The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage

Roxana Shirazi

Language: English

Pages: 336

ISBN: 0061931365

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The Last Living Slut is the salaciously literary and sexually liberated account of one young woman’s transition from traditionally-raised Iranian to rock and roll groupie for Guns N Roses, Motley Crew, and many others. Paired with a powerful introduction by New York Times bestselling authors Neil Strauss and Anthony Bozza, Roxana Shirazi’s The Last Living Slut is a passionate tale of jilted love, brutal revenge, and backstage encounters that make Pamela Des Barres’s I’m With The Band read like the diary of a nun.

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a space you can enter without warning or awareness. And it can become your pulse, permeate your genetic makeup. This I know. When it does, suddenly all the decisions you make are not entirely yours. And you don’t know how it happened. You have little control over your emotions and actions. And it’s all because of a rock-and-roll band. This is my life. Gottfried Helnwein: Beautiful Victim Chapter 2 I was a Child Basked in Gunfire, Islamic Law and Sexuality I was born in a

a furnace. My head was concrete. He was so intense. Chapter 44 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. In Birmingham, I brought my friend Ostara as a present for Dizzy. Dizzy had e-mailed me to say: “I told that other person not to come. I can’t wait to see you, bring your schoolgirly friend.” (Months later I learned the girl actually did come to see him—and darted off just before I

last-minute guest list, saw me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me through the crowd. That got me happy quickly: Finally, I felt like part of the Guns N’ Roses family. I reached for Lori’s hand and whipped her neatly into the club. The club was a tiny space, intimate, with peach lighting and rustic, tangerine-peel walls. All the crew I recognized from the tour were there. A Chinese photographer who had taken a series of shots of Ostara and me in Birmingham was sizzling in the shadows, observing.

looking upset. “I just don’t like it. It’s too intimate.” I was being brutally honest. He must have thought I was crazy. I felt so happy with Troy on top of me, his sweaty hair in my face, his body on mine. I wanted to be good in bed, to perform as I usually did, but I just couldn’t put on an act for him. When he came on my pussy, I squeezed myself tight and absorbed it all into my labia. I came so hard that I kicked him like a pony. This is who I’d want to be my boyfriend, I thought. In the

eleven p.m. and were awakened at seven a.m. Even so, I had no desire to leave, although I could have checked myself out whenever I wanted. I couldn’t understand why I was so ill—why the panic attacks and nightmares, so horrific they seemed sent from Satan, had engulfed my existence. I wondered if my shredded heart had made my brain give up on me. I had been so in love, and suffered one crushing letdown after another in the space of fourteen months at the hands of two men I had absolutely adored.

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