Hella Nation - Evan Wright [126]
I finally left the porn business not because I had any sort of moral awakening, but because I found a better job. Today, whenever I see a new issue of Hustler or Barely Legal at the liquor store, I always flip it open, and forget everything I know. The illusions are real.
FOREVER FOURTEEN
Mötley Crüe arrives at a radio station in Cleveland to promote their new album, Generation Swine, to be released in a few days. The rock stars enter the studio toting their own carry-on luggage. They have come from Detroit, where they performed the night before. Drummer Tommy Lee wears black leather overalls, without a shirt. He flashes an amiable grin and a brightly inked torso that gives him the look of the tattooed man at the carnival. When Tommy fires up a cigarette in the no-smoking studio, three flunkies rush to bring an ashtray.
Nikki Sixx, the bassist, clunks the boom microphone with his commodious brown cowboy hat, as he sits. A chrome chain gleams on his neck; a padlock with a skull hangs as a pendant.
Vince Neil, the singer, wears black plastic boot-cut pants and a swirling orange velour shirt unbuttoned to reveal the tattooed pendant on his chest: a swollen heart with an inverted medieval sword through it and the name “Skylar,” for his five-year-old daughter who died of cancer a year ago.
Mick Mars, the guitar player, takes a seat on the far end of the studio. Hunched over, dressed entirely in black, with long black hair flowing out beneath a black hat, Mars’s outfit is a disappearing act.
The Crüe members are bombarded with questions. “Is heavy metal back to kick some ass?” asks the balding DJ with a sweaty smile and a rear end that overflows from his stool like a soggy hamburger bun.
“I’d love the chance to show up Pamela Lee,” a blond DJ coos, scissoring her legs over Tommy’s knee, as her denim mini-skirt rides up to reveal tanned flesh and thong panties.
“What’s the deal with Mötley Brüe?” Fat Ass queries, referring to the soda being marketed in coffee shops that bears the Mötley Crüe name.
“It’s kind of a triple Jolt cola that turns everything blue,” says Tommy.
“I know,” the blond giggles, “I had one, and I was pooping Smurfs for days.”
“Is it true your record label was going to dump Mötley Crüe if you didn’t bring Vince back?” Sweaty DJ cuts in, smirking at the ambush style of his question.
“This is Mike calling from Cleveland,” a voice crackles over the speaker with a quavery, adolescent timbre that brings to mind pimples and a uniform spattered in deep-fryer grease. “I just wanted to say you guys rock!”
“Right on,” Nikki cheerfully answers, turning sharply as the miniskirted blond DJ clamps her thighs onto his lap and strokes his legs with the toes of her white cowboy boots. “I’d love to hang out with you guys after the concert and party,” the blond sighs, with a smile that accentuates the heavy lines around her eyes.
“Maybe you should tell them about the time you partied with Alex Van Halen,” Sweaty DJ chortles, glancing at his colleague.
“I’m way into partying with bands,” she says.
DURING THEIR FIFTEEN MINUTES ON AIR, a cluster of fans has already made it to the downtown offices of the radio station. They greet Mötley Crüe with outstretched hands holding Sharpies, asking them to sign CDs, photos and tits peeled out fresh from trashy lingerie bra cups.
Tour personnel attempt to push aside the fans and corral Mötley Crüe into a waiting van, because they are running late for their sound check at the Agora, where they are performing in a few hours. The band members stop anyway and satisfy the demand for autographs.
A woman fishes into her halter top and pulls out her breast for the band members