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

by Jameson, Jenna

  Being a porn star, I was used to such questions. But Wesley had no idea I was a porn star. Either way, I was offended. I looked at him blankly, stood up, and walked away. That was the first and last time I ever saw him.

  I never made it to the bar. Bruce Willis walked in front of me. He looked fine. Instantly, I felt my chest flush and tingle. Even though he was wearing a creepy pair of shorts, I was still attracted. He didn’t say a word. He pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. After thirty seconds of passionate tonguing, he just walked away without a word.

  I was overwhelmed. I felt like I was in the middle of a cartoon. This couldn’t be real. Every single celebrity there, it seemed (with the exception of Sylvester Stallone, who was a perfect gentleman), was chasing me. After a few more drinks, I asked the E! camera crew if they were ready to leave. As we hit the fresh air, a bodyguard walked up to me and said, “Mr. Willis is waiting for you in his limousine.”

  “He’s going to be waiting a long time,” I responded. There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and he had crossed it. So I left, my head spinning. And E! was so happy with my work that they said they’d send me a contract to work for them regularly.

  It had been a solid month of fantasy, and fantasy is a wonderful thing. It’s how I make a living. But it was time to return to reality—Los Angeles and Rod. I was still a married woman.

  With Kid Rock.

  Every bond that held Rod and me together—except for that proclaimed by church, state, and Wicked contract—had crumbled to dust. The final blow came when we concluded that I needed to work with other directors and performers in order to maintain the momentum of my career. So I decided to return to the glory days of Blue Movie by collaborating with Michael Zen, and Rod decided to pick Asian girls instead of me for his sex scenes.

  Unfortunately, filming didn’t get any easier. The Michael Zen movie was called Satyr, and it was such a miserable experience that I don’t even remember what it was about. All I can recall is that I was supposed to turn into a unicorn in it, so they made my legs really furry and gave me a horn that looked like a zit. Rod was my co-star and, interestingly enough, he had no trouble getting hard for Asia Carrera in the movie but couldn’t get an ounce of wood for me the next day to save his life.

  By 2 A.M. on day three, I was exhausted. I had been in every scene, and still had two sex scenes left to film, which meant at least five hours of work to go. Michael was fighting with the production manager, J.B., and the crew about the lighting setup and I interrupted and asked if they could hurry it up because we were all getting too exhausted to give our best performances.

  I’m sure I delivered the comment a lot bitchier than I remember it. Either way, the lighting director took it personally, and complained to J.B. When they were finally ready to shoot, J.B. came into the makeup room and ordered: “Get your whore ass on set and do what you do best.”

  He had just used the wrong word. I ran after him in a Tasmanian Devil frenzy. The crew had to pull us apart. It was late and my nerves were frayed, but nonetheless J.B. was out of line. And I was right: they were wasting time arguing about the lighting. When he left, I collapsed in my makeup chair and started crying.

  Lee, my makeup artist, shut the door and tried to soothe me. Just then, Rod came bursting into the room. “You stupid fucking whore,” he yelled. “You are going to ruin this whole production. You can’t treat people like dogs after how hard they’ve worked. Who do you think you are?”

  “How hard they worked, you selfish bastard? I’ve worked just as hard. And I’m the one who has to be on camera and look beautiful at four in the morning.”

  We yelled at each other for ten minutes, making Lee so uncomfortable he cleared the room. Finally, I packed my shit and left the set.

  As soon as I arrived home, the phone was ringing, as I knew it would be.

  “Everything’s okay now,” Rod whimpered. “We’re sorry. We fired J.B.”

  So I returned to the set and everyone was obsequiously nice to me, kissing my ass and making sure I was happy. In many ways, it was just as uncomfortable as having people yell at me. But I learned who was in control and who had the real power. If anyone else had walked off the set, even Rod, they’d have been fired and taken off the project. The movie needed me.

  Even at my worst, however, I never pulled rank for no reason. There are times when I wish the industry had a union, because the shooting schedules are inhumane. It generally takes a good three weeks to shoot even the crappiest independent film; we do it in one to six days.

