Suddenly a photographer appeared out of nowhere and asked to take a picture of us. “No, no, no,” I protested.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tommy translated.
The flashes made me dizzy. I stood up, walked to the bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed.
Moments later, Tommy came in and closed the door. Within ten minutes, we were having sex. I must have been really high, because his dick is so big and I didn’t feel a thing. If I were fully conscious, I would have been stuck to the ceiling.
In addition, I had just gotten a piercing for the hood of my clit and had lost the little blue bead that holds it in, so the piercing kept coming out. My memories are vague and fragmented, but I remember having difficulty keeping my mouth closed. And I remember passing out. When I came to, Tommy was still fucking me. He seemed so into it. I drifted in and out of consciousness as he continued to slam me.
I woke up and discovered, to my horror, Tommy curled around me. I hate cuddling. I lifted his arm off my side and rolled quietly off the bed. I had to get out of there, and the last thing I wanted to do was wake Tommy and have to make nice to him.
I ran back to my hotel room, stumbled through the door, and found Nikki there in bed—with Lyle Danger.
I didn’t know how to react. All kinds of chemicals and emotions were zipping around inside me. I was coming down off the pills, I had no idea what I’d just done the night before, that monster Lyle was naked in my bed, and my ding-ding was in incredible pain. I knelt down in front of Nikki, buried my head in the sheets, and started crying.
She walked me into the bathroom, and we inspected the damage. My pussy looked like someone had punched it a hundred times: the lips were swollen to the size and color of an unripe plum. I remembered having used a condom, so at least we were safe, but I was worried that maybe I’d caught some kind of infection. I couldn’t remember what he looked like naked, so it didn’t dawn on me at the time that some guy with a monster cock had just shredded me.
Two minutes later, the phone rang.
“Hey, where are you?”
I recognized Tommy’s eager puppy-dog voice. “I’m back in my room,” I told him.
“Come back,” he said. “I’m starving, bro. Let’s chow down.”
Bro? Chow down? “Um, I’ll call you back,” I said, and hung up.
I never called him back. I got on a plane that afternoon and returned to L.A. Nikki and Lyle sat next to me. I couldn’t believe she was with him again, after all we’d done to get away. To his credit, he claimed to have cleaned up, and so far seemed sober enough. They had even made an appointment to get counseling.
Back in L.A., Tommy started calling ten times a day. He pretty much stalked me. If I told him I was going to the airport, he’d offer to drive me there. If I was going to a club, he’d offer to put me on the guest list. If I was washing my hair, he’d offer to lather it for me. The lies I told him to get out of meeting kept getting longer and more convoluted until, finally, I broke down and agreed to see him again. Sober, I found him incredibly cool and sexy, a happy-go-lucky maniac who also happened to be irritatingly affectionate. So we started dating. I probably spoke the phrase “Tommy, get off me,” twenty times a day when we were together, even in my sleep.
When he went on the road with Mötley Crüe, I joined them at various tour stops. It’s strange how life comes full circle. Only a few years before I was sitting on my brother’s shoulder at the Girls, Girls, Girls concert in Vegas, hoping to be noticed and taken backstage. Now I was practically part of the entourage.
On the tour bus, I spent hours bonding with Nikki. He kept talking about how he never wanted to touch another woman besides his wife, Donna D’Errico, and I thought, “Wow. What an incredible turnaround.” I never said to him, “Remember me from the Easy Rider photo shoot?” I didn’t want him to think I was that naïve little thing, because I wasn’t that girl any more.
With Nikki.
Everything with Tommy was an adventure that he saw through the excited eyes of a little boy at a zoo. When we were in his hotel room on tour, a pelican would suddenly fly in the window and he’d start feeding it. At airport cafeterias, I’d turn around and he’d be fighting with some businessman over salad dressing.
