New book release.

Discussion in 'The Book Club' started by intergeri, May 1, 2010.

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  1. I have been sent an extract of a new book due to be released soon in America. It's quite self explanatory from the title (The Last Living Slut by Roxana Shirazi), i have also been asked to promote the book to people in UK so thought i'd start here. Here is the extract i was sent, let me know what you think:


    THE LAST LIVING SLUT
    My abortion was running down my leg. I was dead. I knew there
    was only one thing that would make me feel better. I had to
    be with Josh Todd of Buckcherry. It would smooth the pain like
    cream marble on dry rot.
    I had nothing. I had lost my soul. It had dissolved into the fumes
    of garbage trucks, and it resided above them now, singing a homeless
    song. I was walking like a mannequin. I was relieved that my
    legs worked, because my brain didn’t talk to my body anymore. My
    heart pumped out its wrenched pain. I needed to find Buckcherry’s
    tour bus. It was the brilliant warm light that would heal me.
    My abortion was thick and clumpy, heavier than a period. So I
    let it be, to run free. I wanted to liberate it. It was the remnants of
    my baby with someone I loved. I marched to forget, to numb and to
    deaden.
    I had bathed myself that day. I had washed and scrubbed, and
    wished that my child would come back. I missed Dizzy so much.
    But I knew that being with Josh Todd would make it better. He
    would be the smooth pink pill of happiness.

    I was a groupie. This was what I deserved. Pain and tears and
    heartbreak should not—could not—enter the sphere of groupiedom.
    We were all meat. I had been slack, and I had paid the price.
    So I focused on my destination: the Buckcherry tour bus, parked
    somewhere on the Nottingham streets, full of fish and chips and
    yellow lights and skint students on that September night. In my
    Tesco bag, I had a vibrator, condoms, wipes, and a vitamin shake
    my mother had made for me, worried that I’d become too pale from
    the loss of blood.
    When I saw the tour bus, I smiled. Ever since I’d first met Josh
    Todd a week earlier, and he’d played with my tits on stage during
    “Crazy Bitch” while I massaged his crotch, I’d known for dead certain
    that we were going to copulate. The attention felt good. He
    was a rock god. He was Steven Tyler—the way he moved, his swagger,
    his presence. Every inch of his naked, serpentine upper body
    was tattooed with runaway ink. Onstage, he roared with heartbreaking
    pain on a song like “Sorry” and with howling orgasms
    on a song like “Porno Star.” But I’d gone to the show with my little
    brother, and I was still hurting and raw over Dizzy, so I couldn’t
    imagine being intimate with anyone.
    But four days later in Oxford, Josh had remembered me. He’d
    picked me out of all the pretty girls standing outside the tour bus.
    It had been two days after the abortion. I wasn’t bleeding then, but
    my left hand was bandaged in white clumpy dressing because of
    the anesthetic shot.
    I had thought I’d forget as soon as I got with Josh Todd.
    On the tour bus, he kissed me and I massaged his naked snaked
    back. I told him he needed to eat a few more cheeseburgers; he
    looked hurt that I thought he was too skinny. He was perfection, I
    told him. It was a well-known fact on the road that he had a thing
    for raven-haired and sultry girls.
    When he noticed the bandages on my hand, though, a fear—of
    sexual disease or domestic violence—thundered across his face.
    “What’s happened to you?” he asked.

    THE LAST LIVING SLUT
    “I just had an abortion two days ago.” I conveyed the information
    as daintily as I could, so he’d still want to be intimate with me.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you okay? You have to look after yourself—
    your spirit.”
    “I’ll try.” I smiled with hope.
    Josh led me to a bottle-green carpeted area in the back of the
    bus. Quietly, he undressed me and started to finger my vagina
    from behind while I bent over and rubbed my ass over his bulging
    crotch. At the clinic, they gave me a pamphlet warning of the
    danger of infection if I engaged in any sexual activity for two weeks
    after the termination. But this was Josh Todd. He would make me
    forget the pain.
    Condoms were Josh’s obsession, and he whipped one out like
    a surgical instrument pivotal to saving a life. We kissed hard and
    grabbed each other like two savage animals. Sweat dripped off his
    tattoo-covered torso. He sucked and devoured my body as if I were
    yummy chicken. His face was that of a rock god, and I wanted to
    look at it. But he turned me around and penetrated me. I moaned
    as he roared into me, holding my round hips tightly. My pornographic
    moans bore through the bus’ corridor, and I felt bad. My
    bandage was unspooling as my body shuddered, full of Josh.
    “Please let me swallow you.”
    I sucked and swallowed him like it was the last soup on earth.
    He had been affectionate. I needed that.
    Somewhere along the way, my bandage fell off, revealing the
    puncture of the anesthetic needle on my hand. He saw the pain in
    my face and we talked about Dizzy. Josh was a master of spiritual
    healing, though he couldn’t administer it to himself.
    Now, in Nottingham, I drank my vitamin shake. I hoped my breasts
    were big enough. They’d grown huge during my pregnancy—ballooned
    and aching. I knew I needed to be home in bed that night,
    but that would be madness.

