The Last Living Slut by Roxana Shirazi

Author:Roxana Shirazi [Shirazi, Roxana]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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 Bierkel er 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 bel y dancing.

The wal s of the club are big hunks of granite rock, ’70s style. It is successful in being exactly what is

says: a beer cel ar. 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 fal ing. 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 il egal 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 stil . “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 ful that Sunday night. Instead of brimming and overspil ing, 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 careful y

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 fil ed its square bel y 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

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