Pantera and all my friends got off the bus to help me get my stuff out of the bay. Each gave me one last hug.
I walked up to Exotica. “Who are your friends?” she asked me, dumbfounded.
“They’re the best,” I said. “The best.”
*
Mac and I started a romance on the road, and as we became more of a couple, he would get jealous. We fought a lot, and sometimes it got physical. There was a night I climbed through the window of a bathroom I’d locked myself in to get away from him. I wasn’t having that, so I fired him and broke up with him all at once. We’re cool now, but back then we just weren’t good together.
I found Jay, a smaller guy who wasn’t there for security but was great as a roadie. He could drive twenty-four hours without stopping and could size up a club within a minute of walking in. He was a bass player, and I have a thing for bass players, so I fell for him, too.
I’d clocked two years of feature dancing and was killing myself driving all over. I was making a hundred dollars a show before tips and doing fifteen shows a week. The problem was that I had topped out on rate. I’d done just about every magazine except Penthouse and Playboy. And the only way to bump your rate up after you top out is to do films. Devon Michaels, who opened so many doors for me, was in the same boat. She called me one day and told me, “I’m going to go to L.A. I’ve decided to do porn.”
“Oh, my God, wow,” I said. I didn’t have any negative views of people who worked in the adult entertainment industry. In fact, I loved porn and had a collection of DVDs. This was before the internet made porn so readily accessible—you had to want it to see it.
“You should come with me,” she said.
“I’ve never…”
“I’ll buy your ticket,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
Sold. We both flew to L.A. on May 1, 2002. Right off the plane that very first day, she was booked to do an all-girl sex scene for Makin’ It, a film for Wicked Pictures. It starred Stephanie Swift playing a young singer trying to break into show business. Wicked was actually my favorite of the various movie studios. They made very cinematic films that blended action and story, many of which were remakes of popular mainstream films or send-ups of genres. My favorite film was Dream Quest, a 2000 Wicked production starring Jenna Jameson as a modern woman drawn into a fairy tale. It was directed by Brad Armstrong, who would be shooting Devon that day. Brad was also a performer, and I found him incredibly hot.
Devon asked if I wanted to come along, and of course I did. That day I learned what I still tell people: “You don’t want to go to set. It’s going to ruin porn for you forever.” It’s not that it’s somehow degrading or gross—it’s that there’s nothing spontaneous about it whatsoever. Everyone is there to do a job. I saw this way up close right away, because Brad said I could sit in a little closet on set, just three feet from the four-way but still out of the shot. It was the film’s star Stephanie Swift, Nicole Sheridan, my friend Devon, and another girl pretending to be in the dressing room of a Coyote Ugly–type bar. They’re dancers and they’re counting their tips, which naturally leads to getting out dildos.
These four girls were going at it like they were inventing girl-on-girl rough sex. The grunts, the cries, the “yeah, yeah, yeahs.” One girl was using a double-ended dildo to fuck another one doggy-style while also thrusting the opposite end into herself. Devon was helpfully spreading the ass cheeks of the receiver while getting fucked with another dildo. It takes a village.
Stephanie was going, “Unh unh unh unh” at the top of her lungs when Brad said, “Cut.”
They all broke character, relaxing their bodies with double-headed dildos still inside them.
“Do you think the weather is gonna be good this week?” Stephanie asked, as the camera guy switched tapes. Back then you had to do that for every twenty minutes of film.
“I think so,” said Nicole, just as nonchalant. “I don’t think there’s rain coming, so it might just stay humid.”
The tech said, “Ready,” and they were right back at it.
“Oh, God, yes, yes, yes, yes!” screamed Nicole, in time with each thrust of a dildo.
After a while, Brad said, “Cut. I want to move the lighting.” While the men on the crew saw to that, the girls checked their nails.
“Is anyone gonna be at that party Friday?” said Nicole.
“Oh, it’s so far out,” said Stephanie. “I don’t know if—”
“Action,” said Brad.
“Yeah, like that!” yelled Stephanie, falling right back into heavy-breathing rhythm. “Just like that, you fucker! Oh, God, oh, God!”
On set, you’re not just breaking the fourth wall. You’re pissing on it, then knocking it over with a bulldozer. But I still found it interesting, so when I went back the next day I agreed to shoot a scene as a clothed extra. They did my makeup and it was the very first time I’d ever had it professionally done. And it was the first time I ever wore false eyelashes.
“These are so heavy,” I said, my eyelids drooping down and then flashing up as I got used to them. How do you people do it? I wondered. Now I can put them on while driving!
I got on camera and these little murmurs went up in the crew. Jake Jacobs, the camera operator, called Ric Rodney, the lighting guy, to look.
“Hunh,” they said, each turning their heads. Ric came over, adjusted a light near me, and Jake nodded.
“What?” I said.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Jake. “You’re pretty, but you’re beautiful on camera.”
I didn’t take it the wrong way. Jake would shoot every single movie I would do. Ric is still my guy when it comes to lighting my films.
Brad Armstrong came over to me. “Do you do movies?”
“Well, no,” I said. “But I love them.”
“I think the owner of the company would like to meet you,” he said. “Maybe talk to you about a contract.”
