and she maternally stroked my arm to approve me and make me feel welcome in their circle.

Soon we slipped into the warm pool of the Mancunian night to an open-air bar full of office types. A gaggle of mousy female students hugged Del ecstatically. They were the tour catering girls, their severe attire a blend of bland and blander: hoodies accessorized with greasy, limp ponytails and pallid, blotchy complexions. You could’ve made an effort, luv, I thought. This is Guns N’ bloody Roses.

Down Princess Street, in the epicenter of gay Manchester, everyone was out on the raz, on a mission to get as obliterated as possible. Past the Chavs and emos, past loitering football fans and trampled döner kebabs smeared like roadkill on the pavement, past teenagers getting pissed on passion fruit alcopops and looking for a Saturday night shag, I walked with Dizzy. I was elated. Here I was, walking through a city I had only known as a scared, hairy-lipped refugee, with a guy who was being so nice to me and making me feel safe.

At Jilly’s Rockworld, Del had a word with the bouncer. “This is Dizzy Reed. We’re on tour and we’re just—”

“Fuck me, yeah!” the bouncer jolted, looking at Dizzy in disbelief. It was so funny. I didn’t know Dizzy was that well-known. I hated being a blagger; it was tacky, the kind of thing Z-list reality TV stars did. I felt bad for the broke students waiting outside after their beans-on-toast dinner.

The club had three separate areas: ’80s hair metal, death metal, and emo crap. I dragged everyone into a large space where they were playing Mötley Crüe, and I dirty-danced with Del, who I had completely taken to by now. Dizzy stood by the bar watching me dance the seventh veil to Mötley’s “Girls, Girls, Girls.” He seemed so timid, calm, medicated.

“Did you get them to play this song?” he asked me deadpan.

“I love the Crüe,” I said, swinging with my glass in my hand.

“I fucking hate them,” he said, staring in the distance angrily. The band had treated him like shit when they’d toured together in the ’80s.

Dizzy wanted to leave and so did I. I hated clubs, and wanted to cuddle. I felt strangely comfortable with Dizzy. When we walked out, he sweetly took my hand and we walked through the Saturday night—stepping over inebriated beer fans, lipsticked girls, soiled burgers, spoiled cabbage from the Turkish takeaway—all warm and fuzzy along Princess Street.

Back in Dizzy’s room I was nervous again. I didn’t want sexual intimacy, just cuddles. For the first time I could remember, I was with a rocker and I wasn’t horny. I wanted the coherent structure of getting to know one another—without sex involved. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, I might also have stopped believing I’d be good enough in bed for him, since he had fucked so many chicks. But I was here to fulfill a task. Showing up with my bag and wearing provocative clothes signified an intention—even a duty—to perform sexual acts. He had given me shelter for the night, so there it was.

I reached in my bag for music, but the only CDs I’d brought were
Appetite for Destruction,
Velvet Revolver, and Mötley Crüe—none of which went down well with Dizzy.

“You
cannot
play Velvet Revolver or Mötley,” he said. “Velvet Revolver are frauds. Scott Weiland is a fraud. They’ve stolen their songs from other bands. Can you please put on a CD that
I
am on?”

I tried to calm him down.

“Have you fucked Slash?” Dizzy suddenly asked.

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“Have you fucked Duff?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve fucked Vince Neil. That would be gross.”

“Oh God, no!” I laughed. “It’s Nikki Sixx that looks good.”

“
That
guy? Fuck, please don’t tell me that. I see that guy all the time in the mall. He dyes his beard,” he said, as if that would seal my repellence to Nikki Sixx.

A naughty shimmer slicked my eyes. “Axl’s always been it for me—Nikki and Axl,” I purred wantonly.

“Oh God,” he sighed. “I can’t believe you’re saying that to me. Axl? The guy who’s fucked me over money for years? Fuck, that really hurts to hear you say that!”

“I’m sorry,” I said and hugged him.

We were sitting next to each other on the bed. He had the most powerful, charismatic hold over me. The air around us felt precious—sweet and simple. Dizzy had a sexual, romantic magnetism that no person I’d ever met had. He lay me down, and I looked up at him with wide eyes. I dared not blink. My heart pounded like I was a rabbit stuck on a highway. He just looked at me with that deadpan muted stare as he placed his lips gently on mine.

There was no need for sex, but being as scared as I was, I used my weapon of choice anyway. Even though I hadn’t had sex in over a month, I wasn’t turned on at all. But it was the only way I could think of to get him to approve of me, to think I was a cool chick.

Dizzy was childish and dorky in his seduction. It felt awkward and innocent. We didn’t speak at all. It was all done very quickly and methodically. I turned around, rubbed my ass over his crotch, and he slipped his cock into me. I wasn’t on any contraception, and we went with the flow.

Once his breathing and moans became heavier, I knew he had come inside me. “You’re not gonna get pregnant, are you?” he asked.

It was the first time a guy had ever ejaculated inside me without any protection. It felt scary but safe—because of something a doctor had once told me.

After my seizure, for the entire year that followed, my periods became a one-day event. When I asked my doctor about it, he said I had Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, which meant I wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. It didn’t mean I was infertile, but it was something I had to live with. So when Dizzy came inside me, I didn’t think about pregnancy. I answered his question by explaining my condition, and he was cool with it. That first night, and for the rest of the week, there was a flood of him swimming in me.

That night, he held me and kissed me all over my face. I was taken aback by how lovely and protective he was as he rubbed my back and stroked my hair.

“Have you ever thought about settling down with someone?” he asked.

“I don’t believe in monogamy,” I said. “I think that even if you’re in love with someone, a person has a human need and a right to be able to experience sexual variety.”

“That’s exactly how I feel.” His voice shook with relief. “I believe in an open marriage, but my wife and I are separated now.”

I loved how honest and open he was with me, despite the fact that we’d just met. I think he needed to pour his heart out to someone. He seemed lonely, sad, and fragile.

By now I was getting sleepy. I lay down on the bed and Dizzy cuddled me, holding me in his arms and stroking my hair. I snuggled into him, feeling his coarse dreadlocks on my skin and his soft chest against my naked breasts.