My legs were wide open, and Sebastian was pushing in the vibrator, when Axl suddenly appeared in the

doorway like the Phantom of the Opera.
Sebastian Bach’s dressing room was a godawful mess. Pizza crusts, cigarette butts, dressing gowns, filth-ridden T-shirts, and empty beer cans congested the room. Battered sofas and ramshackle chairs with blackened petrol-looking stains were encrusted with a gaggle of strippers who said they worked in the local Spearmint Rhino. They draped themselves over Sebastian with their spray-tanned arms, giggling toothy smiles as he got stoned and sipped expensive red wine. Now I could see why other women found him attractive. He had beautiful boy looks, with a sunkissed golden mane cascading down his back like a shimmering waterfall in a shampoo ad. His face was cute and modely and squishy. I had heard he was a complete asshole, but in real life he was fucking endearing. I wanted to gobble him up and kiss his squishy little face. I was not in any way attracted to him sexually, however. Even his rock-star status didn’t excite me. But Abigail and Ostara were salivating from the corner of the room. As one chipmunk-cute stripper got the most attention, the two of them seethed in the background. “I’m gonna have some fun tonight!” Sebastian said in a singsong voice. The stripper giggled, young and devoid of rock history and Sebastian Bach. The rest of Sebastian’s band mooched around like unwanted gristle to Sebastian’s lean, raw steak. They were outgrown, hairy beasts, and I wanted them to leave. Warren watched Abigail like an obsessed teenager, and I knew tonight was the last night they’d be together. She didn’t give a shit. She was gonna fuck Sebastian one way or another. She lay back and put her legs in the air, and right away Ostara got on her knees and started to lap up her pussy. My girls—I was so proud of them. They were both after Sebastian like frenzied terriers in heat, caged and unfed for days. Abigail threw her head back with a curdling yowl, which made Ostara lap her up even more. Suddenly, Sebastian’s attention snapped to them. He began goading them on, whooping and cheering. The strippers were instantly forgotten. Not knowing what to do, they quietly dispersed. It floored me that all it took to grip the attention of any man was a bit of cliché hardcore girl-on-girl action—even if he had strippers on his lap. I started laughing at the predictable simplicity of it all. I uncrossed my unpantied legs, exposing my bare crotch. “What are you gonna do, Miss Sharon Stone?” Sebastian chortled. I was bored of waiting for Dizzy, and paranoia began to gnaw at my insides, whispering that Dizzy was fucking someone in the dressing room. So I locked eyes with the shampoo-ad boy, my chin in my palm, and replied, “What do you want me to do, Sebastian?”

I knew how to get my girls off. I grabbed Ostara’s hips from behind and went down on her as she licked away at Abi. My vibrator was in my bag, and Sebastian grabbed it and started sticking it into me. The dressing room doors were open, and within a few minutes I started panicking that either Del or one of the Guns N’ Roses guys would walk in and see. Here I was, fooling around with my girlfriends in Sebastian’s room—with the backstage pass Dizzy gave me. My instincts were right. My legs were wide open, and Sebastian was pushing in the vibrator, when Axl suddenly appeared in the doorway like the Phantom of the Opera. He was wearing shades, and his strawberry-red hair, which I’d loved for so long, was neatly bunched in cornrows and pulled back in a shoulder-length ponytail. He was wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans, his body packed tight like meat into clean, crisp designer wear. I shut my legs as fast as a whip and covered my breasts. “No, I don’t want to,” I said firmly, standing up and fumbling to put my corset and skirt back on. I didn’t want Axl to see me this way, amid this disarray of stacked flesh. I walked over to him, smiled, and said, “Hi.” Then I shook his hand and told him something else: “Thank you for inspiring so many volcanic orgasms in me since the age of thirteen.” He smiled. “I’m flattered,” he said. I lifted up my skirt and asked him to sign his name, because I wanted to get it tattooed. Someone handed him a black marker and he signed my flower. Later that night at the hotel, the signature was rubbed off when Dizzy made love to me.

Excerpt from The Last Living Slut by Roxana Shirazi © 2010 Igniter Literary Group and It Books / HarperCollinsPublishers www.IgniterBooks.com / www.YourItList.com