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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