The Last Living Slut

by Roxana Shirazi

  In hindsight, that might not have been a bad idea.

  In the days before I was to meet him, I took out my collection of Guns N’ Roses videos and watched them all again. Dizzy hadn’t looked too good back in the ’90s. He resembled a roadie, with his long, shaggy brown hair trailing over a tubby denim-clad body. Embarrassment burned over me.

  “Why don’t you hook up with Izzy instead?” Abigail chided when I told her about Dizzy. She laughed at me, thinking I was desperate.

  “I don’t find Izzy attractive at all,” I replied. “Dizzy seems very sexually exciting and charismatic.” I wasn’t just defending my decision; it was the truth.

  On Friday night, I groomed myself to perfection: skin apricot-scrubbed; hair glossed; brows and other hairs waxed, epilated, and shaved; body marinated in mango butter. Bitter butterflies zigzagged in my belly all day. That night I made my way to my mother’s house for a family barbecue, and sat silently in the garden under my parents’ little canopy as my stepdad grilled lamb and tomatoes in the twilight. I was so nervous that I couldn’t even touch the feta salad my little sister had made. Sheer nerves froze me to my plastic garden chair.

  Was I out of my depth? This was Guns N’ Roses, after all, not some little band playing the Camden Underworld. Would I be glamorous enough? Would I have to mix with beautiful models? Did I have what it took? How should I behave? Was I pretty enough?

  “Why don’t you eat?” my mother asked. Though still frail, she was on her feet again and back to her signature scoldings. “You never eat anything. You have become so skinny. Look at your eyes!”

  “How is your PhD going?” my brother asked. “Which university are you going to be attending?”

  I ignored him and stared blankly at my family.

  “You look so nervous,” my sensible little sister said, gazing at me with concern.

  “I can’t eat,” I told them. “I’ve been invited to hang out with Guns N’ Roses tomorrow and I’m nervous.”

  And then I scampered off into the night.

  Chapter 42

  He had a Kindness Merged with an Explosive Charisma Unmatched by Any Other Man I’d Ever Met.

  “I’m in 304. Text me when you get to the station. I’m a wreck. It’s neat.” When Dizzy texted me, I got nervous. I felt like I was heading to a big interview, a high-stakes audition.

  I was on the train from Bristol to Manchester, wearing a red polka-dot shirt-dress and carrying my pink goodie bag laden with lingerie, shoes, a dress, and a skirt. I felt weird. I’d never made a trip like this—in broad daylight no less—to meet a random guy in a hotel. I was so used to staying overnight with bands—on a tour bus, at a hotel—that I didn’t even think about it; my loaded bag had become like an extension of my arm. But now I wondered why on earth I would bring all that along: it seemed so amateur and presumptuous. In the toilets, I struggled to put my makeup on as the train hiccuped and jolted. I came out of that cubicle looking very 1960s, with my hair high, my eyes feline and heavy-lidded.

  I’d bought a movie magazine to immerse myself in—as if the old photos of Betty Grable, Ava Gardner, and the rest would soak their essence into my aura.

  By the time the train arrived in Manchester, my heart was fluttering, my anxieties overwhelming me. I wasn’t beautiful enough, cool or interesting enough, good enough. My one comfort was that I knew I could give good service in bed. That was my weapon to make me feel sturdy inside. So I walked more strongly, knowing I could use that whenever I felt scared.

  I texted Dizzy and told him I’d be with him in thirty minutes. Here I was in Manchester again, the city that had given me my first glimpse of England as a ten-year-old political refugee. I looked at the gray skies and let the thick cream of hops brewing in the beer belly of the Manchester sky soak familiar memories into my snout: Thoughts of gloomy skies, dreary public housing, missing my friends in Iran, hospitals, hunger, and my grandmother—and my orgasms to Axl Rose.

  Inside, the Malmaison was berry red and intimate, with velvet gouged in its core. When I pressed the button in the elevator, my hand slithered in sweat like baby oil. I found room 304, held my breath, and knocked. The door opened, and Dizzy fixed me with his familiar wide-eyed, sky blue stare.

