The Last Living Slut (27 page)

“I’m so nervous. What should I do?” I asked The Rev while his girlfriend, a tanned surfer-type, soaked me in embittered looks.

“You’re gonna be all right, babe. Give Dizzy a few minutes. He’s just come offstage.”

Just before Towers left, I asked if any of them had any Lynyrd Skynyrd or Stones CDs, because Dizzy didn’t like my Mötley and Velvet Revolver records.

I treaded like a feather whisper into the Guns N’ Roses dressing room, my cheeks blushed and burning.

“Hey, where’d ya go?” Dizzy looked up as I came in.

“I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Come sit down, honey. Do you want any food?”

I felt so shy and humble. It was weird being backstage with a band without sex, drugs, and naked girls. This was so proper, like being at my auntie’s house for tea and biscuits.

I helped myself to some pineapple and sat next to Dizzy.

“Did you like my piano solo?” He looked at me expectantly.

“I loved it. And I loved watching the show. It was so exciting.”

“When I was playing it, Axl kept saying in my earpiece, ‘The guy who wrote that killed himself,’ ” Dizzy said, his eyes widening like an excited fan, as if Axl were his spiritual leader.

Then Axl walked into the band’s dressing room from his own dominion. “That was fucking great,” he said, hyped up and excited, just like a normal human.

While he raved on to Tommy and Dizzy about the show, I sat there looking at them all like a nerd. I had to be normal even though I wanted to look at Axl’s face with awe, kiss him, and tell him how many teenage orgasms he had given me.

“Last night I was in the lobby of the hotel and I saw these two girls,” Axl said, smiling with relish. “We started talking and I took them to my room.” He said this like a normal man, even though he wasn’t normal; he was a god. I was surprised he seemed so proud of such an accomplishment.

I was nervous and just wanted to cuddle Dizzy and so we decided to head back to the hotel. First, though, we stopped by Del’s room, where we started making out as Del played Lou Reed on the stereo and watched us.

“Are your friends hot?” Del asked me as Dizzy kissed my neck.

“Yeah, they’re coming to the Birmingham show on Tuesday,” I said. “They’re all really into Axl and Sebastian.” Sebastian Bach of Skid Row was slated to join the band on the road in Birmingham.

“Does Axl have a girlfriend?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being too obvious.

“Axl has a lot of girlfriends,” Del smirked. I felt crushed; I wanted Axl to be a one-woman man.

As Dizzy kissed me and fondled my bare thighs with Del looking on, I suddenly felt strange as if I were sirloin steak dripping in sauce, a spectacle for these two men’s amusement. Dizzy looked so smug in front of Del, as if he were showing off to him. His usual wide-eyed, frozen look had morphed into a blazingly dirty sexual one.

Back in his room, the lights were low and I bounced on the bed like a kid. Then I spread my legs and made Dizzy watch me. He looked at me more hungrily than he had the previous night, his eyes fiery like a silent predator’s. I could tell he was less stilted than the night before. He had a raw, yearning, almost animal energy about him that was crazy. He held me down and climbed onto my body like a sheet of love falling all over me.

“I wanna come inside you again,” he kept saying as he fucked me, his eyes carnivorous.

I leaned back, legs up, back arched. And we locked eyes like two rabid animals. He came in me hard, and the sperm ran down my leg when I stood up.

“Have you even been with any of the guys from Towers of London?” he asked in a snap.

“Yeah,” I said. “Four of them.”

“That’s hot,” Dizzy said. “They
are
good-looking guys.”

“Why do you keep asking who I’ve slept with?” I asked. “You fuck a lot of women yourself.”

“I can’t imagine you ever feeling jealousy,” he said. “You don’t seem like you’d ever be jealous of who I fuck.”

“I’m the most romantic person ever. I’ve just had bad experiences. I know the game now. It’s just fun and sex and it’s all good,” I said happily as I cleaned up my thighs.

“Why don’t you just settle down with someone?”

“Because musicians are no good,” I laughed. “No offense.”

“So you’re not gonna be with someone just because he’s in a band?”

“Just for fun and that’s it,” I said.

“That’s great,” he sighed.

“What?”

