But this time, my dad caught me. “I am going to go over there and kill that boy,” he raged. I burst into tears, called him every curse word I knew, and stomped up to my room. It felt like I’d been waiting my whole life to be swept off my feet, and now my dad was threatening to ruin it. He marched to Victor’s house, threw him against the wall, and told him to stay away from me. The next day Victor told me we had to stop seeing each other.
Fortunately, Victor’s fear was short-lived. Soon, he was pelting my window with rocks again. And so we started dating. At least, that’s what I thought it was. All that really happened was I would go over to his house after school, while my dad slept all day, and Victor would feed me alcohol and pot and see how far he could get with me. His room was the ultimate teenage pad. It was plastered with posters of girls; a Dixie flag was draped across the ceiling; his bed was on the floor; and his windows were covered with tinfoil, so that the room was always dark and black-lit. I had never been so obsessed with a boy and his world before.
I wasn’t fully developed yet, and I was very embarrassed by my boobs. They appeared so strained and misshapen, and one was bigger than the other. Their worst features were the nipples, because the areolas were so puffy they looked diseased. I refused to let even my girlfriends see them. But Victor worked and worked at it, employing every persuasive device in the arsenal of the male species, until he wore me down and I let him put his hands under my shirt.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “You have the most amazing boobs I’ve ever felt—in my entire life! You are going to have really big natural boobs when you’re older.”
“How can you tell?” I asked. They were just one step above mosquito bites.
“I can just tell,” he said, with the knowing air of an expert, which he probably was. For the following ten minutes, he praised them to the heavens until, finally, I whipped my shirt off. If he thought they were so great, he might as well see them.
Every time I saw Victor, we would make out until it felt like my lips were going to fall off. He’d shower me with compliments about how beautiful I was, which allowed me to slowly develop confidence in myself and my body. I would get so turned on by the way he talked about me that I’d leave a wet spot on his bed, right through my underwear and pants. The whole time his body was pressed against mine, he was so hard I imagined it leaving telltale bruises on my skin.
It took him several nights of constant pressure to talk me into putting my hand down his pants. I was so shocked to feel something like that. It was huge. I kept thinking, “Tree! Tree!” It took several days more before I had the courage to actually look at it.
After that, he talked me into licking just the end of it. And so, step by step, he begged and sweet-talked me into rubbing it for a minute and then licking it for ten seconds. The poor guy must have had such a painful case of blue balls every night.
Eventually, he had me licking and rubbing it at the same time. And then, one day, it happened. He came. I was freaked out. I wasn’t sure if that meant we had just had sex or what. He felt so bad about it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept apologizing. “I was trying to hold off. I couldn’t stop myself.”
But it didn’t gross me out at all: nothing Victor could have done would have grossed me out.
However, no matter how hot I got, I refused to have sex with him. I wanted to do it so badly, but I just couldn’t. And the main reason was because his penis was the size of a tree trunk. It was huge, even in comparison to the professional cocksmen I’ve been with since. I was afraid it was going to hurt me. The other problem was that I hadn’t had my period yet, and for some reason I had the idea fixed in my head that I couldn’t have sex until I was actually menstruating.
Eventually, he laid it on the line. “Listen,” he told me, “I’m eighteen years old and I have to have sex. You have your chance now: If you want to start having sex, then we can stay together. If you don’t, well …”
With my face red and streaked with tears, I told him I was sorry. I just couldn’t.
I was so distraught afterward that I didn’t go to school for two weeks. In a cruel twist of fate, my period started a month later. But by then, Victor was dating somebody else—a girl who probably put out. In my eyes, it was an innocent puppy-love experience, though I’m sure in his eyes he probably just wanted to pound me.
