Read The Last Living Slut Online
Authors: Roxana Shirazi
The Last Living Slut (39 page)
“I want you to come,” he panted, handing me a dildo from his bedside table.
I felt nauseated that he wanted me to use some unknown girl’s dildo. “It’s okay. I’ve got my fingers.” As he fumbled his way around my tits, crushing me until the pain made me squeak, I touched myself, looking over at a portrait of Stalin and wondering why he had insisted on such a bushy mustache—and why Che Guevara was such a fucking horndog.
I was bored, but he couldn’t tell. As he humped away, wheezing and squeezing his eyes shut, I reached for the remote control. Flicking through the channels, I froze on just the video I needed: one with Axl Rose.
I concentrated hard on Axl, never taking my eyes off him. As Fidel and Che swirled in my head like cake mix, I sighed and juddered and yowled, bringing my Axl-fueled orgasm to a shudder.
The politician came up, pleased with himself.
“Well done! Well done!” He patted my back.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
He switched off the TV, clicked off the table lamp, and went to sleep. I decided never to see him again. At least rock stars weren’t hypocrites. They were what they embodied. And so was I.
Ella Studios
May 1
I don’t like flying. Something as big and heavy as an airplane isn’t supposed to be up in the air. It’s unnatural. That’s what gravity is there to prevent. When the plane rattles and shakes and drops like a roller coaster, my heart pounds with fear. People around me sleep like babies, but I just squeeze the metal armrests of my seat and pray.
I pray that the sun’s power will penetrate through the clouds. I pray that the plane will keep still and on an even keel. I pray that my final resting place won’t be in the sea below. I pray I don’t explode in midair and become meat for the fat clouds. I don’t want a permanent vacation.
I’m going where the sun is shining. I’m going where the political weather doesn’t suit my slutty clothes. I’m going back to my childhood home. I’m going to a place that will love me and where I can love. And I’m going to stay there until I am fed full and all the synthetic layers I have lacquered on start molting.
I will walk the sleeping sunshine alleys of my childhood in plastic slippers. I will walk past the fruit trees and the gardens. I will walk into my grandmother’s derelict house and try to be me. I will sleep on the rooftop of my cousin’s home under the sharp blaze of the stars so I can shed this skin and hatch the real yolk of me. I will go to the ancient cities of Esfahän and Shiraz to see the splendor of my country’s epic history. I can’t wait to go to family parties, eat a banquet of Persian foods, and dance like the Iranian girl that I am.
When I was ten years old, I found myself uprooted from the loving nestle of my culture, my community, and my kinship, and thrust into a deserted zone. When I went searching for a new place to belong, rock ‘n’ roll swept me up and took me into its cradle of family. It slathered me in its culture, smudged and daubed me with its emulsion of colors.
But I have seen the utopian playground of rock ‘n’ roll up close—I have lived there for years—and I’ve learned that it’s a place of both euphoria and degradation. A place where the sexual double standards are no different from those in an Islamic fundamentalist country. A place where a female’s active pursuit of sexual adventure, experimentation, and variety dooms her. It’s an extremely limiting place for a so-called wild and free-spirited movement. My view of it was highly, dangerously romanticized.
As the plane descends, past ancient Persian mountains, chalky and restless secret nomads, it jolts and I’m thrown forward. I cling to my Guns N’ Roses and Doors songs. Rock ‘n’ roll is still my love, and I listen to it while my eyes see my other love, beautiful Iran.
I think of my life in rock ‘n’ roll. I think of the fucking, the passion, and the pain. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been sent to England. I might have married my childhood sweetheart, endured the war, and suffered the massive restrictions imposed upon women. But I probably wouldn’t have lost my childhood joy and spirit, and I would have been surrounded by family, friends, and possibly some stability.
My heart swells with love. And I want to give it to the whole world. As the plane lands, I am so happy. From top to toe, I am fully covered in black Islamic garb.
But underneath I’m wearing no panties. Just in case.
I wrote most of this book when I was at university, where my soul was fed by Foucault, Baudrillard, Butler, and Woolf. To my university and my tutors: a big humble hug of adoration for giving me a lifeline by letting me immerse myself in the other love of my life, academia. Especially to Jonathan Neale, who taught me to be really brave inside and to never censor myself.
