From the Amp of Letty Motherfucking Dillinger
(with Volume Hiked up to 11)
Real rock stars never die. They just shrivel a little with age, or in Keith Richards’s case, become slightly pickled yet still quite flavorful because FUCK, he’s Keith fucking Richards, man! The best of them pop some Viagra and keep rocking out with their cocks out as if the continued onslaught of birthdays, new wrinkles, and less erectionally formidable sex weapons ain’t nothin’ but a thang.
When I was younger, I pictured myself retiring from the music biz at the tender age of 102, cussing everybody out at the nursing home, middle fingers waving, bitching about the lack of decent cock, just like Great-Grandma Dillinger used to. On bingo night, I’d be groovin’ like a turgid Thanksgiving turkey trippin’ on his own tryptophan to Tom Petty tunes, rousing my fellow centenarians with song and my impeccably slutty fashion sense.
I imagined all the food fights I would start in the communal dining room, leaving the affronted and stiff (not in the good way) old farts clutching their pearls or bird chests as spaghetti sauce dribbled from their blue hair. I dreamed of popping wheelies in my wheelchair to Blondie songs. I’d be the belle of every fucking ball—the biddy all the horny coots fought over.
Hey, don’t dis. Old people have sex too. I got no problem rollin’ through the assisted living halls with a toothless dude ridin’ shotgun betwixt my thighs, gumming my twat on the way to dialysis.
Everyone thinks they’re gonna live forever. Until forever ends.
I’ll get to the point. If you’re reading this, I’m dead.
Someone in Killer Buzz Float took me out.
All my bandmates have hated me at one point or another. Maybe deservedly, maybe not. I’ve never been one to shy away from letting my mouth do the thinking as well as the talking. This sweet pie hole o’ mine (hey, that sounds like a kickass Guns ’n’ Roses cover in the making!) may be perdy and round, but it’s repeatedly proven it doesn’t possess an ounce of tact. I’m hard to handle. I get it.
No one likes being stabbed in the back, literally or figuratively. It hurts when the people you trust and … love turn on you.
Yeah. I said it. I loved those fuckers. Even when I hated them.
Doesn’t matter anymore, though, does it? I’m gone and so are they, as far as I’m concerned. I just hope my music lives on. That’s all I care about. Securing my place in the annals (anals?) of rock ’n’ roll history.
Music was my life. Now it’s my death.
But enough whining.
Here’s the deal. I’m releasing my private blog to the world as my final goodbye to anyone who ever gave a shit about me. I’ve been misrepresented by the press and many others. This blog will set the record straight. Famous people—people whose tunes you sing along with in the shower or have sex to in the backseats of cars—have treated me like shit. I’m calling their asses out. I got nothing to lose now, right?
Some of the stories you’ll read will shock you. Some may evoke tears; others have the power to make you horny as fuck. [WARNING: ORGASM XING. Proceed with caution] I am a sexual being, after all. I’ve never shied away from my identity as a dick-rocking, squirt-spurting, butt-pegging goddess with a mic and gloriously cute tits.
If anything you read turns you on, I hope you’ll avail yourself of the arousal. No point letting that kinetic fuck froth go to waste, right? Don’t be shy. Whip yourself into a frenzy or grab a partner to do it for you. All I ask is that you scream my name when you bust your ovaries or nuts or alien sexy bits—Letty Dillinger does not discriminate; all gonads are welcome—in memory of me. Think of it like sending good vibes into the universe. Or spunking the universe with love lather. If I’m hanging around, playing the harp in a nearby jizz cloud or sucking the ectoplasm out of some dead rock star’s ghost cock, I’ll catch it. With my tongue.
Long live The Rock.
Letty Motherfucking Dillinger
The sixth and final book in my Hard Rock Harlots erotic comedy series is live on all major retailers (links are below). I’ve discounted the ebook price now through November 5, 2021. Signed paperbacks should be available after November 17 in the Howling Mad Press Store (US only).
I hope you enjoy CODA as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you love it (or hate it), I hope you’ll consider leaving a review on Goodreads and/or your favorite online retailer. Reviews help other readers find books.
Thanks for your support, and be sure to let me know what you think when you finish.
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