The Last Living Slut (20 page)

“Hey,” he purred in a wide American rock-star grin, made nerdy by his giant square glasses, all the while squeezing Janie by his side like a schoolgirl.

“She’s so fuckin’ cute, man. I’m really digging her,” he whispered in my ear. “Are you girls gonna come back with us?”

“Sure,” I said. “But you need to sign my tits first.” I knew full well that he’d have to take me somewhere private to do so.

“Yeah, but you know, I can’t do it here. Let’s go back in the dressing room.”

“I’ll be back in a minute, hon,” I whispered to Janie.

“Go for it, babe.” She gave me a triumphant smile and a peck on the cheek.

“You cannot come in here. You have to go back out
now,
” said a black security guy by the backstage entrance, as patient as a psychopathic bear. He wouldn’t let me through.

“She’s with me, Kekone. It’s cool, man,” London said, stepping in. As I walked through, Kekone gave me an evil look that inhabited me. Backstage was a mess—bottles and coats and people scattered everywhere. I loved it. Holding my hand, London worked fast and methodically, pulling me past people sitting around playing guitar, smoking, play-fighting, and screaming, to a tiny room with a sink in the back. London clicked the door shut, clean as a surgeon. He pulled out a black marker just as I pulled my top down.

“You have fuckin’ beautiful tits,” he said, breathing in close to the side of my neck, gently and softly kissing me there and on my chest.

“I know,” I whispered, pushing my breasts tight together for him to sign and feeling the cold rush of the pen soaking through my skin.

London didn’t hesitate. He took off his coat and started to massage my breasts. We kissed, fooled around, unzipped things. He slid his hand between my thighs and his fingers found the slit in my crotchless panties. Then someone knocked on the door.

A little boy fan, standing there enviously, told us that everyone was going to the Crobar. So a fistful of us took a cab there, to the west of the city. The Crobar made me ill; every time I’d gone there, I’d vomited from its virus. It is the size of my hand, yet armies of people manage to squeeze their bodies in there night after night to soak in putrid smoke and damage their eardrums. The urine yellow lights are hospital bright and it’s impossible to move unless you possess the ability to fly or are comfortable being violent.

As soon as I walked in, Scot Coogan, the Brides’ drummer, had to be helped; his knees had just abandoned him. All I wanted was to be with London in the men’s toilets, but I had to keep propping Scot up and helping to keep him from passing out. London was downstairs with Janie anyway. He seemed to relish the knowledge that they looked like a circus act together: seven-foot, bug-eyed, top-hatted London as the hot ringmaster, with a flowery, fragile Janie as his baby doll.

Right then, in that moment, London was the only one I’d set my sights on. He was my project for the night, I’d decided. I stumbled down to the toilets as Janie was leaving his embrace. But then, as I locked myself in his body, I discovered that, close up, he was as dull as paper. He was mechanical and robotic, devoid of any natural wildness. It was just his image and lead-singer status that I had wanted. I was disappointed and I didn’t know what to do. I decided to get Lori, who was nursing Scot, and head to the hotel with the band.

Many hotels in London—and one particular one in Cardiff—know my body intimately. I have spent a significant amount of my life in those corridors, running half naked from one room to another, trying to find friends, lovers, or a lost shoe—sometimes bumping into a musician or roadie and getting his rocks off or having disgruntled hotel staff threaten to call the police if the noise and obscenity are not put to bed. I have walked past one cliché after another: fists through windows; trashed rooms; girls patiently lined up outside a lead singer’s door; random people being hit and cut; tour managers losing it because of lack of sleep; roadies going out in the middle of the night to find snacks or KY Jelly; false promises; moans and groans and lost property, including girls’ dignity. But I’ve always managed to come out of it with inner thighs aching and soul flying.

Lori, Janie, and I rode to the hotel on the bus with all of the band except Tracii, who was already back at the hotel with some German girl and Kekone, the scary-bear security guy. A couple little goth girls had sprung out of nowhere and sandwiched themselves between members of the band. A tubby one had taken a particular interest in wet-pasting her body onto Scot’s and was talking very loudly in a Texan drawl that only she found hilarious. We all couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

I know that most of the girls who hang around bands hate me, because I’m the girl who gets it all. Girls show their deep-cut fury in various ways: sometimes with just a look, sometimes by darting venom from their coarse tongues to rattle my bones, sometimes by physical assault. Usually their plan is to butter me up with words swathed in syrup, telling me how beautiful I am and what beautiful corsets I wear. It’s not just the little girl groupies and female friends of the band who say this. Sometimes the girlfriends—threatened that I might suddenly decide to abduct their rock-star boy—feel the need to soothe the flames of their nervous innards and keep me happy.

