Truth Behind the Fantasy of Porn

by Shelley Lubben

  Through some of my “elite” connections, I began to pursue the Hollywood dream I fantasized about as a child. Like every other sex worker in Southern California, I thought for sure I would become the next Sharon Stone or Julia Roberts.

  With Hollywood directors and agents piling up in my pocket, I began to go to casting calls and try out for different acting parts. I became an aspiring “extra.” Promises of big breaks made by horny Hollywood directors, I believed them when they told me I would become a big star. Promises like that were usually made before I got down on my knees.

  Whenever Hollywood acting didn’t work out I pursued the music industry. One of my regular “guys” was a music producer who had a recording studio in his mansion in Chatsworth. With his help I wrote, sang and produced my first music album in 1991 entitled, “Let There Be House”, which included the song, “Mentiroso”, I wrote to get back at Mellon Man Ace for “Mentirosa”, a Spanglish rap song about female liars. Maybe I was a little sensitive.

  Or maybe I realized my whole life was a huge lie. Rejected, beat up, overworked and overexposed; I was a single Mom surviving a double life. With one foot in the door of Hollywood and the other spiked heel stuck in the sex industry, I felt blocked at every turn. It was as if God Himself was against me.

  One day I became so frustrated with the whole LA scene that I began looking for jobs in other cities. Desperately searching for some new angle I stumbled upon an ad in a newspaper:

  SEEKING YOUNG WOMEN. ALL TRAVEL EXPENSES PAID. $2,000 A WEEK.

  Wow, now that sounded good. I immediately called the phone number and some guy Rico answered and told me they were looking for dancers. I was so relieved to hear it wasn’t prostitution!

  I showed up expecting a professional agency but it was two Mexican men and a briefcase of piles of cash. I had never seen so much cash in my life. They told me there was plenty more for me if I agreed to fly to Mexico to dance for two weeks. I was a little hesitant but they assured me everything was cool.

  “Don’t worry, Huera, ebery ting is cool. Da girls are makin’ a lot a money and da beach is muy bueno.”

  When I heard my two favorite words “beach” and “money” my eyes brightened. They also promised me a first class ticket and showed me a pamphlet of the beautiful resort where I would be staying. A guy friend of mine warned me that it didn’t sound legit but I ignored him. I was ready for a change and needed to take a break from California. Besides, I was La Huera Loca!

  I felt bad about leaving my daughter Tiffany but my guy friend assured me she’d be fine. So I grabbed my bags and headed toward the Los Angeles International airport. I took a first class flight on Mexicana airlines and landed in Guadalajara three hours and five minutes later. The smell of tacos and cigarettes filled the air. I grabbed my suitcase and headed outside where two Mexican men pulled up to the side of the curb. I guess the blonde hair gave me away.

  “Hola, como estas?” I showed off my Spanish skills as I handed my suitcase to them. I learned quite a bit of Spanish at the Mexican bars I stripped at.

  “Hola,” one man replied and the rest of the ride it was very quiet.

  About forty minutes later we arrived at an old building covered by trees and surrounded by Birds of Paradise. I got out of the car and walked up the cracked steps to a secured door. After a short knock a fat Mexican man opened the door and I followed the two men into a corridor of glass sliding doors. Now I knew something was wrong. The women behind the glass doors weren’t laughing or talking. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a girl wiping what looked like tears off of her face.

  What the hell is going on here?

  Thoughts of escape immediately filled my mind and I felt my hands turn into fists. When I was about to bash the guy’s head in, a Voice came to me and said, “Stay calm, Shelley.” I knew it was God. I took in a deep breath and my false smile led me down the hall into my room.

  “Be ready by 8:00, Huera,” one of the men said as he walked away. I turned around to a striking young woman with long blonde hair and terrified blue eyes.

  I looked at her with a puzzled face and blurted, “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Shshsh,” she said as she shut the door. Then she whispered, “Don’t you know where you are? You’re in a Mexican brothel.”