Three years later, I was in a bar and saw Victor across the room. He was on leave from the army. As soon as he said hi, a locked box inside my heart opened and the long-gone feelings I had for him flooded back through me. We turned into kids again, scrambling for a room to finish what we had started. But this time I was ready, or so I thought. It still hurt. I couldn’t walk normally for days afterward.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
Jenna: Acid was a good thing for me. I would drop acid on weekends with Tony because I thought I would never ever fall into the hardcore drugs. And during the week I was still a good girl at school. I was finding myself and everything was beautiful.
Tony: We got pretty crazy, though. Remember the time when we went to the Tropicana and dropped acid by the pool? We took the lawn chairs and tried to ski them down the fountains. And all the security guards came with guns in force. As soon as they let us go, we walked right into the hotel and wandered around looking at the carpet and the walls.
Jenna: How about the time when we did acid and you set me on fire? (All laugh)
Tony: Selena fired a bottle rocket into the back of your head. We were all frying on acid, and then she …
Jenna: I tripped over this rock …
Selena: … running. And the first thing I see is Jenna screaming, and her head is flaming. And she’s flying through the air, and when you’re watching that while you’re on a couple of hits, it’s … (All laugh)
Jenna: How about me being high and on fire? You can’t think to stop, drop, and roll.
Tony: Remember Puffensquish, that chick?
Jenna: She took so much acid that she would wander the streets in Vegas touching all the tar repairs on the cracks in the asphalt—puff and squish.
Tony: Yeah, and we used to go out in Mount Charleston and take acid and walk around in the snow. Everything looked like a gingerbread house with frosting.
Jenna: Oh it was soooo …
Tony: Weird.
Jenna: … beautiful.
Larry: The first time I ever did acid was with you both in Mount Charleston. We were all sitting there laughing, and I had excluded this girl who was with me. Jenna said to me, “Look up.” There was this huge pink ceiling with stars and stuff. And I looked up and the whole world went zooom, and we were gone. We were gone.
Jenna: My dad was cool enough to say “cool.”
Tony: He came up in the Rat Pack era of the sixties, and for them drugs were cocaine or drinking. He didn’t realize he was about to be propelled into another universe. (Laughs)
Larry: You know, the incident that sticks with me is when we were at the corporate apartment and we did coke. I did it with you, and you looked at Tony and said, “Go, Dad.”
Jenna: Get down with your bad self, Dad.
Larry: That’s exactly what you said. I will never forget that. I completely reversed myself from being the self-righteous stupid ass that I was to a psycho.
Tony: Remember when I was dealing coke, and Grandma stole an eight-ball?
Larry: My mother stole an eightball?
Tony: She would hide them in her coat pockets and sneak off to do them. Remember, she was usually as mean as a snake, but all of a sudden we were like, “Why is Grandma being so nice?”
Larry: You know what? I don’t miss any drug. But the only drug I ever liked was crank. It’s the best drug on the planet, but smoking it. Not sniffing it.
Jenna: When did you smoke crank?
Larry: When I was managing the strip club. I did just enough to stay high all day.
Jenna: Well, that’s every five minutes.
Larry: No, it would last me a good two hours. T
his little girl at the club had an unlimited supply. I would take a baggy and smoke it all night long.
Tony: To someone who really does drugs, smoking crank or snorting crank is wasting it. If you want to get high, you shoot up.
Larry: I never wanted to do that. I loved the fact that I could control how many hits I had, so I could stay at that perfect level.
Tony: You can do that by banging it also.
Larry: Really?
Tony: You can control your exact high. You can feel all day, or you can be tuned completely to the gills.
Larry: Interesting.
BOYS #4
Name: Cliff
Age: 19
Location: Las Vegas
Status: Neighborhood rich kid
Boundary Crossed: Intercourse
My first period brought with it a whole new set of problems. One was that I still had my hymen. It was a thin, flat layer of flesh completely blocking my opening, making it impossible to use tampons. I would push at it until it hurt, but it still wouldn’t give way. I even called my dad’s ex, Vivian, but she was also stumped.
The other problem was that new kinds of hormones began to surge through my body, impairing all mental functioning. I walked around with a constant craving to be penetrated.
