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.
Photographic Insert
Andres Lesauvage
Top Middle: Stuart Steel
Top Right: Gottfried Helnwein – Peinlich (Embarrassing)
Andres Lesauvage
Top Right: Moonshayde Photography
Middle Right: David Squires
Top Right: Ella Studios
Bottom Left: Andres Lesauvage
Background: Ella Studios
Chapter 36
The black carpet, stretched taut over the frame of the stairs leading up to the Bierkeller in Bristol, feels like its skin. Years of beer-barrel stench stain the bowels of the building, which is on the same road as my old gym, next to the club that held Arabic nights, where I did my belly dancing.
The walls of the club are big hunks of granite rock, ’70s style. It is successful in being exactly what is says: a beer cellar. please don’t do drugs in our club, a piece of cardboard at the bar says in neat, thumb-thick letters of black. The bar is a wannabe star. It tries so hard.
It was here that I fucked up.
I recognized the signs that I was falling. That familiar honey gush raised my heart right up to my throat like candy sickness when I arrived and saw him backstage for the first time in a few days.
He was surrounded by people, laughing and larking, hips swaying, raven–black tresses gleaming and soft liner blazing his feline, jeweled green eyes, which should have been illegal to display and parade around. His lips were identical to mine—big, with an obscenely perfect cupid’s bow.
When he saw me, he stopped still. “Hey, baby,” he beamed, walking away from the crowd toward me. Right there, in that tight overcrowded backstage room, he hugged and kissed me hot and soft. I knew then that he was going to be that person—and my fear was second to none. Wednesday night had been so beautiful; this was dread. My feelings were going to wreck me like a car crash. I should have left the scene right then.
The venue wasn’t full that Sunday night. Instead of brimming and overspilling, it was receding and balding. I watched from the wings as he played, and I couldn’t look at him—the drummer boy. I danced to the music of the night, focusing my gaze on London, Tracii, and Jeremy. I had a kind of rock burlesque look going on, with a baby pink corset, pink bow, trousseau mini-skirt, and thigh-high leather boots. London came over to me in the middle of a song, hugged me, and smothered my face in salty kisses. My carefully scrubbed, mango-buttered skin grew sticky from his dripping man-sweat, and for a deranged moment I panicked that Scot might hate the taste of London on my body.
After the gig, I put Aerosmith on the backstage CD player. The room was packed with bodies, snacks, beer cans, dirty towels, and luggage. Wrecked jackets and leather accessories decorated a uniform-blue sofa stained with white marks. A white fridge in the corner, graffitied with years of band names and lost people, had filled its square belly to bursting with useless lager.
There was a blond girl showing her tits to Tracii and Jeremy. “Fuck off, I’m with the band,” her T-shirt blared. She came to the show with her boyfriend, a wretched-looking bloke who stood outside the room looking on as she straddled Tracii. She got up and walked over to him calmly. “I think I’m gonna stay with the band at their hotel tonight,” she told him matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?” her boyfriend demanded. “What about me? Are you not going to come home with me tonight?”
“I wanna stay with Tracii tonight. You can go home.”
I had to feel sorry for the poor guy. He looked devastated. “What about us?” he said. “Is this it? After five years, is this it for you?”
“I really wanna stay with the band tonight,” she replied. As he walked off, she turned to me and said, “Didn’t really like him anyway.”
I had never seen the support band, the Red Star Rebels, play. And although they were down-to-earth and heartstoppingly funny guys, I was just dying to be with Scot, who was surrounded by randoms. So I danced to Aerosmith, as I always did when feeling jittery, and let Jeremy take pornographic photos of me. I knew Scot hated that, and I felt bad for acting this way. I just thought all rockers would be devoted to any behavior that was wild and decadent. And I was determined to bury this rapidly intensifying feeling poisoning me. I had to have a cigarette to suppress the feeling—because I loved him. He was brilliant—the worst thing that could happen to me. Backstage was chaos, and he held my hand and my body, and it just was not going to happen to me.
I had come to the gig with Ostara, the girl with the angel face and curls of sun-blond hair tumbling down her back whom I’d met at Adler’s Appetite. She had the demeanor of Princess Diana; I’d discovered she was also very bisexual and preferred wild and exotic girls to vanilla. I left her and followed Kekone to the van. The Brides were going back to the hotel, and I needed to ride with them. Thankfully, they weren’t sleeping in a tour bus that night but a hotel room. The tiny bunks may have been concentration camp chic, but they were too tight to play in, and the vibrations when the bus moved shredded my insides like stew.
I bounced on Scot’s lap in my heavy thigh-high boots and corset. I’m sure his legs died that night. Outside, clotted fog seeped thick over the city. Bristol had never looked so good.
“I’m sorry the bed was so small last time,” Scot said. “This time, I made sure it’s a double bed, so we can be together all night.” I couldn’t believe he’d
planned ahead so we could be alone.
Outside our room was chaos. I opened the door to peek. The Red Star Rebels were running naked down the corridors, pushing each other in wheelbarrows and discussing racquetball. Every two minutes, Blacky, the lead singer, naked and drunk out of his mind, knocked on our door.
“Can Scottie come out and play?”
“No, he’s busy. Shut up and go to bed.” I slammed the door.
Then I opened it again to whisper: “Please, please, please, can you leave us alone to be together?”
But Blacky was not to be denied. Eventually, I broke down and let him in, because he was dying to play with Scot. Together they became a comedy duo, with Blacky having a conversation with the coat hangers in the closet and Scot fueling him on. I still wanted to be alone with Scot, but it was the last night of the tour and they were having fun playing together like naughty little boys. So I let them be and went to find Ostara.
I hadn’t bothered putting on my top, so I walked along the corridors, my watermelon tits swaying in the breeze. Stepping over the drunk and the undressed, the loud and the lewd, I marched past the staff, who threatened to call the police, and stumbled into Tracii and Jeremy’s room.
“Does anyone have a bloody cigarette?” I asked four bodies in mid-copulation. I saw Abigail—the one who’d deserted her boyfriend—grinding on top of Jeremy. Thank God the boy was getting some this time. Next to them was Tracii and some goth girl who was giving him a halfhearted attempt at head.
The Last Living Slut Page 14