  “Bullshit,” I contested. “I didn’t sign up to work in a Mexican brothel. And I was told I would be staying in a nice resort!”

  “Shut up!” she said. “These guys are going to f—king kill you if you don’t shut up. You’re in a Mexican brothel and you’re not ever going back home.”

  Stunned, I stood there with my mouth open until I shook my head and boldly came back with, “Well, nobody is going to keep me in a prison. That’s for damn sure.” Then I turned around and stared out the barred window while silently praying to God to get me out of this.

  Eight o’clock rolled around and we heard a knock on the door.

  “Come on, Hueras. Time to go.”

  I followed the other girls in a line where we were taken outside to an old yellow bus in the street. Wearing a tight yellow dress and holding nothing but a small purse for tips and tampons, I stepped up into the dirty bus thinking about what was ahead.

  “God, get me out of this,” I said as the bus pulled away from the curb.

  As I looked around at the faces of the other young girls I noticed none of them had emotion. They were as cold as ice staring straight into the view ahead of them. I tried to talk to one of them next to me but she wouldn’t speak. I sat back in disbelief as not one of the women had the will to fight. I was such a fighter. I couldn’t relate to their submissive behavior and I began to devise a plan to escape.

  Luckily, I spoke enough Spanish. I don’t think the Mexican mafia planned on that when they lured me in. We arrived at a tall brick building with several floors above it. As I looked to the side I noticed several security guards with guns.

  Damn, I thought.

  As I stepped out of the dirty yellow bus the air was sticky and hot. Wiping my forehead, I shoved my blonde hair back and walked into a dark empty club where only a few men were sitting at tables. I followed the other girls into a dressing room attached to the stage and poked my head through the curtain. Nobody was watching. It was so weird. It was nothing like the rowdy Mexican bars I was used to.

  I wanted to check out the rest of the bar without being noticed so I hopped on the stage and danced quietly while I scouted the area. To the left I saw a girl on a chair dancing for a guy who wasn’t tipping her. Not good. To the right I saw the front door guarded by a big Mexican guy who was armed. Very bad. Above me was an open floor where a couple of men were walking around. Where were the women? There were a couple of them on the stage but where were the rest of them?

  I asked a Mexican girl in Spanish where the restroom was and she pointed to the floor above me. I escaped out of a window before when a bachelor party got out of hand so I figured it might be an option. I slowly approached the winding stairs and looked above me to see if anyone was around. It was empty so I ran up the stairs and turned to the left where I faced a sign that said, “Baño.”

  I hurried over to the restroom when a sound stopped me dead in my tracks.

  “Nooo!” a woman’s voice shrieked out of nowhere.

  Oh shit, I thought. What was that?

  I walked toward the sound of repeated screams and peered in the doorway to see a woman bent over with a handful of men watching while a man behind her violently thrust himself into her.

  “No, no more,” she pleaded and the guy slapped her on the head and said, “cierra la boca.” Okay, he just told her to shut her mouth after he hit her. That was enough for me to see.

  I knew I was in hell.

  I immediately walked to the restroom to see if I could crawl out of the window onto the roof. But there were no windows. I panicked. I went into a stall to sit and think. Thoughts of ways to escape the hell I was in flooded my mind.

  Maybe I could ask for a match an
d start a fire? Not good enough. I could bullshit the doorman and pretend to give him a blow job and steal his gun. Mmmm, there was no guarantee that would work.

  I could pretend I was demon possessed and twist my head around like the exorcist. No, they would kill me for sure.

  Damn, I was out of ideas. So I sat there and prayed and begged God to get me out of this. He had been successful many times at saving me, so I thought maybe He’d forgive me this one last time. But there was no answer. Tears rolled down my face as I thought about my daughter and how I’d never see her again. I was beyond despair.

