How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale

by Jameson, Jenna

  I looked down at myself. My clothing was shredded and stained with big red blotches. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there. My exposed flesh was covered with welts, crusted with dried blood, and dotted with mosquito bites. I knew instantly what had happened: They had gangraped me and left me for dead. I tried to push the thought out of my mind. I couldn’t allow myself to dwell on it. I needed to get home.

  There was no sign of civilization in sight. I would have to walk. I knew that the football game had been east of my house. So I looked up at the waning sun. My right eye was so swollen that I could only see through the other eye. I followed the path in the general direction of the sun for half an hour until I reached the main road. I was about five more miles from home. I walked fifty yards off to the side of the main road whenever I could, so that no one would see me. I thought that if anyone pulled over and found out what had happened, I’d be put in a foster home.

  As I trudged forward, there were two thoughts on my mind: What if the guys come by again and see me, and what do I tell my dad?

  “Jesus, honey, what happened to you?” my dad asked when I finally stumbled through our front door.

  “I got in a fight with a girl from school,” I told him.

  Without waiting for his response, I made a beeline for my room. When I looked in the mirror, I burst out crying. I wasn’t supposed to have lived through this. It was clear.

  The guys must have planned everything in advance, because the whole time I was conscious, there wasn’t a word about it exchanged between them. I wondered how many other girls they had done this to. But I didn’t tell anyone. To this day, my dad doesn’t know what happened. No one knows. I should have at least called the police. I wanted those guys to pay for what they’d done, but if I told my brother or father, they’d kill those guys. And then my brother and father would be in jail and I’d lose them forever. Ultimately, I cared more about my family than my well-being.

  I needed to shut it out of my mind forever so that I could try to go on living like a normal girl. It was all just another test that I had to deal with on my own. I was angry. But more than that, after everything else I had endured in that town, I was broken.

  I didn’t leave the house or speak to anyone for days afterward. I constantly lost my temper, and would trash my room for no reason. My dad thought I was just having problems at school. So when the principal called and threatened to put me in a foster home for being truant, I snapped. This town was going to destroy me, body and soul. That was when I marched into school and channeled all my anger and frustration into the head of the girl who bullied me the most, slamming a locker door on her skull. It was pure catharsis. I left the building afterward, and never looked back. To hell with Fromberg.

  When we returned to Las Vegas, I left that whole part of me in Montana. With Preacher, at least I had been able to fight back. It impacted me in a different way, because the man I thought I loved was so complacent about it. But ultimately it was easier for me to get over, because I hadn’t been as powerless—by and large, I had stopped him short. I’m sure a lot of other girls weren’t able to fight him off. But the Montana thing was such a brutal, horrible experience, and I was powerless to protect myself. If I could have one memory erased, it would be that one.

  It had only flashed through my consciousness a couple times since then, but Howard’s question—I’d never been asked anything so direct—brought the images flooding back. I understood what he was trying to get at. The question had crossed my mind before: Was I in this business because I was victimized or because I wanted to succeed at something? I examined it from every angle I could, and every time came to the same conclusion: that it didn’t make a shred of difference. It occurred too late in my development to be formative. Whether it happened or not, I still would have become a porn star. I’ve been to enough therapists to know that.

  I’ve never told anyone about either the Montana experience or the one with Preacher because I don’t want to be thought of as a victim. I want to be judged by who I am as a person, not by what happened to me. In fact, all the bad things have only contributed to my confidence and sense of self, because I survived them and became a better and stronger person for it.

  Nearly everyone has some sort of skeleton of their own or their family’s hidden in the closet. There are people who have suffered terrible abuse and grown up to be lawyers and doctors with stable families. Others suffered some small indignation and turned into violent sociopaths. Ultimately, what really matters is not just the experiences you have at a young age, but whether or not you are equipped—by your parents, by your genetics, by your education—to survive and deal with them.

  “No,” I told Howard in answer to his question. I lied like a rug. I wasn’t ready to tell anybody about any of this, and I certainly wasn’t ready to deal with Howard’s reaction. I didn’t want anyone to think that I was in the business because I was a victim. It was a choice I had made on my own, and was proud of.

  Fortunately, Howard soon moved on to easier subjects. “I want to go out with you so bad,” he said, his eyes never leaving my body once throughout the show. “Please date me. I’ll pay you to date me.”

  I realized that a lot of what Howard does is an act also. On the air, he pretended to be horrified when he saw the dragon tattoo on my neck. “That’s the ugliest tattoo I ever saw,” he scolded. “It is ugly. You are really a psycho.”

  But during the break, he asked if he could see it again. “That’s really cool,” he said. Instantly, I knew we were alike: we both had fronts we presented to the world. Years later, he even got a tattoo himself.

  During the show, Howard invited me to a party for his staff at Scores that afternoon. When Joy and I were in the green room afterward, Gary Dell’Abate, the show’s producer, walked in to make sure we were coming. They had rented out the entire strip club.

  At Scores, Gary handed us two thousand dollars each in funny money to tip strippers and buy champagne. Joy and I were the only people there who didn’t actually work on the show, outside of about thirty strippers. Because the club was closed, there seemed to be no limit on what they would do.

