When I left her house the next afternoon, I felt an emotion I’d forgotten ever having experienced. I felt loved. I was smitten with this woman, and I wanted to be with her again. She gave me a sense of security that I never had with Jack. We were so in tune emotionally that we hardly even needed to speak. I was confused. Was I gay? Was I straight? Did I love her? Did I love Jack? Or was this all just some kind of afterglow from the sexual release? So many questions were spinning through my mind. But overall I was happy. I felt safe. And in my life, that was a rare thing.
Now, if only I knew her name.
I doubled back to her house and checked her mailbox. There was only a last name there: Parke. And it was unlocked. I reached in and checked one of the letters: Her name was Jennifer D. Parke. And, after that amazing night of lovemaking, Jennifer D. Parke and I were inseparable.
Every day after work, I went to her house and we talked for hours. Unlike the relationships I had been in before, the more time we spent together, the better the relationship became. She was incredibly good-hearted, and soon became equal parts lover, mother, and friend. On top of all of this, she had been a Penthouse Pet. I told her that I’d always wanted to be in magazines, and she promised that that she would make sure my time would come.
Though Jack had no idea what was going on—and to tell the truth, I had no idea what he was doing behind my back either—every girl at the Crazy Horse knew we were a couple. Jennifer and I would take breaks at the same time and meet each other in a bathroom stall. She was so loud that our relationship was no secret all over the club. When we walked out, we both had to reapply our makeup. If only the customers knew what was really going on behind the scenes.
Though it wasn’t obvious from her appearance, Jennifer was one of the most sexual girls I had ever met. She could come fifteen times in a single session, and always wanted to eat me out when I was on my period. She called it war paint. And she loved having oral sex in public places—cabs, casinos, restaurants, amusement parks. On our off days, we snuck into the pool at the Mirage and spread our towels in a secluded spot in the sun, where only the cabana boys could see us having sex.
A relationship with a woman is much different than with a man. There is a much stronger emotional connection between women; with a man, there is more of a power dynamic at work. Discussions between women seem less surface and shallow. But as deep as the connection between Jennifer and I became, I still couldn’t shake loose Jack’s psychological control over me. The more he pulled back, the more obsessed with him I became. Sometimes, when he wouldn’t come home for four days, I would sit in my house and cry, unable to go to the club or even see Jennifer. He would call me when he was fifteen minutes away from home, and I’d chew him out and tell him that our relationship was over and I was moving out. Sometimes I’d even have my bags packed. But as soon as he walked in the door, I melted. And he’d be nice to me for a day or two, and then turn into a total dick. Fortunately, for a while, I had Jennifer to go to.
Though Jack didn’t know about Jennifer, he was always hinting not so subtly about a threesome. There was a girl named Kirsten at work who I knew was interested in me. She was a cute brunette, but nothing special. So, mostly out of guilt over my shenanigans with Jennifer, I brought her home from work one night. The two of us had a few drinks in the kitchen with Jack, and then I led her to the bedroom. After we had been making out for half an hour, Jack jumped into bed naked. He ignored me completely and, within minutes, was fucking her. Three strokes later, he pulled out and started fucking me. But his dick had gone soft. I reached over and felt Kirsten’s pussy, and there was cum all over it. The asshole had gotten so excited that he had lost it in three strokes.
It hurt me so much, because it seemed like he was so much more excited over this plain girl than me. And he had cum with her—not me. I put on my clothes, and kicked her out of the house. I was furious. I cried for two weeks straight over the fact that he had paid almost no attention whatsoever to me in bed. And I think the experience ultimately ruined me for every man thereafter, because I never again brought a girl home for a guy I was dating.
Trying to juggle the emotional and physical whirlwind my life had become, I started snorting more meth to keep me going. I’d do it with Jack because it brought us closer together; I’d do it with Jennifer because, like most strippers, she liked to party; and I’d do it by myself just to stay awake. In my head, the borders were firmly drawn: snorting it was like coffee, a social lubricant and pick-me-up; smoking it, like Jack and some of his biker friends did, was for addicts.
