At a club in Boston, a skinny guy came up to me and said that he had worked as a roadie for Tool. I gave him my usual response: “Right on.” At the time, I had no idea who Tool was.
“The singer, Maynard, is a big fan of yours.”
“Right on.”
“He even has a picture of you on his road case.”
“Right on. That’s super. I really should be going.”
It had been a terrible night. The club owner said he wouldn’t allow me to take tips, because it wasn’t in my contract. It was pouring rain outside. And my dressing room was in a trailer behind the club, so I was soaking wet. The last straw came when someone snuck into my dressing room and stole a two thousand dollar outfit, and the manager didn’t do a thing about it.
So when the manager came back to remind me not to take any tips, I blew up. That was how I made my money. We argued for five minutes until I finally said, “Fine, no tips. I’ll be out onstage soon.”
I packed my bags and prepared to quickly ditch the club before he caught me. Roadie boy saw all this and said, “Watch this.” He proceeded to superglue the club-owner’s wipers to the windshield of his Mercedes. Then he keyed both sides of the car.
I thought the wiper prank was funny, but the keying was a little too much. That should have been a warning sign right there. But I liked him: he had cheered me up, and he said he’d be willing to leave the Tool tour and work for me for free just to have the experience. So I hired him as my own personal roadie intern to deal with clubs, costumes, money, and all the practical details that were such a headache.
At rock shows, I’d seen what bands asked for, so together we came up with a rider for my tours. My dressing room had to have flowers, a sofa, linens on the table, and a fully stocked bar. No stripper made demands like that. And it wasn’t just that I was a diva, it was also because if I was going to be pulling all that money into a club, I shouldn’t have to deal with outdoor trailers, filthy stools, no ventilation, and yellow tap water. Roadie Boy even had a laminated all-access pass made up for the tour, just to make it official.
I quickly learned to forbid clubs from playing any songs from my set lists when I wasn’t onstage. It would kill my performance if I had a routine designed to Marilyn Manson’s “Beautiful People,” and then some girl danced to the song right before I came out. Often, after I stripped to a song by the Revolting Cocks in some small club, the DJ would burn the CD so he could play it for other girls after I left town. My riders grew the more I took on Jordan’s mind-set that everybody was out to screw me over, and I needed to protect myself. But, at the same time, my shows got better as I invented simple little male-exciting tricks like dangling a string of saliva from my mouth to my ding-ding.
I knew that the protocol was to remain silent onstage, because saying anything ruins the fantasy for the guys. Everything can be conveyed in the expression on your face and the language of your eyes, but as my anger built, fuck subtlety—it was all about whatever I wanted to do.
Every night became my birthday. I realized I could pull in more money if I told them that I blew off the chance to celebrate my birthday because it was so important to me to be there dancing for them instead. “So I’m here, happy birthday to me,” I thought. “That’s right, fuckers. Cough it up.”
At first, I refused to do lap dances and private shows. But when Jordan wasn’t around, I was willing to sell out, but not for less than five hundred dollars per song—and even then only if I was in the mood.
Behind the scenes, I would make club owners move my hotel room every night for some dumb reason: if the hotel didn’t have room service—or if it did and there weren’t any burgers on the menu. I didn’t know these jokers, so it didn’t matter to me. But actually, it did matter, because I ended up getting a reputation as a cunt. That was never my intention. I was acting out because I came from shit, my relationship was shit, and my life was shit, so I needed an outlet. When I look back at the people who had to deal with me, I feel terrible. I’d call my agent at 2 A.M. screaming, “If there isn’t a limo here to take me back to the hotel, I’m flying home right now.” That guy definitely worked for his commissions with me.
In the meantime, my father’s side of the family decided to take advantage of my small renown. My uncle Jim opened a strip club in Anaheim, just outside Los Angeles, and offered to pay me a percentage of the take if he could use my name. And so the ill-fated Jenna Jameson’s Scamps was born. Its manager: my dad, who had hit the road again, and moved to California to run the club with my brother.