  After an hour or two, Fred Norris, the show’s engineer and cowriter, came over and said Howard was looking for me. When I found him, he was surrounded by girls. They were all over him but he wasn’t grabbing them or mauling them. He kept telling them to stop if they started going too far. Instantly, I realized this was a guy who had his shit together and really did love his wife. And that made him more attractive to me.

  When I sat next to Howard, he said, “I was telling these girls that you can probably give a better lap dance than them.”

  His instinct was correct. I had certainly racked up enough experience in the art at the Crazy Horse Too. But I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to grind on Howard since I was representing Wicked. I looked over at Joy. She had six strippers crawling all over her—I figured I was in the clear. I then proceeded to give Howard what must have been the best lap dance of his life. He was speechless for once. When I straddled his lap, I was shocked. All that talk about how he had a small dick was just an act too. I could feel it through his pants: The thing was huge.

  After the lap dance, Joy and I left the club. A limo was waiting outside to take us to the New Jersey photo shoot. We were nine champagnes into the afternoon and dreading it.

  As I sat there in the limo, thinking over the events of the day, I was elated. Not only had I aced the interview, but I had befriended Howard and his whole staff. I knew I could get on that show whenever I wanted now. And, more importantly, I knew Steve would be proud of me. I’d even squeezed in the promotional plug for Blue Movie that he wanted. I had finally taken the first steps down the path I promised Steve I’d be on. When I told him that I was going to be a superstar, I didn’t know if I could really do it. And, sure, this was just Howard Stern: Any hot girl could get on the show—and get humiliated. But I had aced it, and they loved me.

  With Joy King (left) and
Sydnee Steele.

  On the red carpet in Cannes.

  I did a lot of thinking as I flew to Cannes. Thanks to my scene with T.T. Boy, I had been nominated for the top awards at the Hot D’Or Awards, the biggest adult-film event in Europe, which coincided with the Cannes Film Festival and a convention for foreign buyers of adult movies. Between this and Howard Stern, I realized that I really had a life now. I was no longer just dabbling in the adult world for money or something to do. This was my identity and career. I would be representing Wicked and myself at the biggest film festival in the world. And nobody really knew yet who I was or where I came from. I could get off the plane and be anyone I wanted. I could be an untouchable icon, a slutty party girl, an uptight prude with a dark side, or the living embodiment of the fantasies of every male in the western world—and some of the females, too.

  I was twenty-one years old and finally beginning to get comfortable with myself. My boyfriend, Steven St. Croix, had absolutely no control over me; neither did Steve Orenstein or my dad or Joy King or anyone. I was my own person, and every one of those people believed in me. Cannes was going to be the start to my new life.

  Steve Orenstein and Joy were with me. I had lost my passport the day before we were supposed to leave, so Steve had taken me to get a new one. Afterward, I spent twenty-four hours packing ten suitcases, because I knew Cannes was a big deal and I wanted to be prepared for anything. They were bringing over two other girls, Juli Ashton (a former high school Spanish teacher) and Kaylan Nicole (the reigning queen of anal at the time), both of whom were more experienced and popular than I was. As catty as it sounds, I wanted nothing more than to prove myself over these chicks. But it was going to be hard, because I was trying to learn from them at the same time. They had realized that with their beauty, boobs, and status, the rules that applied to the rest of the world didn’t apply to them. They had the attitude that they could do absolutely anything they wanted. (Little did I know that this would be Kaylan’s last trip to Cannes: soon after, she quit the business, denounced porn, and became a Sunday school teacher; Juli went on to host Playboy Night Calls.)

  On the flight, they ordered drink after drink, traipsed around the plane like it was their living room, and acted openly sexual with each other, much to the excitement and consternation of the male passengers. Even though I’d been in lesbian relationships, I’d never been that forward in public. My dad the cop had taught me to follow the rules, and their behavior confused me. On one hand, it made me uncomfortable; on the other, I wanted to have the guts to act that free. I’d say, “Oh my gosh, you aren’t supposed to get up and go to the bathroom right now while the ‘fasten seat belt sign’ is illuminated,” and they’d look at me as if I were the stupidest girl they’d ever seen.

  The minute we got off the plane, we were in another world. It was one I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl, imagining what it would be like to be an international jet-setting model. In fact, it was wilder than my dreams. Flashbulbs went off everywhere. The paparazzi screamed and fought to take pictures of me, even though they had no idea who I was. It was so overwhelming and disorienting being pushed through the admiring crowd toward a waiting limo. I knew, for the first time, what an actual celebrity must feel like. I had only been playing at being one, but I now felt it was within my grasp.

  As we raced away in the limo, I realized that if I worked this right, it could be a big opportunity for me. I could get my name everywhere. When I got into the business, I thought being an adult star was just about doing scenes and selling videos. But I never thought that this psychotic melee would be part of the bargain.