I had met some older boys in the neighborhood who were having a party, so I decided to try my luck there and see if I could solve two problems with one man. I saved my money and bought a slinky black tube dress, which I wore with black stockings. Then I called my best friends and we pooled our money, rented a limo, and went out to celebrate the loss of my virginity before the fact.
Thanks to the memory of my grandmother’s coffee-table wipeout, I wasn’t a big drinker. But I made an exception for this special occasion. I downed seven tequila shots over the course of the night and tried to act like the sexpot I thought I looked like. The target of my lust was the leader of the pack, Cliff, a rich pretty boy who had recently wrapped his dad’s Porsche around a tree. I was only fifteen and a half, but I was finally starting to fill out, so I felt like the star of the whole party.
All night long Cliff worked me—teasing me, feeding me shots, telling me how beautiful I was, leaving his hand on my waist a little too long. Eventually, he led me to the bathroom. He pinned me against the wall, and we started making out.
His hands were all over my body—squeezing my breasts, my hips, my ass. He grabbed my stockings around the thigh and ripped a huge hole. Then he pushed me backward onto the toilet, lifted my dress, and started eating me out.
He stood up, unzipped his pants, and began a difficult balancing act. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall, lowered his penis into range with the other hand, and poked at my leg, trying to maneuver through the hole in my stocking. It was all happening too fast. That’s when I realized: This was it. I was going to lose my virginity forever to this drunk homing missile. My next thought was, “This isn’t right. I can’t do this.”
I started to panic. The word began building in my head before it exploded out of my mouth in a short, sharp scream: “Stop!”
He jumped back, shocked, and then testily zipped up. When we walked out of the bathroom, all my friends were gone. They had taken the limo and left me, assuming I was getting what I had gone there for. Now I was stuck. I had planned to sleep over at a friend’s house. But I couldn’t just show up at her place and wake her parents. And I couldn’t call my dad to pick me up at a party full of college-age guys. Besides, I was wasted.
So I drank a little more, considered my plight, and then asked Cliff to drive me home.
“Sure,” he said. “No problem. Jeff can give you a lift.”
We climbed into the backseat of his friend’s truck and made out the whole ride. I loved every moment, because it felt like I was being accepted and initiated into this cool adult world. Now I know better.
When the truck stopped and we got out, we weren’t at my house at all. We were in front of Cliff’s. “You can stay in my brother’s bed,” he said. “He’s out of town.”
By then, the last two shots of tequila had kicked in. I was not only too trashed to complain coherently, but too trashed to walk. I kept collapsing on his lawn and slurring gibberish. He picked me up and carried me inside. I shut my eyes until I heard a deep gurgle. He had dropped me onto a cheap, black lacquer waterbed. I looked at the sheets: they were a hideous collage of red and blue stars. Even though I was shit-faced, I remember thinking how disgusting his bed was. I just wasn’t in the mood anymore. He kissed me. I was grossed out. And that’s the last thing I remember.
When I woke up, I was completely naked. I looked down at my body and saw a huge pool of blood.
“Oh my God,” I thought. “That bastard stabbed me.”
It was so eerily still in the room, with Cliff sleeping noiselessly, I thought for a moment that I was dead. Then I realized what had happened.
I grabbed a scratchy wool blanket at the foot of his bed and gently lifted myself up, trying not to create a wave large enough to wake him. The only decoration in the room was a poster of a woman in ripped jeans with ultra-green eyes and cut-off jeans. The first thing I wanted to do was not to run out of the house screaming, but to check and see if my objective had at least been accomplished.
I crept into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Dried blood streaked down my legs to below my knees. When I tinkled, it stung so badly my body curled like a burning strip of paper. Afterward, I tentatively put a finger inside. There was no resistance. I pushed it in further and felt, for the first time, my cervix. Was I upset at having been fucked while passed out? Hell no. I was ecstatic: my hymen was gone. And it must have been quite a feat for valiant Cliff because, judging by the blood everywhere, it was a pretty strong membrane.