The main problem with Scamps was its location: Anaheim is home to Disneyland, so when I performed at the opening, there were families protesting outside. And a big poster of me that my uncle had put up outside had already been taken down by the city. The only other thing I remember that night is being so deep in money I could barely walk onstage. I must have made $2,500 in singles.
However, the romance was short-lived. I had originally thought going into business with family was a great idea, because your blood relations are not going to shaft you. But I was wrong: your relatives will screw you more quickly than anyone, because they feel a sense of entitlement. He used to be my favorite uncle, a guy with a cool Corvette who would let my brother and me stay up all night and watch movies; soon, he became just another bloodsucking leech. And he was dragging my father down with him. My dad, a former cop, whose sense of righteousness was so strong when I was growing up that he neglected his own children and risked his job to fight corruption on the police force, was now living this squalid life on the margins of society—running away from some sort of trouble in Vegas, dating a stripper, and, unbeknownst to me at the time, smoking the exact same drug he had seen nearly kill his daughter. I had managed to drag my whole family down.
So when Steve Orenstein called one afternoon and said he had a film for me—worded not as an option but as a gentle order—I was grateful. I needed a break from my break. With my permission, he had hired a second contract girl, a friend of his named Serenity. Steve liked her because she had everything I lacked. She was meticulously organized, dependable to a fault, and always on time. However, she came complete with her own suitcase pimp; and he was upset that Serenity wasn’t getting as popular as me, so he was constantly accusing Steve and Joy of not trying hard enough.
Jordan didn’t take the news that I would be doing another movie very well. He put me through hell. Every waking moment, he poured poison into my ear, telling me that I had no respect for myself or him; that the company was taking advantage of me; that I was destroying the chances of my children ever having a normal life. But I had no choice—I was under contract. I’d been doing these films for years, so there was no great harm in another one. But Jordan was turning me into a mess.
I had never been confronted before on my choice of lifestyles since I’d moved out of Nikki’s house and, in retrospect, it was a good experience to have, because it made me think about the decisions I’d made. And, because I was ultimately comfortable with them—my conscience was clean, my star had risen, and my fucked-up lifestyle was at least exciting—I was stuck in an emotional tug-of-war. I couldn’t continue to do movies without hurting Jordan; yet to leave the industry for Jordan would mean throwing away everything I had worked so hard for.
As usual, when my life was at a low, I thought of Nikki. We hadn’t spoken much since I’d moved out, but she was always on my mind. She was my first friend in the industry and I’d formed a bond with her that was impossible to replicate with anyone else. So one night, I called her—not only because I needed her but because I missed her and wanted to hear her voice. I told her that I loved her and that it was silly to be enemies after all we’d been through. Our whole disagreement over my entry into the industry was moot now anyway since she had signed a contract with Vivid and become an adult star in her own right. Though it only took minutes to recapture the tenderness we used to have for each other, we talked for hours. She had been through rough times herself, had finally divorce
d Buddy, and was now actually dating Lyle Danger.
For the two days before I was supposed to leave for L.A., Jordan didn’t speak a word to me. And then, the afternoon I was leaving, he blew up. He couldn’t believe I was actually going through with it.
Because of his constant haranguing, my self-esteem was at a new low. He had ingrained in me the idea that I was just a slut with no self-respect. I was so wracked with guilt that it wasn’t until I was on the plane that I had time to consider the movie itself. It was being helmed by Wicked’s number-one contract director: Brad Armstrong, né Rodney Hopkins.
The movie, Dangerous Tides, was shot on a boat on Catalina Island, off the coast of Los Angeles. When I saw Rod, I felt nothing. I was fully over him now and in love with Jordan. Rod didn’t say a word. He just glared at me with sad, mute anger. His revenge came in passive-aggressive ways: He had booked himself in a threesome in the movie, with my good friend Jill Kelly and, of course, Asia Carrera.
Everyone on the boat seemed to be having a blast. It was like a carnival on the water. But I moved through it all in slow-motion despair. I threw up constantly. Whenever I wasn’t on set, I sat in my dressing room with puffy eyes, crying about how much I hated myself for hurting the man I loved.