Then there was my brother, Tony. Before puberty, we were inseparable. Because my dad was never around, he became my protector and would beat up anyone who even looked at me funny. And he was genius smart, in a Rain Man way. Even though he started getting into drugs, drinking, and fighting as a teenager, he was always in control and always my best friend. No matter what he did, he was my father’s pride and joy.
Tony.
Me, Tony, and Selena.
But as we grew older, I began to resent the relationship my brother had with my father, because I wanted to be that close to my dad. The more my father said, “Why can’t you be more like your brother,” the more I pulled away from Tony. He was out getting high and robbing people, and getting away with it. We remained friends, but we were never as close as when our world consisted of just the two of us and our invisible father.
The rift between us grew when he met a girl named Selena, who reminded me of myself in a way, because she was a good girl caught up in a bad crowd. After he moved into her trailer, he started hanging out with her Hell’s Angels friends. And their drug of choice also happened to be the stripper drug of choice: methamphetamine. First he was snorting, then he was smoking, and soon he was a full-on needle-using addict. When he came to visit Jack and me, he’d carry a doctor’s bag, slam it down on the little table in our kitchen, and pull out a bag of speed. He’d turn to me and ask, “Will you help me shoot up?”
And, loving sister that I am, my answer was always the same: “Hell no.”
“Then I’m just going to do it myself,” he’d say, and tie off and search for a vein. It would sometimes take him five minutes to find one in his arm or leg he could still use. Jack wanted me to smoke meth and my brother wanted me to shoot it up, but I thought I’d just snort it like a good girl. I didn’t want to end up like them: my brother was becoming paranoid and mean-spirited, with unpredictable mood swings and a violent temper. When he walked through the door, I never knew what to expect. Usually he’d think the cops were chasing him, and would look through the peephole all night long with his gun drawn, convinced that the police were coming to get him. At his worst, he’d swat at molecules of air as if they were attacking him.
One night, during one of Jack’s two-day disappearing acts, Tony stopped by and asked for a little meth just to keep him going until his dealer called. Jack hid his drugs in the cabinet beneath the sink, crammed into the bend in a pipe. I reached underneath, grabbed a fat bag of peanut-butter meth, and gave him a scoop.
“Will you shoot me up?”
“Hell no.”
I watched as he scanned his body, finally settling on a vein in his hand.
The next day, when I came back from the club, Jack had returned. And he was livid.
“What the fuck did you do with my meth?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked him.
“The big fucking bag I had under the sink!”
“I gave my brother a little scoop,” I confessed. “I’m sorry. It didn’t seem like much.”
“You dumb bitch,” he said, pushing me backward into the kitchen cabinets. “The whole fucking bag is gone. Your brother jacked you.”
I cut my brother off after that. I couldn’t believe he had sunk that low. I called Selena to tell her I was removing him from my life, and it turned out that he was stealing from her, too and squandering it all on injectables—coke, meth, heroin.
There was one more call I
had to make. And it was to a man I hadn’t spoken with in almost a year: my father. He hadn’t called once since I’d moved away. And I wasn’t surprised. Throughout my childhood, if there was ever a problem, he’d always act oblivious to it—and maybe he was—until I brought it up. If one of the many women passing through his life was acting psycho with Tony and me, he wouldn’t do anything about it until we said something. However, once we did, he’d always take our side, with no questions asked. For all his problems, it was reassuring to know that he was—in his own strange way—in our corner if we ever really needed him. And that is why I picked up the phone, even though I was angry that I was making the first move once again. That was supposed to be a father’s role, I thought.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Jenna,” I said.
“Hi, honey,” he said. Instead of being affectionate, the word “honey” sounded cold, drained of any sentiment and feeling.
“I’m calling to talk about Tony. He needs help.”