My eternal love and gratitude goes to my editor, Neil Strauss, who has believed in my writing from the beginning and has tirelessly championed my book. Thank you for dedicating so much of your time to get my book out there and for having so much faith in me. Ever since I read
The Dirt
, I knew Mötley Crüe was Mary Poppins compared to me!
Anthony Bozza: Thank you for your understanding and generosity . . . and for being so nice and making me laugh during the tough times. I appreciate everything you have done.
Cal Morgan: Thank you so much for your kindness and your amazing support and guidance. Your words of encouragement and wisdom mean the world to me, and I am so grateful. To Karen Louth and Kristine Miller for your time and patience. And a big thanks to Todd Gallopo.
Monique Mayes: Giant thank yous and even bigger hugs for all the fucking hard work you have done day and night. Your unbelievable patience and tender loving voice have been beyond amazing in the process of this book.
Gottfried and Renate Helnwein: I am honored to have been given the chance to use your images in this little book of mine. I have been in awe of your watercolors and photography for as long as I can remember; the images of abused children have resonated in my being since I was a child myself.
To my guardian angel D—for all that you have done for me. You are not human; you are a pure saint. You should always know that.
Mummy—Ma,
ghorboonet beram
. You have sacrificed so much for me and your family. You have given your life to us selflessly. The strength that you have in your heart and your guts is beyond anyone’s comprehension.
My darling brother, one of the most beautiful, funny, warm, pure-hearted generous souls I have the honor of knowing. Your creative genius and heartbreaking documentaries inspire me.
To my rock-and-roll family: Lori—my soul sister who went through everything with me. Sidestage is never the same without you. I love you so much. Rock ‘n’ roll would never have happened without you. Em—my poet, my Keef Richards lover—I can’t believe all the things we have been through together. I love you. Ostara, my fairy angel. You are dirty as hell and I love it! A combination of Princess Diana and Marquis de Sade. My ideal girl! Unending thank yous for being so kind and generous to me. You truly are one of a kind. Paul Brannigan—I love you even though you love emos. You are sexier than any rock star and you should know that! Thank you for all your support and time. Stephen T—a thousand thank yous. Danny Demure—the king of Sunset Strip and my LA brother—how could I have survived without you? Sabrina, you were the only one who knew what I was going through during “that” time. Eternal love for being there for me. How can I thank you enough? I am so happy for you and your baby boy. Laura, thank you for your huge support and endless chats and patience. We have so many more backstage adventures to come! JB—you started it. And to all the rock stars who have given me some of the most beautifully deranged and exhilarating times of my life! Thank you for your kindness, your love, and making me feel like family. Your crazy exterior has a very protective and loving humanity underneath it.
Thank you to the Buckcherry boys who came up with the alternative title for my book:
Are You Fucking Man Enough? The Legend of Roxana.
To my beautiful country Iran . . . you majestic dusky seductress, you. You are the most beautiful country my eyes have ever seen. I will be buried in you; I know it.
And, finally, to all the men and women who work tirelessly against the suffering and horrific cruelty to animals that goes on in our world. Especially to those who try so hard to stop the medieval torture and skinning alive of over one billion cats and dogs annually, just for their fur so that the masses can buy it and wear it. I still haven’t been able to watch an entire video of those acts. To the people who fight this bloodcurdling cruelty, you truly are my idols.
Roxana Shirazi
was born in Tehran, Iran, and was sent to England at age ten. She holds a masters in English from Bath Spa University, and speaks at International Women’s Conferences on the subject of Gender and Identity. She currently lives, loves, and writes in London.
Some of the names and identifying features of characters in this book have been changed to protect the innocent . . . and the guilty.
THE LAST LIVING SLUT
. Copyright © 2010 by Roxana Shirazi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
All photos courtesy of the author’s collection except where noted.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shirazi, Roxana.
The last living slut / Roxana Shirazi.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Shirazi, Roxana. 2. Groupies—Biography. I. Title.
ISBN 978-0-06-193135-2
EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199249-0
ML429.S49A3 2010
781.66092—dc22
2010005842
10 11 12 13 14 /RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