  We arrived at what looked like a palace: the Royal Casino hotel. I’d never stayed in a room that immense and ornate before. Joy had booked interviews and photo ops for me every ten minutes. And I was excited to do all that work. I was willing to do anything to be someone who everyone loved. Looking back on it, it was just a new type of insecurity replacing the old one, and I was giving myself away to the needs and expectations of the public instead of the needs and expectations of the men in my life. It was just a new form of dependence developing. And it was equally detrimental to any sort of mental stability.

  A press conference promoting the Hot D’Or awards kicked off the schedule. This would be my first chance to show everybody what I was about. Of course, I had no idea what I was about. But I knew what I needed to do. So while every other girl at the conference wore her sluttiest stripper and hooker clothes, I changed into a beautiful blue Versace suit. The press conference started at noon; I waited until 1 P.M. to arrive in order to make the biggest splash possible. There is a little girl who is still inside me, and that little girl doubts everything I do, but I always force myself to go out and do everything—no matter how trivial—bigger and better than everybody else does, just to spite her.

  When I entered the room, everyone suddenly went silent. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, because they were all looking at me like I had arrived late to class on my first day at a new school. Suddenly, all my mental preparation vanished, and nervousness seized hold of my body: I started shaking uncontrollably and hives popped out on my arms and neck. As I walked toward the table where all the other girls were sitting in awkward silence, I kept telling myself, “Calm down, calm down.” People were talking to me. I couldn’t process a word they were saying.

  When I sat down, the noise resumed and everyone began clamoring to interview me. It was my first press conference and I wasn’t very polished. But I had my training from the pageants, so I just made strong eye contact and told each journalist the answer I thought he wanted to hear. Afterward, I couldn’t remember a single word I’d said.

  At the time, porn was huge in Europe, and fans and photographers chased our cabs and limos every time we left the hotel. They’d mob us in the street, asking for photos and autographs. More excitement surrounded us than the mainstream actors, because we made ourselves more accessible.

  I always made sure I had the best outfit on. If there was a photo op, I made sure I was front row and center. If there was a television camera in the vicinity, I made sure I grabbed the microphone. I don’t know what came over me. I took over absolutely everything. I was competing with some of the best girls in the industry, and I had to prove why, out of all of them, I deserved to be starlet of the year. Even when photographers would yell “Pamela” at me, I’d play along, mugging for photos and letting them think they had Pamela Anderson. Looking back on it now, I’m ashamed at how selfish and opportunistic I was, but at the same time, success requires some familiarity with the fatal flaw of narcissism.

  On day two, we had to sign autographs at the convention. It was a complete anticlimax. The Cannes administrators had stuffed all the porno people in a horrible little cubbyhole in a basement underneath the theaters where the mainstream films were being shown. As we walked in, I picked up a book-size guide to the premieres, which the festival had published and handed out to everyone attending. I flipped it over and noticed a giant picture of my face on the back. The only text on the page was the word “Jenna.” Wicked had sprung for a lavish color advertisement.

  Unbeknownst to me, everyone in the mainstream film industry was asking who this blond girl on the program was. So a producer at the E! Channel decided to hunt me down and solve the mystery. As I was leaving the convention late that afternoon, an E! cameraman saw me and yelled, “Jenna!” I turned around and he approached me. “Who are you?” he asked. “You have to tell us.”

  And then, in one of the boldest moves of my life, I snatched the microphone out of his hand and an alter ego I never knew I had leaped out.

  “Hi, I’m Jenna Jameson, and I’m reporting to you from Cannes, France, where the biggest celebrities in the world have gathered to spend a week sunning, partying, and watching movies.”

  I think a part of me had always wanted to be a television show host. I had been watching Cindy Crawford on MTV’s House of Style recently, and thinking about how much better of
a job I could do—if only I looked as fabulous as she did.

  “I’m here because I work for Wicked Pictures, where we make adult films so hot that if you don’t cover your eyes, you’ll probably explode. I’m up for the top awards this year. And I’ll probably win them too, but you’ll have to come along with me to see.”

  On one hand, I was completely seized by the moment and blathering; but on the other hand, I knew exactly what I was doing—trying to trap E! into covering the awards show in the process. When I was finished, everyone was in shock. Not necessarily because of what I said, but because, like Howard, they had no idea a girl who looked so young and innocent could actually be a porn star. Fortunately, the producer was standing nearby and, as soon as I finished my ridiculous monologue, she ran up to me and said, “Would you mind being our correspondent here for the whole festival?”

  “No problem,” I said coolly.

  The minute she turned her back, my whole face twisted with excitement and the words “Oh my God!” resounded loudly through my head.

  For my first appearance on E!, I walked down a pier and bought an ice cream cone while discussing a premiere that night. Behind me, the camera captured crowds of people chasing me trying to take pictures, thinking I was some sort of star. Perception, I quickly learned, is reality.

  That night, I interviewed actual stars, none of whom had any idea who I was or what I did. They just thought I was the pretty new face of E! And they actually respected me for it. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I was on meth again. I was twenty-one years old and living out my dreams. And the strangest thing of all was that I had no fear. I was the most self-conscious person I knew, but somehow, I wasn’t afraid to step up to the plate for E!, as if somewhere in the back of my mind I’d been preparing for it my whole life. I was actually reinventing myself. All those months of eating ramen had paid off.