We spoke for ten minutes. And we talked only of Tony, and what steps my father could take to try to save the life Tony was throwing away. I told my dad that I couldn’t be responsible for Tony anymore, but if someone didn’t do something, he was going to end up dead or in prison. The conversation wasn’t at all like that of a father and a daughter, but more like that of a divorced couple discussing custody of their child.
“He’s out of control,” my dad said, “but I’ll do what I can to rein him in, even if it means hurting him in the short term. I can’t promise you that I’ll be successful, but I can promise to try my best.”
It hurt me so much to let go of my brother that day, because he was my last link to my family. Now all I had in the world were Jack and Jennifer.
Soon after, Jack came into the club with a friend of his named Lester, a dark-skinned, six-foot-tall biker who had just moved into town and was deep into the rockabilly scene. Lester had jet-black hair, greased and pushed back, and, just below it, a red bandanna wrapped around his head, so that just his eyes, set in perfectly tan skin, glittered mischievously underneath. His cocky smile let on that he wasn’t just a bad boy, he was a player.
I usually didn’t have much time for Jack when he came into the club, and he knew it. Ten minutes talking to him was two hundred fewer dollars in my purse. So when Jack and Lester came in, I didn’t even greet them. I was dancing at the time for Nicolas Cage, who was a regular. A lot of celebrities came into the club, though I never seemed to recognize them. People would tell me after I was through dancing for them.
“Did you know you were just dancing for Pantera?”
“Really, those assholes were Pantera?”
“Did you know you were just dancing for Jack Nicholson?”
“Really, that old weirdo was Jack Nicholson?”
“Did you know you were just dancing for Whitesnake?”
“Really, like I give a crap.”
“Did you know you were just dancing for David Lee Roth?”
“Yeah, what a letdown. I used to have wet dreams over him. But he was rude, irritating, and babbled incoherently the whole time. And my friend Carrie just left the club with him. I’ve lost all respect for both of them.”
Because he was a regular, Nicolas Cage was one of the few celebrities I recognized. I could usually smell him coming a mile away. He always had a funny stench, kind of like the distilled sweat of homeless people was lightly dabbed on the unshaven tangle of stubble on his neck. It mixed with the old leather smell of the beat-up jacket he always wore.
I loved dancing for him, because he was very respectful and a great listener, but I never quite knew why he bothered. No matter what I did, he never looked at me while I was dancing. So I took the opportunity to look around the club. I noticed that Jennifer was sitting with Jack and Lester. And Lester was leaning in to her, just chattering away, working her. It pissed me off, but there was nothing I could do. I was with a customer, and I wouldn’t stop working for anything.
When Jennifer told me the next week that she was seeing Lester, it nearly broke my heart. I couldn’t believe that she was dating a guy. And, even worse, it was one of Jack’s fucking friends. I went home and cried for hours. I consoled myself, though, by thinking that it was only fair since I was carrying on a relationship with Jack. I wasn’t giving all of myself to her, so it made sense that she’d find someone else to fulfill her needs as well.
Though Jennifer and I continued to see each other, I became nothing more than a distraction for when her boyfriend wasn’t around. With Jennifer and my family gone, I began to cling even more to Jack. Of course, the more dependent I was, the more I irritated him. And the more I could see that I irritated him, the more insecure I became. Before long, every part of my happiness, every part of my being, was entirely dependent on him. If he was nice to me one day, I was in the best mood ever. If he was mean, my heart ached so badly I could hardly leave my bed. I’m sure the meth didn’t help much either.
I really didn’t enjoy going to the Crazy Horse anymore. My days consisted of working, sleeping until four in the afternoon, running errands, and then returning to work. Stripping was no longer a challenge. I was the number-one girl there, and probably could have slept onstage and still had guys throwing money at me. And whenever I reach a point where I’ve succeeded and can’t go any farther, I want to do something else. So every time I went to the Crazy Horse, I felt I was throwing my life away. I didn’t want to end up like Opal. I was destined for better things, or at least that’s what my brother used to tell me.