After meeting Tommy on the road, I flew to Miami. I had unfinished business to settle there. First, there was Jordan. Though we both knew it was over, I needed to say it to his face. He took it like a man, and got extremely angry. I just walked out; I owed him nothing. It was simply a fling that had lasted too long, and it was mainly my fault, because I valued passion over pickups.
The other item of business was my father. I had pulled out of my uncle’s strip club and, depending on who you believe, he either sold it, the city closed it down, or, most likely, both. As a result, my father was jobless and homeless, so I let him, Tony, and Selena move into my place in Miami. After all, I had no intention of living there anymore.
As I was packing my stuff to bring back to L.A., the phone rang.
I grabbed the receiver. “Hi,” came an effeminate voice on the other end. “This is Michael Drake from Cosmopolitan magazine, and we are just dying to do a fabulous piece on you. I’m not saying it’s a cover story or anything, but we’re very excited here and want to have Annie Leibovitz photograph you.”
“Oh my God, are you serious?”
“You’ve heard of her? Super. I’m going to put my best writer on this. Here’s what I’m thinking for the photo shoot: We’ll have this big fiery hoop with flames, and we’ll have you jumping through it.”
“Okay.”
“And we’ll dress you up like a poodle, with a leash and a collar and a little pink bow in your hair.”
“Sounds exciting,” I said. “Weird but exciting.”
Suddenly, the voice changed, replaced by something much more masculine. “What’s up, Jenna? It’s me.”
“You dick! I’m going to kill you.”
It was Jay, calling three weeks later. My heart swelled with excitement, tempered only by a tiny shard of anger because he’d taken so long to get back in touch.
With Jay.
Jay picked me up in Los Angeles a week later and drove me to Phoenix, where he was living with his brother. It was Thanksgiving, so the first thing we did was go to his parents’ house for dinner. Big happy families always make me uncomfortable, and there were at least forty people there I didn’t know—brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, in-laws, outlaws. It was the exact opposite of my nearly nonexistent family. His parents had been together forty-five years, and Jay talked to them daily.
Throughout the party, Jay would introduce me to his sister or someone, and then go talk to other people, leaving me alone. As if that weren’t enough, his sister said, “You aren’t the most beautiful girl Jay’s ever gone out with, but you have the best personality.” By the time we left the house, I was having second thoughts about him.
Afterward, we went to his brother’s bachelor pad, shut ourselves into a leopard-print bedroom, and put on a Joe CD. Then he redeemed himself with the best sex of my life—and not because he was so rough, had a perfectly shaped dick, or knew Tantra. It was because there was genuine emotion involved. I really liked this asshole with the big happy family. He was confident and dominant in a way that wasn’t overcompensating for any hidden insecurity. When we embraced, it was as if a bubble formed around us and the rest of the world disappeared. I’d been missing out on this my whole life.
We must have listened to that Joe CD ten times. We’d nap for fifteen minutes between sessions, and then go at it again. I’d made past boyfriends wait at least six months before agreeing to anal sex. But when we were in the bathroom, Jay pushed me up against the mirror and pried my legs apart with his knees. When I felt his pee-pee probing around my backside, I made a split-second decision, and that decision was: yes, submit.
The next day I ached everywhere. When we went jet-skiing on the lake with his brother, I wiped out so many times that I thought I’d neve
r walk normally again. At the end of the weekend, Jay asked me to move in with him. The problem was that I wasn’t ready for another man. After my disastrous relationship with Jordan in Miami, I didn’t want to be under someone’s thumb. As I flew home from Phoenix, I could feel myself pulling away from Jay already.
The following week, I joined Tommy on the road. The band was touring with half a dozen dancers, one of whom was a wild, raven-haired beauty named Jen who was going out with Joan Jett. Behind Tommy’s back, I started fucking her, too. I was doing everything I could to keep from committing to anyone.
