Categories > Celebrities > Motley Crue > Shameful Metaphors
The instant I walk into the room, I see why London is so widely regarded as one of the most debauched, licentious bands on the Strip. There are people in every corner having sex, or snorting blow, or smoking cigarettes. A skinny chick whose miniskirt is hiked up far enough to show her hot pink thong bends over near me, flashing her tits in my face. Behind her, several long-haired guy snicker and chug on their beer.
Then someone shouts my name. “Tommy Lee, my man!” I turn and see Randall loping towards me, his shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, all his teeth flashing. He laughs that loud, booming laugh of his and hugs me tightly.
“Happy seventeenth, kiddo,” he says. “Didja enjoy the concert?”
Biting down on my lower lip, I nod. London is my favorite band in the whole world, and Randall got me tickets to see them. Now I’m backstage at the Roxy, along with about fifty other fans, waiting to see them. I know I sound like a fangirl, but god… I can’t help it.
Then a door off to the side opens, and the skinny chick with the huge tits lets out a shriek. Randall nudges me, and my heart leaps in my throat. Everyone starts roaring… and London walks in: Nigel Benjamin, John St. John, Lizzy Grey, and Nikki Sixx. There’s something about them, something glamorous and sexy and powerful that emanates from their cores. Nikki’s emerald-gray eyes dart around the room, blazing beneath dark eyeliner. For a second, he makes eye contact with me, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.
The thing about Nikki is that he’s my idol. I don’t care about the drug-dealing rumors, or the fact that supposedly he’s a sadist. What I’m attracted to is his lyrics, how he seems to make words flow together flawlessly, with no cracks. And he’s beautiful, with long, sinewy arms and legs and soft jet black hair that falls into his angular face. And that wiseass smile… he’s flashing it at a girl now, and my heart nearly stops.
Randall gives me a gentle nudge again. “Go on,” he says because, of everyone in here, he alone knows how I really feel about Nikki. “Go talk to him.”
I swallow hard and force my shaky legs to move. Nikki’s leaned against the frame of a door, talking to a blond chick who looks suspiciously like Vince Wharton, a guy I went to high school with. He’s playing with the frayed edges of the torn stockings covering his arms as he talks; I see flashes of his black nail polish. As I approach, he glances up, fixating his gaze on me. The girl turns too, and I see her eyes narrow.
Then I’m standing next to him, and I can nearly feel the power he emanates. Nikki and I are about the same height, but he’s slightly more muscular than I am, and a bit taller— though that’s probably due to the fact that his hair is teased up—and he’s wearing platform boots while I’m in Converse. He looks like royalty, and I look like shit.
“Hey,” he says to me. There’s a tiny smirk on his face, and I can feel myself beginning to blush. “Can I help you with something?”
Suddenly I feel ridiculous, young. Nikki’s older than I am; to him I must look like such a kid. I swallow hard and murmur:
“S’my birthday. Big fan.”
His eyes soften just the tiniest bit. “Happy birthday,” he says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “How old?”
I don’t want to tell him, but there’s no way to avoid it. “Seventeen,” I say, and his smile widens slightly.
“Young motherfucker,” he says, and I blush harder. He’s ignoring the girl completely now; facing me, his arms folded. The green in his eyes is glowing, and suddenly he grins. There’s the devil’s wiseass smirk reflected on his face, and I wonder what he’s scheming.
“C’mon,” he says, locking his eyes onto mine. “I think you’re old enough.” He slides his hand down on my arm from where it was resting on my shoulder and takes my hand in his. My face grows warmer, as if that’s possible; Nikki’s acting like it’s perfectly normal for two men to be holding hands in public, but I’m pretty sure all my feelings are on my face for the whole world to see at this point.
“Old enough for what?” I ask, but Nikki’s already leading me through the door he was leaning against, and I stop talking. It’s dark in here, but I can still see well enough to notice several people in here draped over couches, needles stuck in their arms. One guy is snorting a powdery white substance off a table; there are people hitting pipes in the corners and staring off into the distance.
Nikki approaches a thin, sinewy guy and nudges him. “Hey,” he says, “you got any rocks?”
The guy looks up. “For you, yeah,” he says, and they both laugh. Nikki takes the brown paper bag the guy hands him, and, still holding my hand, leads me to a dark corner of the room. We sit down, and I say:
“What is this?”
Nikki pulls a thick, white rock out of the bag. He lays it on the bag, takes a Swiss army knife out of his leather pants, and starts slicing it into even lines. There’s something chilling about the meticulousness with which he’s doing this, and I shiver a little bit.
