The Last Living Slut (37 page)

When I’d last seen them, our group love had been in the semi-haze of my post-abortion yearning to be rescued from hell. One by one I had gone through the band, with plenty of blood and pain thrown in. Now I was ready to do it in a happier state of mind.

Mia and Kate followed me back to the tour bus. Tonight I was wearing a white cotton summer dress with daisies in my hair and beige sandals. The moon was full that night over the miniature conservative English town of tea and biscuits, full of sanitized literature and arts.

“Are you feeling horny?” Josh Todd asked when he saw the smile on my face.

“Can you round up the boys?” I urged him.

Keith Nelson, the lead guitarist, was first on the bus—followed by Stevie, the rhythm guitarist; Xavier, the drummer; and then a cute young boy who was a friend of the band. I left Mia and Kate with Josh and made my way to the lounge at the back of the bus.

Keith was the first to enter. I lay on my back on the tiny table as he put his beer on the counter. He pulled down his jeans and then his boxer shorts, with his massive arms, his face and brawny jaw looking down at me. I remembered his huge cockring and grimaced, fearing its choking discomfort. But as he kissed me and touched my body, I mentally prepared myself for the ring and urged him to slide his cock into me.

“Hey, girl, I heard you were horny tonight,” Keith said, looking down at me kindly. “How many of us are you gonna be able to handle?”

He was tender and sweet, his quiet, broad features in heavy concentration. I adored this band; they always fulfilled my every need. I drew my legs up to his shoulders, and we rocked in that tiny little space in the back of the bus. After Keith finished and left, it was Stevie’s turn to come in. Locking the door behind him, he pulled down his pants and fucked me from behind. He was shirtless and tattooed, his body lithe like a tiger’s. My dress was still on, scrunched up to my waist. The daisies in my hair tumbled off and were trampled under our knees.

“You are a wildcat, aren’t you?” Stevie drawled in a rock-star mellow voice, which made me shy and little-girly. I cocooned in my nest of tour-bus sex as Stevie’s guitar fingers played me nonstop.

“I want more!” I yelled, so Stevie sent for Xavier. Xavier had long hair and a ravaged soul; he grunted as he fucked me to the cheers of the others listening on the bus. This time I tasted his cum, sweet and low and abundant like milk. He kissed me and smiled, leaning over me with his long hair.

The boy was next—a young, wide-eyed teen with spiky black hair and nervous attitude. I made him watch me until he couldn’t take it anymore, then let him rip me apart. Inside I was laughing. But I still needed more. I tumbled out of the area and stumbled over to Josh.

“Don’t tell me you’re still horny.” Josh looked at me in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. You’re something else!”

“I wanna be with you again,” I wanted to say. “You were amazing the last time.” Instead, I walked back to the tiny room at the end of the bus as Mia and Kate yawned and looked at their watches, waiting for me to hurry the fuck up and get satisfied. It was a full moon in Cheltenham that night.

Chapter 60

As I left Matt Sorum’s Room, My White Dress and Stockings were Running with Blood.

“Y
ou girls are old-school!” Matt Sorum smooched into my neck. Abi moaned a low animal sound as Matt fingered her while sucking my mouth.

It was summer and I was happy again. Scotty’s residue had finally been rinsed away and I felt free. Abigail and I were in Milan for the Gods of Metal Festival with Mötley Crüe, Velvet Revolver, and dozens of other bands. That Friday we’d gone to a nightclub to meet Matt Sorum of Velvet Revolver, who had just flown in from Switzerland.

We were being driven to the Four Seasons Hotel. It was midnight or maybe one a.m. The cobbled streets were steeped in dignified silence and decadently Renaissance. The Italian driver stole intermittent glances in his mirror at our bodies as we writhed like alley cats in heat.

Matt’s assistant turned to look at us. “You girls really
are
old-school, aren’t you?” He repeated what Matt had said as if he knew he’d get a double Christmas bonus for finding us for him.

I wore my white virgin-whore dress—tight, trimmed with shredded cotton and a white rose pinned on the breast. I hadn’t worn panties, just dressed my legs with sheer white lace stockings.

“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.

“Matt, we’re leaving. Sorry.” I dragged Abigail away.

“You’re gonna fuck Tommy Lee at the festival, aren’t you?” Matt shouted after us. “I know it!”

In the lobby, the hotel guards were still kind, smiling though we looked like we’d been in bloody battle. We stumbled into daylight. The weekend had begun. The warm buzz of coffee and cake brewed in homes around us. My white cotton dress was stained red and slimy white, and my white stockings were running with blood. I looked like a virgin bride who’d been gang-raped. Abi looked like a rag doll.

We fell into the first taxi we saw, tumbling into the backseat. The taxi driver looked about eighty. He did a double-take and crossed himself. I stared at the big picture of the Pope hanging by his rear-view mirror. The Pope stared back.

Chapter 61

In Rock‘n’Roll, Love is a Dirty, Dirty Word.

W
hen I returned to LA in September to see my friends, Scott bombarded my phone with messages. I’d been on a roller-coaster ride of debauchery, trying to forget about him and remember why I’d originally been seduced by rock ‘n’ roll. I’d been on tour with Ratt, Whitesnake, and Def Leppard, and seduced younger bands like Aiden and Black Stone Cherry.