Truth Behind the Fantasy of Porn

by Shelley Lubben

That was it for me. He had pushed me over the edge and into insanity. Later that day I called up Justin and we devised an evil plan. Justin loved me and would have done anything for me. And he did.

  Everything was set. Justin waited in the parking lot while I stood outside of a restaurant near my home. Miguel took the bait and showed up thirty minutes after me. I knew he couldn’t show up earlier than that because he was married with kids. I would have told his wife about our “psycho” affair but I always felt sorry for the kids. But not tonight, I thought. I didn’t care if those kids ever saw their father again.

  Miguel suspected I was up to something and guarded everything he said or did. He was extremely smart, when he was sober. So I suggested we do shots of Tequila for “old times’ sake.”

  I gently explained to him how I wanted the fighting to end as I softly laid my hand on his. I knew I could melt his heart. I also knew he was carrying a gun. We drank about ten shots together, or at least he did. I gulped my shot back and threw each one behind my ear. While he got drunk I slipped a bag of “extra” cocaine into his pocket. I knew he dabbled in cocaine and hoped he still had some in his system.

  After an hour or so I asked him if I could use the restroom. He argued I was trying to set him up and I insisted I really had to go. I walked around the corner and found the nearest payphone and called 911.

  “Please help me. I’m being held hostage at a bar by a man with a gun. We’re sitting in the booth near the front door,” I cried on the phone.

  Ten minutes later the cops busted in and searched Miguel and found a gun on him and a little bag of cocaine in his right pocket. Miguel’s eyes fumed into mine as they handcuffed him and placed him under arrest. After a few minutes I walked by the cop car and smiled at Miguel through the glass dangling his truck keys in front him. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention I stole those out of his jacket pocket.

  Miguel was arrested and charged with carrying a concealed weapon and drug possession and sentenced to one month in jail. While he rotted behind county bars, I happily rode off in his 4x4 truck to enjoy the sandy beaches in Ensenada, Mexico.

  Two weeks later I returned Miguel’s sandy truck to the Los Angeles County Jail parking lot and left his keys and a good riddance note on the front tire.

  Go to hell, psycho, I thought to myself as I adjusted my rear view mirror. A sense of evil staring back at me, I noticed a slight smile tugging at my lips.

  Hmmm, was that a psycho on my face?

  VIII

  Admit One

  Psycho Stripper

  Chapter Eight

  I became a bona fide insane sexual psychopath.

  A survivor of years of verbal and physical abuse from men, unwanted pregnancies, drugs and alcohol, homelessness, near death experiences, attempted rapes, a daring escape from Mexico and as of late, a psycho boyfriend, I had completely lost my mind and heart to the soul sucking sex industry. Any last piece of “Shelley” that was left was my stubborn will to survive.

  I continued the vicious cycle of sex work and tried my luck again in Hollywood. I was burned out from the crazy Hispanic environment of flying beer bottles and Mariachi mamas so I attempted to settle down into the dull boring world of sleazy white men.

  Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood was called “The Strip” for more than a few reasons. Besides being the most famous street for rock and roll clubs, rocker restaurants and the rock walk, Sunset was also known for its beautiful strippers: hot, long-legged sexy blonde strippers. I hated working there.

  First of all, I didn’t have big boobs. I was a natural “B” cup while every woman around me was at least a “D” cup. Natural or not, boobs mattered to men, especially white men. Mexican men were more attracted to personality, looks and performance, although a curved backside was a plus.

  But white men didn’t like me very much. I was a crazy white girl who wanted to dance, not some floozy who put on a ten-dollar peep show. I couldn’t stand still long enough to give anyone a peep show. Okay, sure, I gave customers a little peek-a-boo at my privates once in a while for the right amount of cash, but other than that I was an “interpretive” dancer, not a floor whore.

  Denial enters.