Life has a funny way of surprising you. When you least expect something to happen, it does. The time, for example, when you look like shit and are too tired to go out, but your friends drag you to a club anyway—that’s the night you end up meeting the love of your life. And so it was that, after another fight with Jack, I was having a bad day at the Crazy Horse and my life changed.
I was wearing an armful of cheap bracelets—one-dollar rubber bands and dumb braided-string friendship bracelets; I had on a black straw cowboy hat, which I was wearing not just because it was cool back then (or at least I thought it was) but because it saved me the trouble of having to do my hair; a red tank top, like Bobbie Brown in the “Cherry Pie” video; and jeans I had cut into Daisy Dukes. I was dancing to the Eagles—only because it was smart to use music the guys there were familiar with—and working the men as usual for as much money as I could hustle. It wasn’t quite as much fun without Vanessa as a partner in crime, but at least Jennifer was there for moral support.
When I finished my feature dance, Jennifer was standing at the edge of the stage next to a thin, beautiful girl with long brown hair and big natural boobs. I assumed that the woman was a new dancer, and probably competition. She was hot, and seemed bright and experienced.
“Jenna?” the long-haired woman said. I pivoted to greet her.
“My name’s Julia Parton,” she said.
I recognized the name. Jennifer had talked about her. She was a highly photographed nude model, and was supposedly a distant cousin to Dolly Parton.
“I hear you’re interested in doing magazine work,” she said.
I didn’t know how to react. I just stared at her stupidly. Jennifer had been threatening to bring in a talent scout to take a look at me, but I didn’t think she’d do it without giving me advance notice.
“Well, I’m very good friends with Jennifer,” she continued, “and I would really love to do a test shoot and get you into Penthouse’’
Suddenly, the whole club seemed to fall silent. A blinding white light filled the room and a chorus of angels began to sing somewhere in the background.
I smiled beatifically, and then tripped over my tongue with enthusiasm. “When do we start? What should I wear? Do you want to call me, or should I call you?”
“I want you to start,” Julia said, “tomorrow.”
Suddenly, nothing seemed to matter: not Jack or Jennifer; not my brother, father, or mother; and not Preacher, Vanessa, or anyone else. My lif
e was about to start. Finally.
“Get some rest,” she said, “and I’ll call you at noon and tell you where we’re going to shoot.”
When I returned home that night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat down in the kitchen and tried to figure out what name I wanted to use. My birth name, Jenna Massoli, sounded too Godfather; it conjured up the visual of a fat woman cooking spaghetti while her husband comes home from a hard day spent fucking hotter, thinner women. Besides, if I used my real name, then guys would figure out where I lived and stalk me.
I could have used my stripper name, Jennasis, but it sounded too much like a sex-industry name. I didn’t want to have a porno name like Cherry Rain, Candy Floss, or Jenna Lynn (for some reason, everyone picks the last name Lynn). I knew I wanted my first and last initials to be the same, and I wanted it to sound like it wasn’t some made-up stage name.
I liked Jenna because I didn’t know anyone else with that name. So I grabbed the phone book from underneath the kitchen sink (no longer Jack’s meth hiding place of choice) and flipped to the J surnames. There was Jack (too close to home), Jacobson (too matronly), Jacoby (too lawyerlike), Jaffe (too Valley Girl), James (too common), and Jameson (too alcoholic). That was my first reaction. But as I thought about Jameson, I decided that I liked it. It was the name of a whiskey, and whiskey was rock and roll. Jenna Jameson, alcoholic, rock and roller. Right on. The name just stuck. I suppose if I were pickier I would have kept going through the J’s and ended up as Jenna Johnson or Jenna Justus or Jenna Juvenile Diabetes Foundation.
In retrospect, I’m surprised that I didn’t come up with a more flamboyant name, because that would have suited my personality at the time. But a part of me must have known that the photo shoot was a new beginning, a chance to make a real career for myself. Of course, back then I thought that career was modeling.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 6