  I went into that room and my life was changed forever.

  “Hi, how are you?” I smiled.

  “You know, there’s no air-conditioning anywhere in this country,” he said. “I’m opening all the windows.” He was so insanely stunning. Such a rock star. I felt like I was in the presence of something amazing. I was in awe of him.

  “The air con and rail system in this country is so antiquated,” I said, trying to be casual and breezy. With my big bag pulling at my arm, I felt stupid and rude, like I’d come to stay. This wasn’t the normal band encounter after a gig in a club. It was daylight in a hotel room. It felt staged, like a hooker meeting her client.

  But Dizzy had a calming influence on me. He gave me a drink.

  “I don’t usually drink,” I said. “But I think I will now.” I guzzled the red wine like it was hope. It tasted disgusting.

  “So who’s staying at the hotel?” I asked as we sat on the edge of the bed, Axl’s name floating along the tip of my brain but my face not hinting at anything.

  “The band.”

  He looked at me with those Slavic blue eyes, penetrating me like he knew what I was thinking and this was what he expected from girls who were with him. Wearily, he said, “Axl stays in London.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, my mind flying: Where in London?

  “He has a helicopter that flies him over,” Dizzy said, obviously chagrined that he had to automatically dispense this information to every girl he met. “We wanna go to a club tonight,” he said. “Do you know any good places?”

  I called a boy who used to be a regular Towers of London hanger-on and he gave me a name: Jilly’s Rockworld.

  “Can he get any blow?” Dizzy asked, looking at me like a lost child. That bothered me for some reason; he looked too sweet, too calm, to be needing that kind of shit.

  In his bathroom, I put on the appropriate club attire: designer, Baroque corset and a taut, stiff skirt that would make me a success.

  “That looks great,” Dizzy said with a mix of approval and relief when he saw me. His arm candy wouldn’t let him down.

  We went downstairs to the bar to meet a few others who were heading to the club. Around a tiny table with red murky lamps sat a collection of very ordinary people quietly sipping drinks. The whole scene felt very uncomfortable: I was used to witnessing a cesspit of activity, with filth on the band’s itinerary and teenage girls giving roadies blowjobs in toilets. Now I would have to act like a lady. I was wild and stormy inside, but I tried to shift into my university-educated persona.

  I sat cross-legged and straight-backed, sipping my cranberry juice, and wondered how the others nearby were seeing me—as Dizzy’s road slut or as his date.

  I was introduced to Tommy Stinson, formerly of the Replacements, now in Guns N’ Roses, looking kind of grunge; an older woman with white-blond mermaid hair and a slight overbite; and Del, a round, balding, fragile-looking guy with glasses who was as warm and smiley as a teddy bear. Del had an elevated, authoritative energy about him, and I got the feeling that he was someone important, someone in charge. I was introduced to a few others, and as we all sat there drinking from our posh glasses, I went into lady-mode, drawing on my demure, educated side. The older blonde was Italian, and she maternally stroked my arm to approve me and make me feel welcome in their circle.

  Soon we slipped into the warm pool of the Mancunian night to an open-air bar full of office types. A gaggle of mousy female students hugged Del ecstatically. They were the tour catering girls, their severe attire a blend of bland and blander: hoodies accessorized with greasy, limp ponytails and pallid, blotchy complexions. You could’ve made an effort, luv, I thought. This is Guns N’ bloody Roses.

  Down Princess Street, in the epicenter of gay Manchester, ever
yone was out on the raz, on a mission to get as obliterated as possible. Past the Chavs and emos, past loitering football fans and trampled döner kebabs smeared like roadkill on the pavement, past teenagers getting pissed on passion fruit alcopops and looking for a Saturday night shag, I walked with Dizzy. I was elated. Here I was, walking through a city I had only known as a scared, hairy-lipped refugee, with a guy who was being so nice to me and making me feel safe.

  At Jilly’s Rockworld, Del had a word with the bouncer. “This is Dizzy Reed. We’re on tour and we’re just—”

  “Fuck me, yeah!” the bouncer jolted, looking at Dizzy in disbelief. It was so funny. I didn’t know Dizzy was that well-known. I hated being a blagger; it was tacky, the kind of thing Z-list reality TV stars did. I felt bad for the broke students waiting outside after their beans-on-toast dinner.