  The strip clubs in Hollywood were worse than prostitution as far as I was concerned. Seedy and quiet, sleazy cheap men hung dollar bills over the side of the stage to get a worm’s-eye view of a naked woman spreading her legs. To make things worse, women wrapped their exposed bodies around stripper poles with God knows how many vaginal fluids we all had to share!

  Yuck!

  I just couldn’t stomach the Hollywood strip clubs. They were dirty, sleazy and a breeding ground for disease. Not to mention, the competition was stiffer than the drinks. Hollywood blonde hopefuls lined up at the bar every night with their long beautiful hair and large breasts. There was no way to make money, especially on a Friday night when fifty girls showed up to work. I was lucky if I even danced one set before the night was over. In order to make money in these clubs, girls had to be absolutely gorgeous or hustle drinks, offer peeks at their privates and give a hand job or two where applicable. No, the Hollywood strip clubs weren’t for me. I might as well go back to prostitution if I was going to put on peep shows for dollar bills. What other choice did I have?

  Frustrated, I walked by a newspaper stand one day and saw the LA Xpress paper through the glass. A plethora of sexy ads, I browsed through hundreds of women offering massage, private dances, companionship and more.

  Hmmm, it was so tempting, I thought.

  The low voice interrupted my thoughts, “and the men would come to you and you wouldn’t have to work as hard. You would have more freedom.”

  I argued back in my head, “yeah, but it’s extremely illegal. I could go to prison for running a prostitution house.”

  The small voice overrode mine, “but you’re too smart to get busted. You’ve never been caught before, Shelley.”

  So I agreed with the voice, whoever it was. I was so crazy and intoxicated most of the time I didn’t even notice when I was talking to myself.

  The following month I got an 800 number and worked up the nerve to go down to the LA Xpress building on La Brea where I submitted an ad with a huge picture of me and some girl fondling each other. Oh yeah, I thought. My ad was definitely going to get noticed.

  And I was right. My phone was ringing off the hook.

  “Hello,” I answered in a sexy voice. A man on the other end, I spoke softly to him, “Why thank you. Yes, of course you can have two girls. Yes, it’s $300 an hour per girl. Sure, sweetie, we can do that. I can’t wait to meet you either.”

  By now I was a proven hustler.

  I was also a raging alcoholic, drug user, horrible mother and suicidal. Sure, I was good at hiding it because I had built up powerful defense mechanisms over the years. I was an expert at denial. I was also a nineteen-year veteran liar fluent in English and Spanish, not to mention some Italian, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese and whatever other languages the hundreds of men I slept with spoke. Oh yeah, I made my rounds. I was a hooker in Los Angeles, home to one of the largest multi-ethnic populations in the world, where I became an expert in matters of culture, drugs, nightlife, prostitution and men.

  In fact, I became more of a counselor to men at the end of my career than an actual prostitute. I listened for 45 minutes while they bashed their wives or complained about their bosses and then I gave them advice and stuck my hand out for payment. I admit I was the last person who should have given advice but remember, I was in denial.

  I lived a crazy, indecent, unsanitary, indescribable life. Jack Daniels regularly in my veins, one of the craziest things I ever did was drive topless during the day with the convertible top down. When a cop pulled me over in my red Miata for drunk driving, I performed the “walk-and-turn” DUI test perfectly. I was a stripper for crying out loud. When he proceeded to test my motor skill abilities, I blurted out the alphabet backwards faster than any human being alive. I thought I was invincible. And I was out to prove it t
o the world.

  Until one fateful night, when I was finishing up a shopping day with a sugar daddy, and saw cop cars all around my apartment building. I knew they were for me. I instructed my sugar daddy (slave) to do exactly as I said and to pretend to be my husband and that Tiffany was our daughter.

  We approached my apartment cautiously and blamelessly, of course. I was a married woman now with child. I had to play the part.

  “Hello, excuse me, officer, what is going on?” I humbly asked as I entered my apartment.

  “Ma’am, are you the occupant of this apartment?”

  “Yes, sir, my husband, my daughter and I live here,” I said as I gracefully stepped onto the front door mat. “I don’t understand, officer, is there something wrong?” I leaned in closer with a sincere look of concern.