After every relationship, I always said, “I’ve learned my lesson.” And I never made the same mistake twice. But each new relationship always presented a fresh mistake to be made never again. If mistakes and failures are really nothing but learning lessons, then I was well on my way to a Ph.D. in men.
When shooting wrapped (and, as a parting memento, a five-thousand-dollar Gucci dress of mine was stolen), I told Steve I needed to go on hiatus for a while. I couldn’t go through this again.
On the plane back to Miami, I thought about the words I had chosen in that conversation with Steve. I hadn’t told him that I was quitting. Instead, I had used the word “hiatus.” I must have known, somewhere in the depths of my mind, that I’d be back.
Tony: The only time you ever lost it onstage was when that guy threw change at you.
Jenna: I put a heel in his throat. I was on my back and a guy nailed me hard with some change. My first reaction was to kick, so I did. I knew I had to get up right away, because I’m vulnerable when I’m on my back, so I got up and he came flying onto that stage after me. A security guard got in between at the last minute, thank God, because he was a big Memphis boy.
Tony: How about the time when you were on the top of the pole and you turned upside down, but you had too much oil on your legs, so you slipped off and fell right on your head? Then the next song came on, and you were dancing all dizzy.
Jenna: I was pissed at Jordan that night and was starting to drink, for the first time in my life. I think I downed a full bottle of Ketel One that night, in three hours.
Tony: Was that the night you met the Undertaker and he knew you from Las Vegas?
Jenna: Yeah, the Undertaker was one of the biggest WWF wrestlers at the time. He would put people in coffins and set them on fire in the ring. And the scary thing is, that character he played was not an act. Back when I used to hang out in Jack’s shop and make needles for him, the Undertaker used to come in and get tattooed. I obviously never talked back then, because I was so shy. And he was very serious. So I met him that night dancing, and we hung out and became really good friends. And he told me that he took Jack aside one day and said, very serious, “I don’t want your girlfriend to be here any more. I think she’s a cop.”
Tony: You were like sixteen years old and eighty pounds.
Jenna: Yeah, I never knew that he was the reason why Jack wouldn’t let me hang out at the shop. The Undertaker said I’d sit there for six hours and never move or say a word. I guess I creeped everyone out. It’s funny that the Undertaker was scared of me. He’s probably the most psychotic man I’ve ever met in my life. He came to one of my dance gigs and this guy asked me, “Can I buy you a drink?” The Undertaker looked at him totally stone cold and said, “Yeah, you can get me a shot of Jaeger and you can get yourself a shot of shut-the-fuck-up.”
Jordan was there at the time, and the Undertaker said, “I’m going to kick your boyfriend’s ass and take you away with me.” I knew he was serious. I ran upstairs and told Jordan we had to leave, because this guy was going to beat the fuck out of him and kidnap me. So I never saw him again. I think that was when Jordan forbid me to talk to any more guys on the road.
Tony: There were a lot of crazies on the road. Remember, you had a lesbian stalker who came to your hotel one night and tried to beat down your door? She was a big woman, too.
Jenna: I was in Columbus, Ohio and I met this girl. I’m nice to everyone. So my next gig is in Reading, Pennsylvania, and I say, “If you want to come down, come down.” Next thing I know, I get a dozen roses at the club in Reading, and they’re from her, so I’m obligated to talk to her more. At the time I was going out with Melissa, so Melissa and I were in bed in my hotel room later that night and we hear boom boom boom on the door.
I look out the window and this girl is freaking. She’s yelling, “I’m going to fucking kill you. If I can’t have you, no one will. I’m going to kill that bitch you’re with.” Finally the cops came and took her to jail.
She tried to reach me for months afterward. I found out later that she was the assistant of an older porn star. I’m like you, Dad. When something like that goes down, I get calm.
Larry: Sure.
Jenna: I told Melissa, “Okay, lay down behind the bed. Call 911. Don’t say a word. Turn the lights off.” Inside, though, I was frigging scared she was going to come through that window. She was cuckoo, and you don’t want to fight those kinds of people.