  Cries from another woman filled the air and I became desperate. I talked myself into the doorman idea. I would have done any sexual favor to get out of that hell hole. As I walked toward the doorman my quick thinking Spanish kicked in and I grabbed his arm in desperation and yelled, “Fuego! Fuego! Hay un fuego ahí arriba!” He looked at me in shock and ran upstairs to see the fire I had yelled about.

  I speedily ran out the door and down the street trying to wave cars down as they drove by. A green taxi cab slowed down and pulled over to the curb. I told him in Spanish to take me back to the brothel and he understood what I was talking about. Thank God he knew where it was. Thank God my Spanish was good enough.

  During the cab ride I mentally prepared myself to face the security guard at the brothel. I thought about the door, the lock, his desk, the sliding glass doors, how long it would take me to bust in and get my stuff.

  No sooner had we arrived and I was ready to kick some serious ass. Filled with the will to live and see my daughter again, I threw a twenty-dollar bill at the driver and told him to wait five minutes and I’d give him a hundred American dollars when I got back. He nodded.

  I ran up to the steps and pounded on the front door where the security guard opened it and I shoved him back while I rushed down the corridor to my room on the left. The sliding glass doors were locked. Shit!

  I turned and yelled, “Abierto el f—king door!” He tried to tackle me but I shoved him into the wall and kicked him brutally until he gave me the keys. He wasn’t ready for a trained stripper with legs of steel to kick the hell out of him. I ran to my room and stuck several keys into the hole and bam, I felt a click.

  Got it.

  I grabbed my suitcase and tore out of the room toward the front door where I leaped over the stairs to the cab. Thank God he was still there. With the door slammed behind me I told the driver to take me to the Guadalajara International Airport. My heart was beating rapidly while I suffered through a forty-minute drive to the airport.

  Tears of relief flowed down my face as I stepped out of the cab and ran inside to the airlines desk. I lied and said my daughter was sick and I needed to change my flight to get home immediately. I sat down in the chair directly across from the desk gripping tightly to my purse. I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from going back to Los Angeles.

  After a sleepless night in the airport and a three-hour flight I stepped off of the plane and onto American soil and kissed the ground. Thank God I was home. Thank God I was alive.

  I was so traumatized after Mexico that I slept for three straight days. When I woke up I swore off prostitution and headed back to the club where Mario was killed. It had been a while since I worked there so hopefully the murderer was caught. Anyway, I needed the money. A hot blonde with Spanish on my tongue and Tequila in my veins, I’d make a killing.

  “Olé!”

  VII

  Admit One

  Dead Even

  Chapter Seven

  I was out for blood.

  That psycho was going to regret the night he ever met me. When I came home and found him sitting on my couch with a huge knife, I was furious.

  “What are you doing here, Miguel?” I demanded to know. He didn’t answer me except with the sound of heavy breathing and rocking back and forth on my couch. I quickly handed my three-year old daughter to my roommate and motioned her towards the bedroom.

  “Lock it and don’t open it unless you hear my voice.” I said. Adrenaline rushed into my veins.

  I’m going to kill him, I told myself. I’m going to cut him into little pieces and hurl them into the dumpster across the street. But something told me to play it cool. If I killed him I’d probably end up in jail. Or worse, he might hurt my daughter Tiffany. No, this guy required “special” handling.

  “Sweetie,” I said as I changed my tone. “I love you, Miguel. Put the knife down, honey. I’m sorry I got home so late but it was my turn to clean up the bar.” My loving eyes welcomed him back into my open arms. His face softened along with the grip around his knife.

  That night I stayed up until 5:00 a.m. convincing Miguel that I loved him more than any other man. I did whatever it I had to do to protect Tiffany and me. For months the maniac had been harassing me and stalking me. I should have recognized he was a stalker the first night I met him but the money blinded me. All I saw was a mountain of green in front of me. His big brown eyes and boyish smile, Miguel was every stripper’s dream: a young rich good-looking man.

  The first night I met Miguel he gave me a crystal rose and $500 in tips along with a request for dinner the following night. I told him I had to work but he offered to pay me double what I usually made. I greedily accepted and blindly entered into one of the worst episodes of my crazy life.