  “Ma’am, do you run a massage agency here?” the cop asked me straight out.

  Damn, I thought. I immediately responded. “Of course not. Why would you ask us that?”

  “Well, there’s a girl upstairs who was tied and raped at gunpoint in your bed and she claims you run a massage agency here.”

  That stupid bitch, I cursed in my mind. She was going to get me busted!

  But filled with the will to see the sun rise again, I explained to the kind officer that my husband and I were embarrassed but we picked up the young woman at a strip bar the night before when she explained to us she had nowhere to stay. It was only supposed to be for the night, we told the officer. Luckily, he believed my story but I never wanted to live that close to the edge again. So I stopped taking calls for a while.

  Maybe I’ll go back to the strip club, I thought.

  And the vicious cycle repeated itself.

  History also repeated itself. I ended right back at the first strip club I auditioned at when I was seventeen years old. In the 80s it was called, “Top Hat” but the club changed owners and now the flashing sign read, “Illusions”.

  How ironic, I thought as I stood there beneath the sign. My life had become the greatest illusion on earth where I performed the same horrible act over and over again.

  A trained seal, I walked through the familiar red curtained entrance into the strip club circus to perform my final act.

  IX

  Admit One

  Death Defying

  Chapter Nine

  There was never a time for me to check out. It was 1992 and I was still stuck in the sex industry. A lovely face in an ugly place, I could never fix the broken record of my life’s song, “Hotel California.” Every time the DJ played that song, which was every night, I was slapped in the face with the harsh reality:

  I was stuck in the sex industry and there was no way out.

  No matter how hard I cried or how many times I prayed through the years, God didn’t answer. I must have been utterly unforgivable, I thought.

  With no ability to care about myself or anything else, I continued my death-defying act at Illusions strip club. With a Jack and Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I danced my heart, mind and health away. My condition was worsening and I could barely stand up straight some nights. Customers saw me falling apart but they ignored my pain and continued to contribute to my demise.

  “Giovanna, whadda ya drinking?”

  “Jack and Coke,” I replied and pulled out a cigarette.

  Men didn’t care about me. They only cared if the object I had become was fueled regularly for performance.

  I guzzled my drink down.

  “Another drink, Giovanni?” asked a burly voice.

  “Sure,” I said as I wiped my mouth and slid my glass across the bar. “Thanks, babe.” I turned around into my familiar dark surroundings to seek out my next naive victim. It was a Friday night and self-seeking married men were everywhere. The shiny reflections of their wedding rings reinforced the bitter truth I held so dearly: men could never ever be trusted.

  With money on my mind and alcohol on my brain, I heard my name over the loudspeaker.

  “Hey Gents, let’s give a nice sexy warm welcome for one of our hottest dancers, Geeeeoooovanni!”

  It was my turn to dance. The final week for this month’s hottest dancer contest, I was sure I would win. Although I had won second or third a couple times in the past, I never failed to place. It was unthinkable. I was damn good and I knew it.

  Dom dom da, da diga dom dada. Dom dom da, da diga dom dada.

  The beat of the music summoned me and I felt my body crumble under the hot red lights. As I began to roll around the floor like a wild animal in heat, every man’s eyes were on me. The devilish beats as my guide, I slithered across the floor towards my victims and seduced them, every single one of them.

  “Wanting. Needing. Waiting, for you, to justify my love.”

  Madonna’s illustrious sex song ended. Nobody made a sound. There was no applause. They knew they had been placed under a spell and there was no way out. Full of a lust for power, I effortlessly walked off the stage toward the bar to suck on another drink.

  “Jack and Coke,” I said as I puffed on my cigarette with a curved smile. I was so entirely arrogant. That’s why when they announced the winner and it wasn’t me, I was mortified.