  So many factors contributed to my attitude at the time. Mostly, I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of my fame. I also wasn’t going to allow anyone to treat me disrespectfully because of what I did. But a lot of it was my relationship.

  My marriage showed no signs of improvement. In bed, I would move my foot over to touch his, and he would move his leg away. I needed so badly for him to do something to show that he loved me, something to counteract the constant drama on the set, but instead, he’d shut himself in his room for days and say that he had scripts to write. I had been much better off living alone: I didn’t realize that it’s a lot worse to be lonely in the company of someone you supposedly love than it is to be lonely by yourself.

  After we wrapped shooting on Satyr, I couldn’t take it anymore. The exact words I used were: “If you aren’t going to fuck me, I’m going to find someone who will.”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  There was no love, or even consideration or good will, left between us anymore. So I packed my shit and left without another word. The minute I left, I knew I was doing the right thing.

  I piled everything in the car and drove off. I didn’t know where I was going. But somehow, I found myself at the door of a place I recognized: the Vagabond Inn.

  It was all still there: the bug stains on the sheets, the light-phobic roaches, the asshole at the front desk demanding a credit card. But I was different. The little girl, wide-eyed, innocent, and fearful, was gone. I was a star now, supposedly; a married woman, on paper at least; and a confident adult in control of her own destiny, at least in other people’s perception. But in truth I had traveled so far and gone nowhere: I was still alone, looking for someone to help me make my way through the wilderness of the world. Every clearing I thought I had found turned out to be just a chimera.

  I threw my bags in the corner of the room and lay on top of the bed in my clothes. I turned my mind off and stared at the ceiling, waiting for an epiphany. It never came.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve had the same nightmare. I am being chased through a large dilapidated house. There is someone directly behind me, but I can’t see him. I hide in the closet. I’m terrified. My heart is heaving in my chest. I know he’s right outside. I try to hold my breath so he can’t hear me. But I can’t stop gasping. It’s deafening. I know if he hears me, he’s going to open the door and get me. But there’s nothing I can do to quiet my fear. He’s coming closer. He can hear me now. It’s over. I’m going to die.

  And then I wake up. To this day, I’ve never seen that person. Knowing that someone who wants to hurt me is so close by and that I am giving myself away is the worst feeling in the world.

  I also dream of tsunamis. I’m sitting on the beach and I see the wave coming toward me. It towers thousands of feet into the sky. There is no escape. It crashes over me, and I’m overwhelmed. I can feel the water rushing into my lungs. I wake up choking every time. In other nightmares, I’ll be fighting someone, but I’ll be moving like I’m underwater and unable to deliver a connecting blow. I am perpetually getting the shit kicked out of me in my sleep. I also often dream about my dad dying.

  What connects all these dreams is that I’m always alone, scared, and powerless in them. For as long as I can remember, this has been my nocturnal landscape. A lot of the decisions I’ve made in my waking life have been attempts to escape it: Is fame going to help me sleep? Is getting married going to stop the night
mares? But nothing worked. Every supposedly safe choice I made just ended up scaring me more. And the more wrong turns I made, the more I woke up crying. My dad couldn’t console me; Jack couldn’t console me; Nikki couldn’t console me; Rod couldn’t console me. No one could.

  Of course, I should have been consoling myself. And leaving Rod was the first time I had the balls to take a step on my own—without running back to Daddy. I was sick of the fucking vampires in L.A. The only people I trusted were Steve and Joy. And I was in their bad books for flaking on appointments, arguing with Rod, and blowing up on set. The budgets of the movies we were making had grown from $20,000 to $200,000, and the pressure mounted accordingly. I needed a way out—from L.A., from Rod, and from the movies.

  So when I woke up at the Vagabond Inn that morning, I decided to take some time off. I phoned an agency called the Lee Network and arranged a dance gig at a Florida club called Miami Gold. It’s funny that booking a dance engagement was my idea of taking time off.