  The club had three separate areas: ’80s hair metal, death metal, and emo crap. I dragged everyone into a large space where they were playing Mötley Crüe, and I dirty-danced with Del, who I had completely taken to by now. Dizzy stood by the bar watching me dance the seventh veil to Mötley’s “Girls, Girls, Girls.” He seemed so timid, calm, medicated.

  “Did you get them to play this song?” he asked me deadpan.

  “I love the Crüe,” I said, swinging with my glass in my hand.

  “I fucking hate them,” he said, staring in the distance angrily. The band had treated him like shit when they’d toured together in the ’80s.

  Dizzy wanted to leave and so did I. I hated clubs, and wanted to cuddle. I felt strangely comfortable with Dizzy. When we walked out, he sweetly took my hand and we walked through the Saturday night—stepping over inebriated beer fans, lipsticked girls, soiled burgers, spoiled cabbage from the Turkish takeaway—all warm and fuzzy along Princess Street.

  Back in Dizzy’s room I was nervous again. I didn’t want sexual intimacy, just cuddles. For the first time I could remember, I was with a rocker and I wasn’t horny. I wanted the coherent structure of getting to know one another—without sex involved. Perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind, I might also have stopped believing I’d be good enough in bed for him, since he had fucked so many chicks. But I was here to fulfill a task. Showing up with my bag and wearing provocative clothes signified an intention—even a duty—to perform sexual acts. He had given me shelter for the night, so there it was.

  I reached in my bag for music, but the only CDs I’d brought were Appetite for Destruction, Velvet Revolver, and Mötley Crüe—none of which went down well with Dizzy.

  “You cannot play Velvet Revolver or Mötley,” he said. “Velvet Revolver are frauds. Scott Weiland is a fraud. They’ve stolen their songs from other bands. Can you please put on a CD that I am on?”

  I tried to calm him down.

  “Have you fucked Slash?” Dizzy suddenly asked.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “Have you fucked Duff?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Please don’t tell me you’ve fucked Vince Neil. That would be gross.”

  “Oh God, no!” I laughed. “It’s Nikki Sixx that looks good.”

  “That guy? Fuck, please don’t tell me that. I see that guy all the time in the mall. He dyes his beard,” he said, as if that would seal my repellence to Nikki Sixx.

  A naughty shimmer slicked my eyes. “Axl’s always been it for me—Nikki and Axl,” I purred wantonly.

  “Oh God,” he sighed. “I can’t believe you’re saying that to me. Axl? The guy who’s fucked me over money for years? Fuck, that really hurts to hear you say that!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said and hugged him.

  We were sitting next to each other on the bed. He had the most powerful, charismatic hold over me. The air around us felt precious—sweet and simple. Dizzy had a sexual, romantic magnetism that no person I’d ever met had. He lay me down, and I looked up at him with wide eyes. I dared not blink. My heart pounded like I was a rabbit stuck on a highway. He just looked at me with that deadpan muted stare as he placed his lips gently on mine.

  There was no need for sex, but being as scared as I was, I used my weapon of choice anyway. Even though I hadn’t had sex in over a month, I wasn’t turned on at all. But it was the only way I could think of to get him to approve of me, to think I was a cool chick.

  Dizzy was childish and dorky in his seduction. It felt awkward and innocent. We didn’t speak at all. It was all done very quickly and methodically. I turned around, rubbed my ass over his crotch, and he slipped his cock into me. I wasn’t on any contraception, and we went with the flow.

  Once his breathing and moans became heavier, I knew he had come inside me. “You’re not gonna get pregnant, are you?” he asked.

  It was the first time a guy had ever ejaculated inside me without any protection. It felt scary but safe—because of something a doctor had once told me.