  “What???” I turned my head. I couldn’t believe it. The judges picked Mina, the short fat Latin girl. Tears of frustration and rejection filled my eyes and I ran to the bathroom. My lesbian roommate tried to talk to me through the door but I didn’t want to listen anymore. I was done. I hated my life so much that if I couldn’t even win a dance contest anymore, I was going to end it.

  Later that night I went home and recklessly searched for any and all prescription pills I could get my hands on. Hormone pills, stomach medicines, Tylenol, sleeping pills, mixed with alcohol and meth amphetamine, I was dead serious about killing myself.

  “Do it, Shelley. Nobody cares. Nobody loves you. Do it!” pleaded the sinister voice.

  The voice was right. Nobody loved me. Nobody cared about me. I was a throw-away person that nobody wanted. Six long years of living daily in pain and suffering, I was done. I swallowed the handfuls of pills with gulps of Bacardi and laid back on my soft white comforter. It was just a matter of time, I hoped. In tears, I whispered sweet good-byes to my daughter Tiffany.

  “Mommy loves you. I’m sorry I was such a bad mommy. Someone will come to take care of you. Don’t worrrr…” I passed out.

  Thirty minutes later I felt someone shaking me. I opened my eyes and saw little creatures running up and down my curtains. My head was pounding and I felt a terrible buzzing in my teeth. Suddenly a horrific image of an Asian faced slug creature with huge long fangs appeared next to me with hordes of little black demons chomping on its flesh. I was completely out of my mind. My girlfriend dragged me to the car and rushed me to the hospital where they pumped my stomach out.

  Several hours later I woke up with a very sore throat staring at the same little creatures I saw on my curtains.

  A woman walked in with a notepad and started asking me questions. I answered her:

  “No, I am not suicidal.”

  “Yes, I have a daughter.”

  “No, I did not try to kill myself. I think someone slipped drugs into my drink.”

  Liar.

  I left the hospital later that day pissed off that I didn’t die. Why the hell did God let me live? What, so I can survive another day in a hell-hole?

  Back to performing the same horrible act, I rotted away in the strip club for several more months until I met Samantha, from Hollywood. She was a witchy looking woman with dark brown hair and sensuous red lips. I noticed her staring at me out of the corner of her eye. When I finished my set and walked off the stage, she motioned me to come over to her.

  “You are such a hot dancer,” she whispered into my ear.

  That night we spent several hours talking and drinking together. She was a bi-sexual woman and was interested in money as much as she was sex with women. I told her how sick I was of the strip club and how prostitution almost killed
me. She told me she knew a better and safer way to make money, and that it was legal.

  Porn?

  “Yeah, and you can make $2,000 a movie.”

  “Wow.” I sat back and sipped on my Jack Daniels. That was a lot of money for a suicidal single mother who was burned out from strip clubs and prostitution.

  “That is hell a lot of money,” resonated the low voice.

  So I hung up my stripper boots, flew to Utah to get breast implants and bravely entered into the world of porn where I performed my greatest flea circus act yet: Roxy, the porn star.

  Admit One

  act III

  Meet Roxy the Porn Star

  X

  Admit One

  Roxy’s Revenge

  Chapter Ten

  “Oh, yeah,” I moaned as a blonde woman I’d never met before groped my body and licked my face. I was so full of shit. By now I was a proficient liar.

  I was also liquored up and scared stiff. I’ll never forget the day I performed in my first amateur porn scene. Dressed in a white leather mini-skirt with bleached blonde hair, I pushed open two red doors and entered into a pitch black room filled with smoke. Overwhelmed by a feeling that I was walking into something more than just a little sex in front of a camera, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  Oh, God, I thought. What the hell am I getting myself into?

  I could barely see a man in the back waving me to come over to him. My eyes were fixed on the well-lighted corner where I saw a camera with a wide angle lens staring at a sexy purple couch and a box of Baby Wipes.

  Gulp.

  I couldn’t shake the “dark” feeling all around me. Everything felt wrong. I tried to turn back but something powerful drew me in. A man’s loud voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hey, are you the Blonde sent over by Samantha?”