  The next day I drove to LAX, flew to Miami, and checked into the Fontainebleau hotel in South Beach. I felt free, like the old Jenna again. Rod didn’t cross my mind once. After all I had been through in past relationships, I had taught myself to turn off every emotion I had for a person—be it love or hate—if I needed to protect myself.

  In the daytime, I lay out at the pool in my G-string, worked on my tan, and watched older men gaping at me over the shoulders of their complaining wives. I didn’t know a single person in the whole city, and I didn’t care. I’d start conversations with anyone and end them when I was bored. It was a great big world out there, and I still had so much to learn and experience.

  In the evenings, I danced at Miami Gold, raking in thousands upon thousands of dollars. It was easy, mindless work—just splay and smile. Between shows, I’d kill time by finding a friendly group to sit with and order drinks on their tab. One night I ended up at a table with three guys named Wonky, Juan, and Jordan. Juan and Wonky were like a professional comedy act, and made jokes nonstop, but Jordan didn’t say a word. He just sat brooding in his chair, paying no attention to me whatsoever. He was Colombian, with dark smoldering eyes, full sensuous lips, and a football player’s body. I always had a thing for Latin men, ever since my first horrible kiss with Cesar, so I tried to talk to Jordan as his friends ordered another round of shots. He didn’t seem interested. I didn’t know it at the time, but his reticence was due not to a lack of interest but to a lack of experience.

  However, in my ignorance, I figured that I had to try a little harder to seduce him. I stood up, took him by the hand, and guided him out of his seat. His hand was warm and strong in mine. Just feeling the heat made my heart flutter. It had been so long since I had been attracted to another man at such a gut level.

  I led him to my dressing room backstage. There was one folding chair in the otherwise bare, mirrored room. I gestured to the seat and he sat down, bewildered. Then I sat on the floor, spread my legs, and dug the heels of my shoes into the ground. With one finger, I pulled aside my G-string. Then I lowered my head to the floor behind me and arched my back, thrusting my chest into the air. I put my right middle finger in my mouth and slowly pulled it out wet. Then I brought my hand down between my legs, parted my lips with my index and ring fingers, and rubbed my middle finger along the opening until it grew slick with my juices.

  Jordan stiffened in his chair. His body looked like it wanted to run out of the room in panic, but his eyes weren’t going anywhere. He’d clearly never seen anything like this before. And the more horrified he became, the more I wanted to give him a show.

  I brought my middle finger up to my clit and worked it in gentle, quickening circles. As each wave of pleasure rolled through my body, I arched my back further and rocked my pelvis forward. I exaggerated each move for his benefit, shutting my eyes, licking my lips, and moaning softly. I wanted to get him so hot he’d come in his pants. With my left hand, I pulled my bra down and my left breast burst to freedom. I rubbed the nipple in circles of shrinking circumference until it was so hard that every pore on my areola stood at full mast. I thrust my right finger deep inside me and then pulled it out glistening. I brought it to my mouth, licked it clean with the tip of my tongue, and then placed it on my clit. Beads of sweat were forming on Jordan’s forehead. With both hands in rhythm now, I forgot about Jordan and concentrated on my own pleasure.

  The first contraction set my legs a-tingle. The second contraction sent a euphoric rush up into my stomach. The third contraction loosened a flock of butterflies in my chest. And the fourth contraction burst my whole being into flames. I let out a moan that felt like it shook the whole club and my whole body stiffened, then collapsed. It was impossible even to think about looking sexy anymore. My body was out of my control. My right hand remained on my clit, rubbing and rubbing, as I shook and spasmed under the influence of an orgasm that lasted as long as the childhood ones I used to have from my neighbor’s Jacuzzi jets.

  Afterward, I stood up, brushed myself off, and led Jordan out of the room. I didn’t say a word—and he didn’t know what to say.