While I was in Jen’s hotel room, surfing the usual porn gossip sites on the Internet, I discovered that Steve Orenstein had put three new girls under contract to Wicked. I flipped out. The whole reason I had signed with Wicked was so that I wouldn’t have to compete with tons of other contract girls for time and attention. It even said in my contract that Steve couldn’t sign any other girls without my approval. But what hurt more was that he hadn’t even called to tell me. By the time I called Joy, I was hysterical.
“How could he do this to me?” I asked. “How could he sign those girls without talking to me?”
Joy was silent. It was an awkward situation. But I knew what she was thinking. In my anger, it hadn’t occurred to me that the reason he’d signed them was because he had a business to run. Since I had joined Wicked, they had doubled their staff. And my complete lack of reliability and communication over the past year certainly weren’t helping them with their overhead. They couldn’t just sit on their hands and wait for me to come back. I had believed that it was all about me, that I was Wicked. But Steve was Wicked, and always had been.
I didn’t find out until much later that the reason Joy sounded so rushed and nervous on the phone was because she was standing in a studio the whole time supervising a photo shoot for two of the new contract girls.
When I returned to L.A., Nikki was in the front room of our house, folding all my clothes with her usual obsessive-compulsive charm. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Clearly, the old Lyle was back.
I was desperate and confused; she was desperate and confused. Our pledge to stick it out together without men had lasted only a few months. We slept in the same bed that night for the first time in weeks, and in the morning we vowed to get away from it all. We were going to go on tour: together. I called my agent and roadie boy, and within a week it was all set. I had nothing to lose, or so I thought.
The tour would prove to be one of the worst mistakes of my life. I just wasn’t ready to interact with the general public again.
Generally speaking, people are not very original. No matter who you are or what you do, you will inevitably be asked the same questions by every stranger you meet. Typically, your interrogators will show a degree of tact. After all, they don’t want to offend you. But if you happen to belong to that small segment of the working force that has sex on screen for a living, tact goes out the window. Since you are revealing so much of yourself on camera, most people figure that no question—no matter how personal—is off-limits.
I am not just referring to men here. Women actually hit on me much more aggressively than men, who generally stammer a few words while staring at my breasts and then run away to a safe distance where they can stare at my breasts some more.
So, I present to you a list of answers to the most common questions I am asked. Now, when you see me, you’ll have to think of something original to say.
Question: Are those real?
Answer (Good Mood): Yes, real expensive.
Answer (Bad Mood): Yeah, right. It’s natural to be 110 pounds with double-D’s.
With Melissa.
Question: What do I have to do to date you?
Answer (Good Mood): It’s all about confidence. It doesn’t matter what you look like or how much money you have. If you are self-assured, and you act like you can have me if you want me, then I’m yours.
Answer (Bad Mood): Get reincarnated.
Question: Hey, do you remember me? We met at the [convention/strip club] ten years ago. I’m [Generic Name] from [Generic City].
Answer (Good Mood): Um, sure. I meet a lot of people, but I guess you look familiar.
Answer (Bad Mood): Oh my God, [Generic Name]! Where the fuck have you been?! I’ve been thinking about you. In fact, I was just about to call. How’s that data-entry job working out for you?
Question: Do you ever eat?
Answer (Good Mood): I lack too much self-discipline to starve myself. I just have good genes.
Answer (Bad Mood): Yes, I eat a lot more than you. But I also work. I’m not sitting on my ass watching some girl burn calories in a strip club.
Question: Do you get off when you have sex on camera?
Answer (Good Mood): One hundred percent of the time.
Answer (Bad Mood): One hundred percent of the time when I say I do, I’m lying.
Question: Don’t you get sore?
Answer (Good Mood): I probably have sex less than you. I only make about three movies a year, so there’s no real chance for me to get sore.
Answer (Bad Mood): Yes, in fact I’m having orgies so often that I need vaginal rejuvenation surgery weekly.
Question: Is your sex life at home different than in the movies?
Answer (Good Mood): It makes you a little selfish at home. I give less oral and I hate being on top. I’m lazy. The last thing I want to do when I’m home is act like a porn star.
