The Last Living Slüt: Born In Iran, Bred Backstage

The Last Living Slüt: Born In Iran, Bred Backstage

The Last Living Slüt: Born In Iran, Bred Backstage

by Roxana Shirazi

It Books

Roxana Shirazi set her sights high as England’s premiere super-groupie: she’s on a quest for simultaneous penetration by Axl Rose AND Nikki Sixx. Shirazi was born in Iran as the Shah collapsed and she grew up under Khomeini’s revolution. Her mother was politically active; midnight knocks on the door and tear gas were her childhood memories. As the Islamic burka smothered Iran’s secular culture she was abused by her mother’s lodger and ignored by her opium smoking father. After she discovered orgasms at age five her aunt helped her escape to England in her teens and found it a dreary land of rain and boiled food. Worse, her brown skin and an intellectual bent made her the default target of derision by the pale middle classes. Lonely and isolated, she turned to sex for solace and after a few lesbian encounters, she soon discovered the love of her life: Rock and Rollers.

Like any profession, Shirazi began at the bottom. She gave hand jobs to security for backstage passes then graduated to blowing roadies, straight sex with opening acts, group sex with headliners, and eventually she clawed her way to the top — water sports with guitar players you might actually recognize. But Shirazi crossed an uncrossable boundary — she fell in love with a drummer, and stumbled badly. Love made her stop midway through group sex because a guitarist she loved walked in on her. Then the drummer demanded an abortion only to heap derision on her for doing what he wanted. Shirazi had passed into the cadre of slightly over-age, slight past “Best if used by date” women who might not be the freshest cherries in the bag, but still know how to play the game.

You don’t see many stories from the women that bands screw the way most of us might use a Kleenex even though they’ve been a part of rock from its earliest days. Shirazi’s story is an odd mix of compelling self-examination mixed with exceptionally graphic descriptions of sex acts. She supports herself by bellydancing in sleazy London clubs, pursues an advanced degree in postmodern deconstructionist gender studies, and does bands on the weekend for less than a cheap hooker would get: backstage passes and rides on the band’s bus. Her descriptions of Buckcherry, Guns ‘N Roses, and a dozen other bands paints them as dangerous sexual predators with enormous sexual capability surrounded by willing victims eager for rape. It’s consensual sex described with the eroticism of a Chilton’s manual talking about changing an alternator.

Her descriptions of the band members are positively schizophrenic: on one page she tells us how wonderful a bass player makes her feel but 300 words later this guy is a turd floating in a beer glass of puke and jism. Strangely, I sympathize with her in both states. She seeks acceptance in a larger group, and she needs a stable, loving relationship that rock and roll is designed specifically NOT to deliver. As the book winds down she achieves some self insight after an affair with a politician who is even worse than the bands. Only one option is left — she pulls on her burka and heads back to Iran. Her extreme sexuality is certain to get her in trouble, but one fact comforts her — under the thick black cloth, no one knows you’re wearing crotchless panties.

Harper Collins:

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