The memory of the bounty hunters began to seem like a distant dream as Nikki and I continued to numb ourselves on tour. We became so close that sex seemed unnecessary. We got our fix onstage. If one of us either left a club with someone else or brought someone back to the hotel room, the other would be mad. I found that out the hard way.

In New York, Roadie Boy spiked my drink with Ecstasy, which was a terrible experience. I don’t like the drug, and would never take it intentionally. When it hit me, we were at the China Club and Derek Jeter was hitting on Nikki and me. He bored me, so I went to talk to Joe Montana, who looked like he was a hundred years old. He could hardly move from all the beatings he had taken in his heyday. When he put his hand on my leg, I realized two things: the first is that I should never be in public on Ecstasy and the other was that I should have stayed with Derek Jeter.

The next day the tabloids reported that Joe Montana and I were having an affair. But what actually happened was that I went back to the hotel to have sex with a woman instead (Paige Summers, a Penthouse Pet of the Year whose heart mysteriously stopped in the middle of the night following a routine surgery shortly afterward). Nikki ended up fooling around with a guy from the Minnesota Twins. The next morning we had a platonic-lovers’quarrel and didn’t say a word to each other for days.

After that, we made a deal: we could only bring someone back to the room to share in a three-way, which was highly unlikely considering that we never even slept with each other anymore. We had only tried to have a threesome once before, in Los Angeles years ago, and it was a disaster. A very forward girl at a bar threw herself at us, and started talking about sex and how much she loved women. She was beautiful, with raven hair and mammaries that could crack nuts, so we took her home and got right down to it. Nikki and I were very sexually aggressive with each other, and the other girl suddenly panicked, gathered her clothes, and ran out the door without even a kiss good-bye (or hello). We still have no idea how she got home, because we had given her a ride to Nikki’s place. Afterward, I realized that the mistake was ours: we believed her boasting, and ignored the cardinal rule of starting things slowly.

After our pact, the only person I remember ever trying to take home was Damon Wayans. We were at the MAGIC clothing convention in Las Vegas, and decided to down a liter of Grey Goose and go to a hip-hop club. We were the only white people in the place, and we were so fucked up we didn’t care. And because we didn’t care, no one else seemed to mind either.

Not long after we arrived, I spotted Damon Wayans sitting on a couch, looking hellafine. So we walked over to him, sat down on either side of him, and started blathering nonsensical drunk talk. When we started dancing for him, he was remarkably laid-back considering how out-of-control we were.

“Damn,” he said to me. “Look at that body.”

“But I don’t have a butt,” I protested.

“You’ve got enough ass for me,” he said.

We ended up jumping in his limo and going to his suite at the Bellagio. Nikki and I flopped down on his bed and started making out while he sat there coolly and watched. I’m rarely forward, but I had been mixing alcohol with the pills, so I was feeling frisky. I looked up at him and demanded, “Kiss me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “That’s just not me.”

“You know you want to,” I persisted.

“You have no idea how much I want to.”

“Then kiss me.”

I crawled to the edge of the bed, and his face met mine halfway. All we did was kiss. Immediately afterward, Nikki and I got up, left the room, and stumbled out of the hotel. We checked into a run-down little fifties motel called the Tam O’Shanter, which was my idea because when I was a teenager, I used to go to parties there in room 22. We checked in and ordered pizza, but by the time the pizza guy arrived, we had both passed out on the well-stained carpet.

As soon as we returned to our regularly scheduled tour together, I got dosed again. I was stupid enough to accept a glass of champagne from a guy, and there was something in it —either GHB or Rohypnol or Ketamine. Afterward, I was walking backstage and the hallway began to curve and stretch. When I got to the dressing room, I looked in the mirror and my pupils had tripled in size and were convulsing epileptically. I lay down under the makeup table and passed out. When Nikki woke me up for our next show, I was gone.

“I can’t go out there,” I told her, my voice aquiver. “I can’t walk.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. Just stay with me.”

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t walk.”

“Okay,” she said, bending over. “Wrap your arms around my neck.”

She dragged me behind her, my useless legs trailing against the cement floor. When we neared the stage and the industrial version of “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” by the Revolting Cocks started, Nikki was seized by adrenaline and took the stairs too fast. I lost my grip on her and tumbled down the steps. I hit the stage like a starfish, and just lay there. The music slowed to a crawl in my mind and the lights seemed to flicker on and off, though it was probably just my consciousness flickering on and off. Nikki grabbed me by the foot and dragged me behind her for the entirety of the song. No matter what happened, we never missed a show.

Now, I always wonder if Roadie Boy was responsible for all the times I was dosed on the road. His behavior was getting stranger every day. He’d use my name to get everything he could for free —club entrance, drugs, tattoos, first-class plane tickets. And if my name wasn’t enough, he’d forge my autograph on an eight-by-ten to use as barter. He constantly wore the laminated passes he made for the tour around his neck along with Tool and Mötley Crüe all-access passes, even though he didn’t need them to get around the clubs. The only place they provided him access to was the legs of strippers. He’d tell these eighteen-year-old girls that he was the road manager for Mötley Crüe, promise to take them backstage to meet the band next time he was in town, and then end up in the bathroom of the club taking Polaroids while he had sex with them. He had a whole scrapbook full of his conquests.

If bands wanted to meet me, they’d have to go through him first. So he’d take the opportunity to make a deal with them on the down-low. He’d promise them discounted T-shirts and merchandise, and then take off with their money. He would also have the guys in Tool leave messages for me on my phone. At first it seemed somewhat cool, but I slowly began to suspect that these guys leaving messages weren’t really who they claimed to be. In fact, I don’t think my roadie had ever worked for a band in his life.

When someone is on the road with you, they are in your inner circle. They become as close to you as family. And, even though his mounting bar tabs, hotel-room phone bills (which were eight hundred dollars one night), and Ecstasy-popping should have been a sign, I didn’t see the truth until it was too late. I was willing to overlook a lot of his indiscretions, because he was working in exchange for nothing but his expenses. Besides, I didn’t want to think I had been betrayed by one of the few people I had let into my inner circle.

The final blow came when he offered to get me a deal on custom-built road cases for two thousand dollars. My accountant sent him the money, and we never saw a thing in return. On top of that, he had promised my accountant seats at a Rolling Stones concert, and my poor accountant ended up stranded at will call with no tickets at all.

So Nikki and I sat down one day before a gig and decided to count the number of Polaroids we posed for that night, since he collected the money. By closing time, we had taken 150 pictures at twenty dollars each. But when it came time to pay us, instead of three thousand dollars, he gave us fifteen hundred dollars. No wonder the guy didn’t want a salary: he was making much more under the table.

When we had a week off from the tour, I called Roadie Boy and told him we didn’t need his services anymore. He went berserk. I gave him all the reasons why I didn’t want him working for me, and he had an excuse for each one and flat-out denied stealing from me. When that didn’t work, he threatened to ruin me. “Take a walk, motherfucker,” I finally told him. “You’re lucky I’m not having your ass beat.”

For weeks afterward, he called Nikki, Joy King, and everyone I knew, making all kinds of threats. Then he talked to the porn gossip sites, telling them I was a bitch and a junkie and a painkiller addict. It didn’t matter whether he was wrong or right —or in this case half right— what mattered was that he was doing it out of spite, to hurt me. Months later, a certain band contacted me. He had used my name to meet and fleece them.

“We are going to do something about this situation,” they said. “And we are going to do it our way. Do you care?”

I gave them my blessing.