Not having had a mother figure in my life, the thought that this was a textbook case of date rape never even crossed my mind. I thought it was a good thing, the start of a new life. And, like an idiot, I fell in love with the guy who had ignominiously given me this new life.
So we started dating. The next time I was in his bedroom, I asked about the poster of the gorgeous woman with the colorized green eyes. He said it was Traci Lords. I had no idea who she was. I just knew I wanted to be that gorgeous.
Once I had conscious sex with Cliff for the first time, I was a convert. I loved it. It was all I thought about. I would call him every night, begging him to come over and take me into the bushes behind my house and fuck. I don’t know what was going on in my body: My hormones were having a fucking party. Seven times a day was not enough. The most unexpected side effect was that I started having mother pains: an intense desire to have a baby overwhelmed me. Even at the time, I understood that it was a normal, evolutionary instinct—that’s what sex is for, after all—and was able to repress it as I acted out my innocent, seemingly unquenchable desires.
But one night when Cliff and I had plans, he didn’t show up. I called, and no one answered the phone. So I decided to drop by his house. I buzzed the bell; nobody answered. However, the door was unlocked, so I walked in. I climbed the stairs to his bedroom and pushed open the door. And there he was, in bed with another girl—a girl I knew.
I looked at them. They looked at me. No one spoke a word. I just turned around, shut the door behind me, left the house, and vowed to get revenge. I wasn’t hurt, because the love I felt for him was an illusion anyway. I just regretted having lost my virginity to this asshole, and wished that my period had come a month earlier so I could have lost it to a guy I actually cared about.
The second I returned home, the phone was ringing. It was Cliff, groveling, telling me that he was so sorry and I was his girl and he loved me. I was completely over him.
Three weeks later, I went to a party at his house. There were about two hundred people there, including his best friend, Owen, a blond, six-foot-four-inch gymnast and surfer. I had a thing for surfer boys, but I didn’t want to have sex with him because he had a reputation for having a really big dick. So,
after I prepared with the usual shots of tequila, I took Owen by the hand and dragged him into Cliff’s bedroom. We rolled around on the waterbed, making out.
Before Cliff, everything I had ever done—every piece of myself I had ever given a man—was because it was something I had wanted to do with someone I felt an emotional connection to. But now that he had hurt me, it was on. Sexuality became a tool for so much more than just connecting with a boy I was attracted to. I realized it could serve any purpose I needed. It was a weapon I could exploit mercilessly. So, just to mess with Cliff, I continued to see Owen.
Cliff picked a fight with Owen a few days later, but since Owen had a good fifty pounds and six inches on him, he pretty much squished Cliff. Not long afterward, Cliff went off the deep end: he got addicted to drugs and ended up in prison for dealing.
As for Owen, even though we dated, I never actually had sex with him. There was no way that was going to happen: his thing was so thick it took two hands to encircle and so long it stretched past his belly button.
Somehow, I’ve always ended up dating guys with big dicks. I guess I have a radar for them.
Jenna: I remember when Tony was so deep into his drug use. It was probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.
Tony: I used to walk around with a doctor’s bag.
Jenna: I’ve never seen anybody that fucked up. He used to carry a ball-peen hammer in his back pocket and would use it.
Tony: Anyone that would piss me off, I’d hit them with that hammer.
Jenna: You were into the whole motorcycle, body-piercing scene.
Tony: Hanging out with Hell’s Angels, robbing people.
Jenna: I remember at Taco Bell one time when you bashed someone’s window out.
Tony: That was another situation. That was Mike and I. We were making fun of these guys on the CB one day, and they tracked us down and started throwing rocks at our car. They all had pipes and bats. So Mike and I came out with our guns and said, “Drop your weapons.” One guy dropped the lead pipe and the other guy turned and ran. Mike chased him across the street into the 7-11, shooting at his back.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 17