He’s toothy, and has dimples and a rasping gasoline voice that fucks me in the cunt.īut I want Nikki Sixx, my Elvis, inside me as well. He is a hyperactive, kindhearted toddler on speed in a man’s lanky, skinny, tattooed shell. I speak Greek with him because he’s half Greek. Tommy kicks out the girls I brought for him because they look like groupies: all ripped fishnets and synthetic dresses. Teenage girls dressed in ’50s diner-waitress chic look at him, all doe-eyed Pollyannas. I drink Earl Grey tea from a frail cup as Tommy Lee offers to feed me Jägermeister. They pretend to be aloof on the steps of their porta-cabin dressing rooms, as if they don’t notice the detonating presence of rock royalty-Mötley Crüe. They are elfin boys with big ears and crayoned black liner proudly gunked on, who have scrawled angst and pain and I hate my parents on their striped tops. The reek of emo emanates from every corner as little boy bands slumber and lounge, all panda-eyed and girlie-haired. It’s afternoon, high summer, and we’re indoors under the intestinal-tube fluorescent lights by Mötley Crüe’s dressing rooms at Download Festival.
Vince Neil’s vice for the day is two bone-brittle blondes, the type whose eating disorders are just another accessory. Mick would die, I murmur, mindful of Mick Mars’ degenerative bone condition, yet relishing the headline that would accompany the act: Death By Sex: Girl Kills Rock Star Mid-Fornication. I sway between them, dressed in white linen and lace, eyes glistening with liquid warm honey, mouth parted like meat, body needing to be double-penetrated by these two rock legends. Roxana wants to do the whole band, Tommy Lee says to Nikki Sixx, pointing at me.
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