When we reached the hotel, Kelly—one of the goths—got out of the van with her sweaty, jiggly little agenda. Lori and I went with Scot to get liquor and snacks, and Kelly stumbled behind in hot pursuit. We wanted whipped cream to play with, and she was in our way. So the three of us ran out of the store after we’d paid, leaving her all alone. I didn’t have the patience anymore to stop and be nice and sacrificial to anyone who wasn’t an ingredient in the baking of this happiness cake.

In the beginning I was everybody’s friend, ready to help—whether it was the band’s extended family or the little boy fans standing outside the backstage area waiting for autographs. Now I didn’t care about anyone’s happiness except my own. I was on a ravenous hunt to experience sweetness in my bitter rush of life, and the love of rock bands had become my sugar. Week after week, I went face-first through a nettle forest of raging rejection and unpredictable moods, yearning to reach and touch the yolk of love I hoped to find inside.

I hadn’t been to the Camden Lock Hotel since the first time I met Towers. The hotel wasn’t my friend. It was hostile to me, like an indie crowd. I couldn’t wait to get inside and amend that by giving its heart and walls the best entertainment it had ever seen.

Inside the lobby, Kekone pushed money at the receptionist to keep him saccharine sweet, deaf, and blind to the extra people about to occupy the band’s rooms. I caught sight of London taking Janie upstairs. Lori, Scot, and I staggered upstairs like three hobos, with Scot carrying my pink bag. As I walked up those familiar burnt-toast and cigarette-stained stairs, I spotted Kelly walking into the reception area and looking up at us. I felt really bad.

In his room, Scot was gentlemanly, making sure we had whatever food or drink we wanted. It was odd. I was used to rougher, more sullen behavior, and impersonal rock stars as conceited as wild orchids. But he was adoring and considerate. I looked at this achingly beautiful boy and wondered why he was behaving this way, if he had a different agenda.

Lori and I showered in the eggshell-white bathroom, slipping on the tiles and wondering which towels were appropriate for use. Our black makeup slid off like mud slipping down marble, reminding us of the many times we’d spent scrubbing ourselves in hotel showers to make sure we were clean as a whistle down there for girl-girl sex.

We heard Scot talking to Kekone, who had entered the room. Then there was a polite knock on the bathroom door, and Kekone left us some towels by the sink.

“Do you girls need anything? Just yell if you do.”

We stepped out from the bathroom apprehensively, nestled in plump white towels like cream puffs. Would they expect us to do what we’d heard Marilyn Manson did to groupies, like making them hold cereal and milk in their vaginas?

“Hey, I’m sorry if I was a bit mean back there at the club,” Kekone said. His face had transformed from angry bear to loving uncle.

“You were mean. And scary.” I started pulling on my negligee.

“Sorry, that’s just my job,” he said softly and expertly, without even a smidgen of desire for my lingerie-ensembled body. “You girls are cool, man, and I’m gonna get outta here and leave you to it.”

“Where’re you gonna go? Do you have another room?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m just gonna go find a room and hang. You guys have fun.” He blew us a kiss and left, his neck chains clanging down the hall.

Lori took out a camcorder sitting on top of Scot’s bag.

“Hey, can we film with this?”

Scot, who had been lying on the bed sobering up, sprang to his feet. He took the camcorder from her and began shooting. Automatically, Lori and I positioned ourselves at a good angle for the lens and started to kiss and lick each other. Silent as a boy, he filmed Lori and I sixty-nining each other like two cats grazing on tender beef. We went through the motions, the ritual, blah, blah, but I didn’t like it. I found myself craving intimacy again, just with one guy, without a whole gang-bang porno scenario. I wondered what that would be like: to be alone with someone you were attracted to. Without a word, I stood up mid-lick, pushed Lori away, and walked up to Scot. I kissed him silent and deep, without permission.