  It started off perfect. He spoiled me with money and gifts and I spoiled him with sex and soft talk. He had no idea that I was stringing along several other men at the same time I was stringing him along. Not to mention my lesbian babysitter. I was a professional hustler by then and didn’t have the heart to love anyone. I wanted the money; cold hard ready dirty cash. Besides, any man who came into a strip club and expected a stripper to be faithful to him deserved to be strung along.

  That was my mentality.

  After two weeks Miguel began to act jealous and start fights with my regulars at the bar. That was a very big no-no for me. I explained to him that he wasn’t paying my bills and had no right to disrupt my business but he insisted I belonged to him and that he would kill any man who came near me. I told him to leave immediately but he flipped up my tray and threw a chair over. It turned out he was a crazy Ecuadoran and a practiced Tequila drinker. I had met my match.

  I really thought I had dated some weirdos in my day but this guy took the cake. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of him. I tried begging him in tears. It didn’t work. I tried telling him I had a disease. He didn’t care if he caught it from me. I lied and said a family member died and I needed time to grieve. But when he came into the club and saw me laughing that story died. I finally had to ask the men at the bar to help me get rid of him. They agreed and ganged up on him near his apartment and threatened him. He wasn’t affected by it all. He was impenetrable. He was a complete unmodified psycho. In fact, I called him “slasher” for short because he slashed not only my tires but any other person’s tires that came near me. He was relentless. After I refused to take his calls or speak to him anymore, he began to make death threats on a daily basis. I called the police to complain but when they asked me where I worked I hung up the phone. No cop was going to listen to a stripper.

  One night I borrowed a neighbor’s motorcycle to drive to work because the “slasher” had struck again and slashed all four of my tires. As I pulled out of the driveway and looked around carefully, there was no one around as I sped off to work. About five minutes later I heard the sounds of a revved up truck engine gaining on me and I knew it was him. I looked over my left shoulder and there was the psycho yelling at me out the window.

  “Pull over, Giovanna,” he called me by my stage name. “Pull over right now. I want to talk to you.” I ignored him. I kept driving forward hoping he would follow me all the way to the nearest police station. A second later I saw his Toyota truck veering into my lane and I figured it was to try and scare me but no, that psycho rammed his blue truck right into my motorcycle! I flipped up in the air and off the bike, landing in
a huge ivy bush.

  I hurt so badly but I didn’t care. Terrified, I got up and ran as fast as I could through backyards and bushes until I finally came to a lighted back porch. A man came out and saw the blood and bumps on me and called 911. The cops came and took a police report and my friend’s motorcycle got towed away to the junkyard.

  Great, I thought. My friend’s motorcycle was trashed.

  Miguel never caught me that night but he did give me some bruises and bumps to think about. I kept a low profile for a few days while my body healed. It gave me some time to think. I had to come up with a plan to get rid of him forever.

  A week had gone by and not a word from Miguel. I figured he was freaked out by the accident because he was probably drunk when he did it. Besides, there was a hit and run out on him and he was headed straight for jail. Or so I thought.

  He got arrested about a week later but it was thrown out of court. When a kind and courteous Miguel told the judge I was a stripper, it was all over for me. I stomped out of court in disbelief. I couldn’t believe the judge “judged” me like that. There was nothing I could say or do and I felt betrayed and hopeless.

  Friday night came along and it was my turn to clean up after closing time. I stacked up the dancers’ trays and wiped down the entire bar. I was really tired and couldn’t wait to go to bed. My friend Justin gave me a ride home that night and we stopped off to pick up my daughter Tiffany and my roommate at a friend’s house. It was about 2:45 a.m.

  As we walked toward our apartment I grabbed my keys and unlocked the front door. Exhausted from work, I didn’t notice the screen lying on the ground near my feet. When I opened the door I was shocked to see a man sitting on my couch with a knife. Miguel!