“It’s cocaine,” he says, without looking up. “An’ trust me on this one… I can tell it’s pure.”
So the drug dealing rumors are true, I think, and I swallow hard. He pauses mid-stroke and glances at me, tilting his head to one side. There’s curiosity in his eyes, and, feeling even younger than before, I say hesitantly:
“I’ve never done hard drugs before.” I don’t want to add that I only had my first cigarette a month ago, but I think he can tell anyway. One side of his mouth pulls up, and he says:
“Don’t worry. You’re with me.”
He finishes cutting the rock, then puts his knife up and kneels over the lines. He covers one nostril with his pinky, then shuts his eyes and breathes in. Flecks of cocaine dance up into his nose and it looks strangely beautiful. I lean forward, but he holds up his hand without even looking up.
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is cold, commanding. He bends over further, so that I can’t see the drug anymore. For a while, I listen to him snorting, then he straightens up.
“Your turn,” he says, rocking back. There’s a line left, about three inches, and my heart starts racing.
“I can’t—” I start, and Nikki’s eyes flash. He points at the line:
“Snort it,” and he looks dangerous. “I ain’t gonna let you overdose, kid.”
I am shaking, just a bit. My parents raised me to not use drugs, to stay away from these situations. Fuck, I’m even still a virgin… though that’s probably because of my sexual orientation, not because of my personality. Looking at him out of the corner of my eye, I lean forward and cover one nostril like he did. I snort it up; maybe a bit too hard, because I start coughing. I can hear Nikki laughing above me, and I straighten up, glaring at him. My nose is burning, and it feels like I just swallowed something hard.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I say, “it’s not funny.”
He grins. “Sure.” Then, maybe because my face is still stony, he reaches forward and gently brushes a loose strand of hair off my forehead, his expression softening slightly. Instantly, any anger I was feeling evaporates. I swallow, and he leans forward. Our eyes are connecting and I’m falling, crashing into the depths of his emerald irises.
“You’re so fucking young,” he murmurs, and then he cups my jaw in his hand and kisses me. The rough pad of his thumb strokes my skin as our tongues meet, and I shiver.
“What’s your name?” he asks after a while, drawing away but not too far, pressing our foreheads together.
“Tommy,” I say. “Tommy Lee.”
“Tommy Lee,” Nikki Sixx repeats softly. “Don’t get in too deep with me, okay?”
“I think I already have,” I reply, and then we both laugh.
Then someone shouts my name. “Tommy Lee, my man!” I turn and see Randall loping towards me, his shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, all his teeth flashing. He laughs that loud, booming laugh of his and hugs me tightly.
“Happy seventeenth, kiddo,” he says. “Didja enjoy the concert?”
Biting down on my lower lip, I nod. London is my favorite band in the whole world, and Randall got me tickets to see them. Now I’m backstage at the Roxy, along with about fifty other fans, waiting to see them. I know I sound like a fangirl, but god… I can’t help it.
Then a door off to the side opens, and the skinny chick with the huge tits lets out a shriek. Randall nudges me, and my heart leaps in my throat. Everyone starts roaring… and London walks in: Nigel Benjamin, John St. John, Lizzy Grey, and Nikki Sixx. There’s something about them, something glamorous and sexy and powerful that emanates from their cores. Nikki’s emerald-gray eyes dart around the room, blazing beneath dark eyeliner. For a second, he makes eye contact with me, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.
The thing about Nikki is that he’s my idol. I don’t care about the drug-dealing rumors, or the fact that supposedly he’s a sadist. What I’m attracted to is his lyrics, how he seems to make words flow together flawlessly, with no cracks. And he’s beautiful, with long, sinewy arms and legs and soft jet black hair that falls into his angular face. And that wiseass smile… he’s flashing it at a girl now, and my heart nearly stops.
Randall gives me a gentle nudge again. “Go on,” he says because, of everyone in here, he alone knows how I really feel about Nikki. “Go talk to him.”
I swallow hard and force my shaky legs to move. Nikki’s leaned against the frame of a door, talking to a blond chick who looks suspiciously like Vince Wharton, a guy I went to high school with. He’s playing with the frayed edges of the torn stockings covering his arms as he talks; I see flashes of his black nail polish. As I approach, he glances up, fixating his gaze on me. The girl turns too, and I see her eyes narrow.
Then I’m standing next to him, and I can nearly feel the power he emanates. Nikki and I are about the same height, but he’s slightly more muscular than I am, and a bit taller— though that’s probably due to the fact that his hair is teased up—and he’s wearing platform boots while I’m in Converse. He looks like royalty, and I look like shit.