  After my seizure, for the entire year that followed, my periods became a one-day event. When I asked my doctor about it, he said I had Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, which meant I wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. It didn’t mean I was infertile, but it was something I had to live with. So when Dizzy came inside me, I didn’t think about pregnancy. I answered his question by explaining my condition, and he was cool with it. That first night, and for the rest of the week, there was a flood of him swimming in me.

  That night, he held me and kissed me all over my face. I was taken aback by how lovely and protective he was as he rubbed my back and stroked my hair.

  “Have you ever thought about settling down with someone?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe in monogamy,” I said. “I think that even if you’re in love with someone, a person has a human need and a right to be able to experience sexual variety.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel.” His voice shook with relief. “I believe in an open marriage, but my wife and I are separated now.”

  I loved how honest and open he was with me, despite the fact that we’d just met. I think he needed to pour his heart out to someone. He seemed lonely, sad, and fragile.

  By now I was getting sleepy. I lay down on the bed and Dizzy cuddled me, holding me in his arms and stroking my hair. I snuggled into him, feeling his coarse dreadlocks on my skin and his soft chest against my naked breasts.

  “Did your dad molest you when you were a kid?” he suddenly asked.

  I was shocked. “I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

  But he made me talk. About my childhood. About everything in my heart, my soul. About my parents, my life. It felt so good. He knew exactly how to get into me, how to make me feel wanted. I told him about my mother’s stroke.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he exclaimed, strangely shocked.

  He seemed genuinely interested in knowing everything about me. I was on such a fucking high lying there next to him. It felt like the little girl part of me had finally been given everything she’d never had in life. It was better than cocaine, better than every happiness I’d known put together. He had a kindness merged with an explosive charisma unmatched by any other man I’d ever met. Nothing bothered me: not the noise of the buses on the street; not the blasting air-conditioning as I lay there naked when I always liked to sleep in pajamas; not sleeping in someone’s arms when I normally wanted my own space. Dizzy was so gentle, kissing my back, my neck.

  “Would you still like me if I wasn’t in a band?” he asked.

  “If you were how you are now—the same guy—then, yes, I would,” I said truthfully.

  “So it’s not just because of who I am and the band I’m in?”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I actually didn’t even know the answer. I wanted to be honest but not cruel. I wasn’t even sure myself if I only liked him because of Guns N’ Roses. Either way, I was floating over the bed with adrenaline.

  I checked my phone’s clock when I awoke. It was really early. I’d only slept for about four hours. I looked ove
r at Dizzy. He seemed to be asleep. I couldn’t let him see me without proper makeup on, so I grabbed my bag and shot through the room to the toilet. I crayoned on my thick foundation paste to cover up my acne scars, retouched my now Alice Cooper–esque eyeliner, and applied a light daytime blush. If I didn’t look good when he woke up, he might think, “Lord, what have I done?”

  I slunk back into the sheets and lay still as concrete. I touched Dizzy’s dreadlocks. They were fuzzy and rough and itched my skin, which was still raw and tender from the elation of being with him. Dizzy had taken sleeping pills, so I didn’t want to disturb him. I was so happy that morning, but nervousness was creeping in again like a hail of darts. Today was the day of the concert. What was expected of me? I was used to small, beer-stained hotel rooms, hordes of young, half-dressed, drunken groupies, and angry tour managers. This hotel room was so pretty. And clean. I cuddled Dizzy’s back tightly and placed kisses all over him until he woke up.

  “Do you want breakfast?” he asked as he kissed me. “I can order room service.”

  “Oh, don’t order room service,” I said. “It’s expensive. I’ll go get us some Starbucks. Would you like that?”

  He kissed and hugged me again, and I ran out in a denim skirt and red shirt into the sunny, smiling Manchester streets.

  Strolling through the city center was like walking in the past. I was ten years old again, smelling the leather of new shoes, eyeing toy shops full of glamorous dolls, and gazing at brand new toasters and kettles in the Argos store, the kind we could never afford growing up. I remembered how my cousin and I used to go and look at the porn magazines in comic book stores and steal them because we were too young to buy them. I’d jack up my hair with stupendous amounts of hairspray, and wear purple eye shadow, long lacy white gloves, and thrift-store jewelry as I walked through these streets.