“Please don’t freak out, but I have to tell you something,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”

Inside, I was laughing. I never took anything a musician told me seriously. I saw it all as fun and fluff because they lived in a make-believe world; only the music was real, not the offstage theatricality of its performers. And if I let my exposed heart’s fibers get intertwined with theirs, the pain would surely impale me. I knew enough not to take that kind of talk seriously. My heart couldn’t afford it. I didn’t want to get hurt again. This had to be sex and nothing more; that was the only way to preserve my heart.

So I asked him to do water sports with me to steer him away—away from entering the emotional pool. It was the only way I could turn this thing around.

I took him to the bathroom and put down some white towels. I knelt on the floor and told him to do it. Dizzy looked at me skeptically, with trepidation. He said he’d never done water sports. So he looked at me and I at him. I prayed that he would do it so I could make him forget about that stupid emotional “liking me” bullshit.

I couldn’t understand why he would be so caring. I still didn’t know why he wasn’t like other musicians. In bed, he held me and talked to me and I told him more about my childhood and my father. When I woke from a bad dream in the middle of the night, he rubbed my back and held me tight.

“It’s okay, baby, I’m here,” he said, cuddling and kissing me. I wanted so hard to believe that this caring, needy persona was just an act, but it was the most comforting seduction in the world. It made me feel safe.

In the morning, Dizzy ordered eggs Benedict and told me some girl was planning to come see him in Birmingham the next day.

“I’m gonna tell her not to come,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked as I gobbled up buttered toast.

“Because I just want to see you.” He looked embarrassed.

“Really?” I was surprised. I assumed he’d be looking forward to getting a different variety of pussy.

“I’m gonna call her now and tell her not to come. She’s driving from London.” He got his phone. I thought it was a bit drastic.

“If the poor girl has already made plans to see you, don’t be mean. Let her come, and I’ll just make plans to see you another day.” I actually felt bad for the girl.

“I don’t want her to come. I told you I really like you,” he said as he texted her ferociously.

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there and ate my breakfast, still wondering why he was so nice. There had to be something wrong with him.

Then Dizzy looked up at me. “Just say it,” he said angrily. “Just say you’re not into me!”

He picked up his plate and threw it on the bed. The runny eggs rolled and splattered on the white cover.

I was a bit scared, but I loved his intensity, which matched my own temperament. To me, it was passion and creativity, a rush of ferocious, romantic feeling for me.

“I’m not saying that,” I said. “I do like you. I just feel bad for the girl.”

“Fuck!” he shouted, livid. I wasn’t sure if that was because he really liked me and felt conflicted, or because he hadn’t taken his medication.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just fuckin’ tell me you don’t like me. It’s fine.” He paced across the room.

I immediately rushed to comfort him, to calm him down and reassure him that I did like him.

“You have to eat,” I told him. “You need it.”

“I don’t feel like eatin’ now.” Dizzy looked so hurt. I felt like a witch.

And I felt helpless. I had no idea what to do or say. It was too intense. I wolfed down my eggs Benedict, and then I left, confused, bewildered, yet still on a high.

Later, on the train home, I received a text from Dizzy: “Sorry I flipped out earlier. I can’t help it. I really dig u.”

My body felt like a furnace. My head was concrete. He was so intense.

Chapter 44

My Legs were Wide Open, and Sebastian was Pushing in the Vibrator, When AXL suddenly appeared in the Doorway like the Phantom of The Opera.

I
n Birmingham, I brought my friend Ostara as a present for Dizzy. Dizzy had e-mailed me to say: “I told that other person not to come. I can’t wait to see you, bring your schoolgirly friend.” (Months later I learned the girl actually did come to see him—and darted off just before I arrived.)

But I had my own plan for that day—to get Axl.

I was meeting Abigail at the venue with her new boyfriend, Warren, who was Sebastian Bach’s promoter. Sebastian was opening for Guns N’ Roses, and I was looking forward to meeting him. Even though he had pretty hair, I never understood why chicks found him so hot. He was too much like a big kid for me.

Even though it would be nice to see Dizzy again, he was getting too intense and too needy for me. My plan was to distract him with my friends while I tried to get Axl. I put on my Victoria’s Secret corset and did my hair and makeup like the girls from Russ Meyer movies.

Outside the venue, as I asked Padge from Bullet For My Valentine for directions, a bleached-blond Chav, whose skin looked like it had been dyed with carrots, started shoving me around for talking to her boyfriend. I was used to being pushed and hit by girls whenever I talked to any member of Bullet For My Valentine.