  I returned to the stage, danced with more raw sexual energy than ever before, and, at the end of the night, slipped my number to Juan and asked him to give it to Jordan. I’d never hit on a fan so blatantly before. But, then again, I’d never felt so free before. I’d never had the chance to truly enjoy my sexuality, because I was dating Jack the whole time it was blossoming.

  The next day, Juan and Jordan called. I invited them to come over. Instead, Jordan arrived alone. Good move on his part.

  We relaxed by the pool and ordered daiquiris. I was instantly drawn to him. He was so different than any guy I had met before. And that’s probably because I’d been in a world of strip-club owners, porn directors, and suitcase pimps for most of my adult life. He wasn’t loud or obnoxious; he didn’t feel a need to brag or prove himself; and he was unaware of how good-looking he was. He had no game. And because of that, I felt comfortable, like I could let down my guard and be myself without worrying that he wanted anything from me.

  We just talked for hours and got along very well. We came from different worlds. He knew nothing about what my life was like. He still lived with his parents and led such a simple, happy, worry-free existence. I felt like I was reconnecting myself to the real world through him. With Rod, everything was work. My entire life was porn. I needed escape and balance.

  After dinner that night, I brought him back to my room. It was a beautiful night. I pushed open the window, and the moonlight lay across the ocean like the trail of a paintbrush. The room was beautiful, spacious, and glowing. Everything seemed perfect. But there was one problem: Jordan couldn’t get a hard-on. I still scared the fuck out of him. We lay together naked and discussed it. It turned out that he had only slept with three other girls in his entire life. I found it so endearing. And now I knew why he was so freaked out when I masturbated on the floor in front of him.

  I told him not to worry, and I decided it was best not even to try to get him hard and make him feel more ashamed. To compensate, he went down on me for two straight hours. I was really starting to like this guy. Afterward, I turned over and went to sleep.

  I awoke in the middle of the night to see him looming over me, with a big smile on his face. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his hard dick was deep inside me. He was fucking me. I couldn’t figure out whether he had spent hours trying to get himself hard or had just woken up with premature morning wood.

  The second I started to respond, however, he came. The poor guy only lasted a couple minutes.

  At the end of the week, when my gig was up at the club, I decided to stay with him in Miami for another two weeks. There was nothing for me back in L.A. Jordan offered the solace I needed: he was normal; he made me feel comfortable; he gave me my space. He was the exact antithesis of the life that I was so irritated with.

  I called Joy and told her, “I’m coming back to L.A. and I’m
packing my shit and moving to Florida.”

  “You are insane,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to follow my heart and move to Florida.”

  “What about your contract? You still have two movies left. Are you just going to leave us?”

  “No, I’m staying with you,” I said. “I just want to cut back my schedule a little and take time for myself. So I’ll just fly in for the movies.”

  “Well, baby, you gotta do what you gotta do. Take care and relax.” I could hear the disappointment in Joy’s voice. She had helped build me, and now she was losing me. Even though she knew I was making a bad decision, she didn’t utter a word of criticism because, ultimately, she cared more about my sanity than my contract.

  Away from L.A., life seemed much more simple. I realized that my whole adult life, I had been in control: I had the power to make my life easy or difficult. I had just been giving that power away to other people. Taking it back was just as easy—and as hard—as stepping back and making a decisive change.

  My stay in L.A. only lasted for a day. I went to my house, packed the rest of my belongings, and shipped them to Miami. Waiting in the mailbox for me was the contract from E! But I never even had a chance to sign the thing. The E! Channel was bought by Comcast, which didn’t want a porn star on its payroll, so the offer was rescinded.

  With weeks on his own to think about our short-lived marriage, Rod realized that he had blown it. He had taken me for granted and lost me. He followed me around the house, telling me how much he loved me and begging me to stay. His eyes reddened, his voice squeaked. It actually seemed like he might act like a man for once and punch the wall. But it was all too late.

  In my head, I prepared a response: “You have only yourself to blame. I gave you your chance. I would cry myself to sleep at night begging you to just fucking hug me, and you would tell me to go fuck myself. You see where it got you? I fucking hate you.”