Larry: Then there was that guy at the AVN Awards. You were sitting there signing autographs, and there was a big crowd. And this guy with long blond hair walked in between the bodyguards and said something to you.
Jenna: Yeah, he was yelling, “What would your mother think? What are you doing to your mother?” I can take a lot of stuff, but if anyone says anything about my mother, it’s on. And none of the bodyguards did anything, so dad walked over and socked him in the stomach.
Larry: I saw the look on your face and I ran right between the bodyguards. I nailed this son of a bitch and said, “Motherfucker, I’d love to fight!” I grabbed him by the fucking hair, and everyone was like, “Wait, wait.” So they grabbed me and I let him go. As soon as they released me, I hit him right in the stomach and it was like, boom. He went down, and they dragged him off.
Jenna: I seem to attract that sort of thing.
Before I returned to Miami, I went to see Dr. Garth. He was one of the most popular men in Los Angeles because he provided a service every woman there wanted: not dispensing painkillers indiscriminately, but perfect plastic surgery.
On the set of Dangerous Tides, in addition to everything else that had gone wrong, my left boob began capsulating, which happens when scar tissue forms and tightens around the implant.
The first thing Dr. Garth said when he saw me was, “No wonder. Your implant is too big for your rib cage.”
So I made an appointment to come in the next day and get the scar tissue cleaned out. As long as he was going to be in there, I asked him for a smaller implant with a little more hang to it, because the old ones from Dr. Canada stuck out like water tanks. Jill Kelly took me to the office and let me recuperate at her house afterward.
I had first seen Jill on the set of a movie we were both in, Cover to Cover. She was strong, beautiful, and bossy, and I was dying to meet her, but I didn’t have the guts to. Years later, at a Vegas strip club called Bob’s Classy Lady, we finally met. But that’s only because I thought she was Janine Lindemulder. Jill had started stripping at eighteen, but then, at a Consumer Electronics Show one year, she met Tiffany Million, who brought her into the industry.
When Jill walked into Bob’s with her girlfriend P. J. Sparxx, I said, “Hi, Janine.” She corrected me, I felt like an idiot, and a friendship was formed
out of mutual respect. We were two of the only girls who took the industry, and our roles in it, seriously. So we began hanging out on and off, and I knew she was someone I could rely on to take care of me—without an agenda—while I had my breasts fixed.
I don’t remember much after the surgery because I was hopped up on Vicodin to kill the pain. However, I remember Jill talking on speaker-phone to a guy named Jay, the bossy asshole who owned Sterling Studio, where I had shot a lot of my movies. When she told him that I was in her bed recovering, he joked, “Can I come over and molest her while she’s out cold?” Guys were such creeps.
My boobs healed quickly. When I looked at them in the mirror, a huge smile spread across my face. They were perfect. I still wished, however, that I’d never gotten them done. I had big boobs to begin with, but in this industry, a girl has to be larger than life. The problem is that big implants are a magnet for creeps and a hindrance to most physical activity. That’s why you’ll never see retired porn stars playing golf.
When guys talk to a girl, they always ask whether her breasts are real or what her bra size is. But when girls talk among themselves, the question is always, “How many cc’s do you have?” My implants were only 400 cc’s, but because my chest was so big to begin with they look like they’re 900 cc’s.
When I returned home after the surgery, Jordan was furious. I think that girls often experiment by dating different types of guys, to see what will work for them. A dominant, possessive guy who wanted me to be a barefoot and pregnant housewife definitely didn’t jibe with my unhealthy sense of ambition. It takes a certain kind of man to be able to live with the fact that the woman he loves has sex with other men on camera for a living. And I haven’t met that man yet.
We lived together uneasily for a few weeks, until my agent called and asked if I wanted to do a few dance gigs in San Francisco with Jill Kelly. I jumped at the chance to get away from Jordan. And Jordan, of course, did not want me to go, because he didn’t want me dancing onstage with another girl. He was actually jealous of her, too—even though I’d never told him about the women I’d dated.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 31