In the warehouse-like area behind the stage, where dozens of roadies milled around fixing and dispatching stage equipment, Ostara and I strutted around in our minis. We looked like such groupies in our slutty rock gear, heavily made up and accessorized with our Guns N’ Roses laminates. Among the stressed-out roadies in their Megadeth T-shirts and the catering girls in their little caps and aprons, a photographer snapped away greedily as we posed in naughty positions beside the broad rubble of metal equipment.

I couldn’t wait to take Ostara to Dizzy. I knew he’d love her schoolgirly looks and bright young disposition. I wanted to make him happy.

“I’m taking you to Sebastian after the show,” Warren, the tour manager, kept telling me. He followed Abigail around like a little lamb despite the fact that she and Ostara were crazy in love with Sebastian and were wetting their knickers to say hello to him and fuck him.

The dull thud that pounded from Bullet For My Valentine’s set was about as pleasant as being a factory worker in Hull. Ostara and I left our spot to hang out in the catering area. As we wolfed down yummy shepherd’s pie and cake, Dizzy and the band arrived. Dizzy looked withdrawn and hung his head, his straggly mane of dreadlocks drooping low. I didn’t want to bug him, so I just waved from across the room. Two minutes later, he texted me: “I don’t even get a proper hello? Fuck!”

I went over immediately and gave him a hug and kiss in front of the band. “You made me look like an idiot,” he said quietly. “Everyone knows I’m with you.”

“I’m sorry, so sorry,” I said. “Are you okay? Have you been sleeping okay?”

As he prepared for the show, I hung out with Ostara and Abigail. But as I watched Dizzy playing the piano later that night, I realized for the first time how heartbreakingly talented he was. He was an artist, with a raw creativity so unkempt and free, and the aura of a wild tiger.

“Look at your face.” Warren elbowed me in the ribs. “You have a look of lurve . . .”

“Shut up, Warren,” I said. “This is not love. It’s lust. Now take me to Seb’s room.”

After the show, Dizzy came to the VIP area where fans and contest-winners waited to get autographs and photos. Clusters of drunk young girls in clothes so slutty they were offensive even to my eyes were sprinkled around the room, giggling and talking to members of Guns N’ Roses. I waited quietly in the corner for Dizzy as he chatted with fans and signed autographs. Next to me a pair of slutty young girls giggled.

“I am so gonna fuck him tonight,” one of them said, pointing at Dizzy.

“How are we gonna get him?” her friend asked excitedly. “You go talk to him. Ask him for a photo and then flirt like fuck. Go on.”

“Oh God, I can’t. Do I look okay? I really want him. He’s hot.”

One of the blondes seemed close to exploding with excitement. All I felt was jealousy and fury, but I decided to stay silent because I wanted to see what Dizzy would do.

The girls flirted with Dizzy, giggling and touching him. An overwhelming rush of relief washed over me when I saw that he wasn’t flirting back or making arrangements for the girls to come back to the hotel with him. Then I kicked myself for the pang of jealousy that had managed to slither in.

Although I was excited at the prospect of meeting Sebastian, a feeling of attachment kept confronting me. Dizzy’s behavior started to affect me, and for the first time, I felt safe believing it. I loved his company, and I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and be with him.

After forty-five minutes, Dizzy still hadn’t come out and I’d grown tired of lurking around the corridors like some teenage fan waiting for an autograph. Dizzy texted me saying they were all going to a party, but I would have to wait awhile until he was ready to leave.

Just then, Warren invited me to go to Sebastian’s room. I deliberated for a couple seconds and then my excited curiosity got the better of me.

Sebastian Bach’s dressing room was a godawful mess. Pizza crusts, cigarette butts, dressing gowns, filth-ridden T-shirts, and empty beer cans congested the room. Battered sofas and ramshackle chairs with blackened petrol-looking stains were encrusted with a gaggle of strippers who said they worked in the local Spearmint Rhino. They draped themselves over Sebastian with their spray-tanned arms, giggling toothy smiles as he got stoned and sipped expensive red wine. Now I could see why other women found him attractive. He had beautiful boy looks, with a sun-kissed golden mane cascading down his back like a shimmering waterfall in a shampoo ad. His face was cute and modely and squishy. I had heard he was a complete asshole, but in real life he was fucking endearing. I wanted to gobble him up and kiss his squishy little face.