Answer (Bad Mood): No. I always say to my man, “Let’s pound away on the stove for three hours.”
Question: How much money do you make a year?
Answer (Good Mood): Millions.
Answer (Bad Mood): I’m just scraping by, trying to put myself through real-estate school and support my three children. So how about giving me one hundred dollars for talking to you?
Question: How many people have you slept with?
Answer (Good Mood): Somewhere between sixty and eighty people—men and women, on screen and off.
Answer (Bad Mood): More than you, less than my bodyguard Clay.
Question: Do you have a significant other?
Answer (if it’s a hot chick asking): No.
Answer (if it’s not a hot chick asking): Yes.
Question: How do I get in the business?
Answer (Good Mood): See Book IV, chapter 11.
Answer (Bad Mood): Whip your dick out and get hard right now in front of all these people.
Question: Were you molested/raped/beaten/abused?
Answer (Good Mood): I don’t like to talk about it. I’m not one of those girls who goes into detail about it on Howard Stern. I don’t want to be an open book free for the entire world to read—I need to charge at least $27.95, hardcover.
Answer (Bad Mood): No.
Question: Does size matter?
Answer (Good Mood): Oh, no. I like all sizes. It just depends on how you use it.
Answer (Bad Mood): Of course. Any woman who tells you otherwise is lying. It’s like asking, “Does the size of a woman’s pussy matter?” If it’s too big or too small, it’s not going to work for you.
Question: Will you come visit me in prison?
Answer (Good Mood): Thank you for writing. Here’s a signed glossy photo for you to whack off to.
Answer (Bad Mood): Thank you for writing. Here’s a signed glossy photo for you to whack off to.
Question: My girlfriend loves you. Would you get together with her while I watch?
Answer (Good Mood): Let me see your chick.
Answer (Bad Mood): Let me see your chick and, if I like her, you can leave.
Question: How much would I have to pay to have sex with you?
Answer (Good Mood): Well, my husband bought me a $2.5 million house. Can you beat that?
Answer (Bad Mood): Even if there was a nuclear war and we were the last two people alive and the entire future of the human race depended on us breeding, and you had a gun to my head and said you’d kill me if I didn’t
have sex with you, I’d still want a $2.5 million house first.
With Lil’ Kim.
His name was Steve, but they called him Mr. 187. The nickname came from the police code for murder. Nikki and I met him at one of our first tour stops: the Pink Poodle in San Jose, California. He was exactly the kind of bad influence we were looking for.
The Pink Poodle was a wild place, an all-nude strip theater that was always at the epicenter of some major scandal. The girls there were among the raunchiest performers I’ve seen onstage in this country. Nikki and I weren’t willing to do much more than get fucked-up and fall all over each other onstage, so our tips suffered accordingly.
The only thing that redeemed the night was meeting Mr. 187—a former marine, an erstwhile middleweight boxer, and the sergeant-at-arms for the West Coast chapter of the Hell’s Angels. Mr. 187 was a badass motherfucker who was angry at the world and enjoyed nothing more than snapping a guy’s arm for looking at him wrong. So naturally, we took him on tour with us.
Nikki and I were angry at the world in our own way, and Mr. 187’s function was to justify and enable it. He’d fan the flames of our Vicodin-and-vodka-fueled rage to the point where we got so out of control that even he couldn’t handle us. I’d smash out mirrors in dressing rooms; Nikki would clamp guys in leglocks until their heads turned purple; we’d kick drinks in guys’ faces; and we’d pass out on top of each other onstage.
We were as destructive—and self-destructive—as a rock band. With both of us at the top of our game as porn stars, it was our greatest-hits tour. Most guys will watch a favorite porn clip more than they watch Star Wars or Zoolander, so when they saw us standing three inches from their faces, they went insane. Hundreds of people would chant our names before each show and fight to get close to the stage.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 33