Up close, his skin felt slithery soft and lionesque. His hair smelled of Elvive shampoo and boy sweat. I watched his smile, innocent and boyish, light up his whole brilliant face. I felt strange kissing him, because he was so nice and tender for a rocker. Lori sat watching as I cuddled him and he gently put the camcorder down to kiss me back. This performance that was imbedded in us was becoming a tired act. Even though I loved having sex with her, I wanted to change the routine, I wanted to be the selfish friend and the etiquette-snubbing groupie.

I felt a shock and a huge rush of relief when Scot was so responsive to me. I was so used to the Towers boys giving Lori and me orders like porn directors that I’d forgotten the sensuality of being with someone passionate and giving. I was glad I was with a friend who loved me—who was more selfless and patient than I could be.

Lori lay on the bed like a child watching two other kids eating the best lollipops. I knew how much she wanted that, too, with Scot. My insecurities were poison, and they contaminated my friends’ souls. My roaring beast of desire for intimacy had reared itself like a hook-nosed pedophile.

Eventually, Lori grew bored and took over as director, filming close-up shots of Scot and me, from kisses to penetration to cum shots. But being with this one was making me shy, so I decided to get my act together and stop dreaming, to remember my place and my role. So I worked it for the camera, turning away from Scot and positioning myself in reverse cowgirl to get the best penetration shot. Then I ordered him to fuck her. I stood in the corner of the room and cheered them on, watching as Lori, too tight for Scot, winced in pain when Scot tried to have gentle sex with her. I hated how nice he was to her, apologizing and asking if she was okay. I hated that he touched her face and slowly kissed her neck. The whole scene made me want to throw up, as if I’d just guzzled a gallon of petrol. In the end, the only thing left for me to do was to turn quietly sadistic, triumphant in the knowledge that his penetration was hurting her, that she was no good. So when Lori decided she wanted to go up to London’s room afterward, I didn’t persuade her to stay. All I said was, “Okay, bye,” as I locked the door behind her.

I turned around to see Scot lying on his back, looking at me. Without a word, he held out his hand. It felt very natural. As soon as we opened our mouths to talk, we couldn’t stop. We talked about poetry and Jim Morrison and the Beatles. Then he hugged me, and we held each other for what seemed like an hour. He stroked my hair and kissed me, my arms, my back. He looked at my face and held my hand.

“You’re so nurturing. I love that about you,” Scot said as he held my face in his hands. I had to remind myself that I was here in a groupie capacity, not to have a fucking romantic time. It was three a.m.

Minutes later, there was a knock on the door and half a dozen people arrived. I was glad to let normality return. Snapping back into my role as wild rock chick, I entertained the crowd. There was London, Janie, Lori, Kekone, and Jeremy the bassist. The camcorder was once again our playmate, and everyone was begging me to ejaculate on camera. I lay back on the pillows naked, with everyone around me, as Scot quietly left me to do my show. I let Jeremy film me with my vibrator; he was just a kid and hungry for mischief. Soon the others got involved: zippers were unzipped and belts were unbuckled. London made out with Lori and Janie. I was loving the attention—until I noticed Scot watching me from the corner of the room, and suddenly I felt uncomfortable. For the first time, I’d met a guy I didn’t want to see me in this way.

Forty minutes later, after my show, after I’d been kissed by nearly everyone and blushed for it, after everyone had finished gossiping about the weird German girl Tracii was fucking in his room, they all left Scot and me alone together. I couldn’t believe Kekone, exhausted after weeks of touring, was so kind to let Scot and I have the room, even though he was supposed to sleep there that night.

“
Before you slip into unconsciousness
,” I sang the Doors song as Scot shut the door on everybody.

“I’d like to have another kiss, another flashing chance at bliss.”
He joined me in the song, and we sat there quoting Doors lyrics. We didn’t sleep and were on such a high that we went downstairs at eight a.m. to have breakfast.

I finally left him a couple hours later, sleepless, but as awake as a hyper child on a sugar buzz. My heart flew through the morning rush of Camden market. I was in a kind of shock; I’d never met someone like Scot in the band world—or in the real world, for that matter. C’mon, you idiot, snap out of it, I admonished myself. It was so hard to detach from that kind of bonding experience, to make myself believe it wasn’t real. But, still, I couldn’t wait to see him again.