“Hey,” he says to me. There’s a tiny smirk on his face, and I can feel myself beginning to blush. “Can I help you with something?”
Suddenly I feel ridiculous, young. Nikki’s older than I am; to him I must look like such a kid. I swallow hard and murmur:
“S’my birthday. Big fan.”
His eyes soften just the tiniest bit. “Happy birthday,” he says, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “How old?”
I don’t want to tell him, but there’s no way to avoid it. “Seventeen,” I say, and his smile widens slightly.
“Young motherfucker,” he says, and I blush harder. He’s ignoring the girl completely now; facing me, his arms folded. The green in his eyes is glowing, and suddenly he grins. There’s the devil’s wiseass smirk reflected on his face, and I wonder what he’s scheming.
“C’mon,” he says, locking his eyes onto mine. “I think you’re old enough.” He slides his hand down on my arm from where it was resting on my shoulder and takes my hand in his. My face grows warmer, as if that’s possible; Nikki’s acting like it’s perfectly normal for two men to be holding hands in public, but I’m pretty sure all my feelings are on my face for the whole world to see at this point.
“Old enough for what?” I ask, but Nikki’s already leading me through the door he was leaning against, and I stop talking. It’s dark in here, but I can still see well enough to notice several people in here draped over couches, needles stuck in their arms. One guy is snorting a powdery white substance off a table; there are people hitting pipes in the corners and staring off into the distance.
Nikki approaches a thin, sinewy guy and nudges him. “Hey,” he says, “you got any rocks?”
The guy looks up. “For you, yeah,” he says, and they both laugh. Nikki takes the brown paper bag the guy hands him, and, still holding my hand, leads me to a dark corner of the room. We sit down, and I say:
“What is this?”
Nikki pulls a thick, white rock out of the bag. He lays it on the bag, takes a Swiss army knife out of his leather pants, and starts slicing it into even lines. There’s something chilling about the meticulousness with which he’s doing this, and I shiver a little bit.
“It’s cocaine,” he says, without looking up. “An’ trust me on this one… I can tell it’s pure.”
So the drug dealing rumors are true, I think, and I swallow hard. He pauses mid-stroke and glances at me, tilting his head to one side. There’s curiosity in his eyes, and, feeling even younger than before, I say hesitantly:
“I’ve never done hard drugs before.” I don’t want to add that I only had my first cigarette a month ago, but I think he can tell anyway. One side of his mouth pulls up, and he says:
“Don’t worry. You’re with me.”
He finishes cutting the rock, then puts his knife up and kneels over the lines. He covers one nostril with his pinky, then shuts his eyes and breathes in. Flecks of cocaine dance up into his nose and it looks strangely beautiful. I lean forward, but he holds up his hand without even looking up.
“Wait,” he says, and his voice is cold, commanding. He bends over further, so that I can’t see the drug anymore. For a while, I listen to him snorting, then he straightens up.
“Your turn,” he says, rocking back. There’s a line left, about three inches, and my heart starts racing.
“I can’t—” I start, and Nikki’s eyes flash. He points at the line:
“Snort it,” and he looks dangerous. “I ain’t gonna let you overdose, kid.”
I am shaking, just a bit. My parents raised me to not use drugs, to stay away from these situations. Fuck, I’m even still a virgin… though that’s probably because of my sexual orientation, not because of my personality. Looking at him out of the corner of my eye, I lean forward and cover one nostril like he did. I snort it up; maybe a bit too hard, because I start coughing. I can hear Nikki laughing above me, and I straighten up, glaring at him. My nose is burning, and it feels like I just swallowed something hard.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I say, “it’s not funny.”
He grins. “Sure.” Then, maybe because my face is still stony, he reaches forward and gently brushes a loose strand of hair off my forehead, his expression softening slightly. Instantly, any anger I was feeling evaporates. I swallow, and he leans forward. Our eyes are connecting and I’m falling, crashing into the depths of his emerald irises.
“You’re so fucking young,” he murmurs, and then he cups my jaw in his hand and kisses me. The rough pad of his thumb strokes my skin as our tongues meet, and I shiver.
“What’s your name?” he asks after a while, drawing away but not too far, pressing our foreheads together.
“Tommy,” I say. “Tommy Lee.”
“Tommy Lee,” Nikki Sixx repeats softly. “Don’t get in too deep with me, okay?”
“I think I already have,” I reply, and then we both laugh.
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