    Outside the tour bus, I saw the band’s crew. They greeted me
    beaming, like they knew. I just want comfort tonight: I want to be
    with Josh. I presented myself outside the bus as a beautiful glamour
    girl, my hair chestnut-brown and glossed, makeup a work of art,
    body voluptuous and ready. But Josh was still in the dressing rooms,
    so the band’s tour manager, Kyle, escorted me there to meet him.
    Nottingham Rock City’s dressing rooms were a catacomb of
    naughty sex-play, with a beehive of squat, pocket-size niches
    tucked in the back of the venue. I found Josh in the Buckcherry
    dressing room with the rest of the band, stage-sweaty and signing
    posters for fans and taking photos with contest winners. He
    hugged me, and I removed my coat to reveal my corset and polkadot
    bunny skirt.
    “You look beautiful,” he said. “How have you been?”
    “The train journey was so long,” I said.
    He asked about my family and my background in a very concerned
    way, wanting details I didn’t find interesting. But he was generous
    with me, so I felt high and happy, and began to forget the clinic.
    “Keith really likes you,” a roadie whispered in my ear, referring
    to Keith Nelson, the guitarist. “He wants to see you.”
    “I can’t right now,” I said. “I’m with Josh.”
    “I think you should go with Keith,” the roadie insisted. “He’s
    crazy about you.”
    Keith was stereotypically sexy, muscular, and rockerish, but
    devoid of the sexual aura Josh Todd radioactivated. I didn’t want
    to be with Keith. I looked at Josh as Keith stood behind me waiting.
    I didn’t want to offend anyone. I wished Josh would say something.
    Maybe this was a test: I was supposed to perform my groupie part.
    Keith took my hand and led me away. I looked back at Josh, and
    he looked at me. My blood flowed heavier, and I felt disgusted with
    who I was. I missed Dizzy. I wished he was here.
    Keith took me to an empty dressing room and locked the door.
    Fluorescent lights on the ceiling kept guard over empty beer bottles,
    an eyeliner-smeared mirror, a pile of soaked sandwiches. ITHE LAST LIVING SLUT
    looked over at Keith. He had unzipped his pants. I didn’t want to
    do this, but I wanted to be polite. He was a nice guy who always
    had to play second best to Josh. I couldn’t reject him. It would’ve
    been cruel.
    I could feel myself bleeding in clumps as Keith pushed himself
    against the door to keep it shut. How can I be doing this? He had
    his dick in his hand, and it had a huge ring through it. It repulsed
    me. I got down and began to suck it, and it hurt my mouth. I opened
    up wider so the ring could fit into my mouth and throat. I gave him
    the best cock-sucking I could, so he could cum and I could leave.
    But he didn’t cum. He wanted to **** me.
    “Turn around,” he said.
    I didn’t want to.
    He lifted my skirt. My abortion was sliding down my leg.
    “It’s just my period,” I said, not wanting to offend him.
    He put a condom on and looked away from the mess as he
    entered me. That cockring choked my vagina, scraping my insides.
    He pumped away furiously and I felt nothing. I was dead. I closed
    my eyes and thought of sunshine, of my grandmother’s house
    where I played on the carpets.
    Keith couldn’t stand the mess. He looked away in disgust.
    “Honey, it’s too much blood,” he said.
    “I’m sorry it’s grossing you out. You can finish if you want to. Or
    you can come in my mouth.”
    He finished in my mouth. He was such a sweet guy. I felt bad he
    was grossed out.
    When I stepped into the corridor to find a bathroom, Stevie the
    guitarist—who’d been with Ostara in Oxford—came over to me and
    touched my leg.
    “I have to go find Josh,” I said, as if he were the only remedy.
    On the bus, Josh was eating a sandwich and salad, and watching
    a James Bond film with the character Jaws in it. I think it was
    Moonraker. He offered me food and water. I wiped my leg with a DEAD 253
    tissue and started to put mango body butter on my skin. My blood
    was flowing heavier now. I hoped it wasn’t too visible.
    Stevie, Keith, Xavier the drummer, and a couple crew members
    were on the bus. They all wanted to watch me play with myself, and
    I obliged, spreading my legs and rubbing my dildo along my pussy
    for them. One of the crew guys asked me if I wanted to have some
    fun; I declined. Then Stevie and Xavier asked if I wanted to go with
    them to the Welbeck Hotel, which was located next to the tour bus.
    Keith wanted to come, too. I took a deep breath. I could always say
    no. I looked at Josh, but he was quiet, wearing his glasses. He didn’t
    seem to want me tonight, but I wanted to talk to him.
    Three of the other guys in the band took my hand and led me
    to the hotel. We took the elevator to a room that was so pretty.
    Keith turned off the lights, because he couldn’t face the blood.
    His cockring hurt me again, but I was as quiet as a mouse. Then
    Stevie climbed on me from behind and fucked me as I tried to
    please Xavier, while he tried to enjoy a butch girl with a mound of
    crusty pubic hair and BO that nearly made me throw up. I wanted
    the band to be happy. Once they were done ******* me, they left.
    I gathered my belongings in my plastic bag and caught the early
    morning train home.
     
  2. Andy_S

    Andy_S LE Book Reviewer

    Masterly. The droll situation, genteel language and witty dialog echo Jane Austen.
     
  3. Auld-Yin

    Auld-Yin LE Reviewer Book Reviewer Reviews Editor

    Been done mate, back in the 1960's with 'Cathy Come Home' and 'Up the Junction'. 8)