I didn’t even know there was such a thing. When you do a contract, you work exclusively for that company and have job security and a company promoting you like the old MGM studio system. Jenna Jameson had been a contract girl for Wicked. I knew Devon really wanted a contract and didn’t want to be a freelancer.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just here with Devon. Isn’t Devon incredible? She—”
“We should go out tonight and get dinner,” Brad said. When I didn’t immediately answer, he added: “The three of us.”
“Okay.”
“Where do you wanna go?” he asked.
“I want to see the Sunset Strip,” I said, which made him burst out laughing because that is such a touristy thing to want to do. “I need to see the Whisky a Go Go, ’cause that’s where Mötley Crüe played and they lived above it.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
That night Brad picked us up in a convertible Camaro that had the Wicked logo across it. It was the Wicked pace car, and the company was printing money at that point. We went to the Saddle Ranch Chop House, which has a rock-and-western atmosphere. I rode the mechanical bull, of course, and I won five hundred dollars for managing to stay on. Brad told me later that as he was watching me ride the bull he was like, in a villain voice, “I must be in her.”
The three of us went back to his house, and the whole time I’m thinking, This is going to be two firsts. My first threesome, and my first one-night stand. Adding to that, this was the first time I’d ever had sex with someone who I considered a man. Someone who wasn’t my age. Brad is about fourteen years older than me—and he owns a house. It didn’t get more adult to me than that.
We were sitting in a circle on his bed, kissing and making out. Brad pulled his dick out, and it was the biggest dick I’d ever seen up to that point. Now, in Pornland, I can now tell you it is very average. But it was the biggest penis I’d ever seen.
I fell backward off the bed and hit my head. “There’s no way that’s gonna fit!” I yelled. (Reader, it fit.)
Br
ad offered to help me meet with the owner of Wicked, and I took him up on it. But first I was set to go along with Devon, who was shooting a girl-girl scene in American Girls: Part Two for a company called Sin City. The second girl canceled, and Devon panicked because she was scared to work with someone she didn’t know.
I’m a girl’s girl, so I got roped into it. The premise of this girl-girl scene was typical porn: We are hiking when my friend sprains her ankle out on the trail. I give her a shoulder to lean on, and when that doesn’t fully do the job, I comfort her with my vagina. The film was directed by Michael Raven, who later came to Wicked as a director. The cameraman on set that day was François Clousot, who I just shot with the other day, and the makeup artist was a girl named Shelby Stevens, who left the business but I swear I was just texting a few minutes ago. Once you click with me, I’m with you for life.
We shot in Dry Gulch Ranch, this rocky, desert location in the Santa Monica Mountains of West Malibu. There were all these terms they use in porn that I didn’t know. The first was “Wildlife!” They yelled that out, and it just means there’s a bug or creature wandering onto the set. They weren’t kidding: There was a scorpion wandering the set that day, and I saw my first tarantula.
Then I heard Michael say, “Okay, thirty seconds to build up to a FIP.”
I froze. “What’s a FIP?” I yelled. “I don’t know if I do that!” It’s a fake orgasm, a “Fake Internal Pop.” The term is used in softcore filmmaking because you can’t show guys coming in those films, so it’s simulated. Usually it’s for boy-girl scenes, obviously, but it’s also used for girls.
The next day, a Friday, Brad made good on his offer to introduce me to the owner of Wicked. He seemed interested, but he’s not someone who really shows his cards. I was scheduled to take a red-eye back to Baton Rouge the next day, and Devon was flying out for a dance booking. I was staying at Brad’s—so much for a one-night stand—and right before he took me and Devon to the airport, he pulled me aside.
“If you decide to stay, I could make you a star,” he said. “Whether or not you sign with Wicked, someone will sign you. And you will go on to make a minimum fifteen thousand dollars a month.”
“What?” I said, immediately doing the math. One hundred eighty thousand dollars a year sounded like a gold mine.
“I’ll help you if you want me to,” he said. “But this is kind of your shot.”
We got to LAX, which was fucking terrifying to someone who’d never really been by herself in a big city. Brad got my carry-on out of the back of the Camaro, and I said good-bye. I promised I’d be back someday. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
Devon’s flight was first, so I waited with her until she left. I thanked her for the millionth time for always doing so much for me. And then it was just me, all alone. I sat at the gate for my flight to Baton Rouge. I looked at the sign and sighed. They were boarding first class. I was way in the back. I looked at my bag, then the Baton Rouge sign again.
I heard Brad’s voice in my head. “This is kinda your shot.”
This is my shot, I thought. I knew I was only going to get one.
I grabbed my bag and I walked out of the airport. I wasn’t even old enough to rent a car, I didn’t have a credit card, and I didn’t have any money. I called the only number that I had in L.A.
Brad Armstrong answered on the first ring.
“I just walked out of the airport,” I said.
He gave me the name of a Mexican restaurant and bar he was heading to in Calabasas. “Take a cab there and I’ll meet you.”
It was a Cinco de Mayo party, and some of the biggest names in the porn industry were there. Brad paid my fare, then walked me around, introducing me to all these amazing people. I went home with him that night and we lived together as a couple for the next fourteen months. I left everything else behind, and I had my car shipped from Baton Rouge.
Because he liked me, Brad thought Wicked would probably sign me. But he also knew that no matter how respected he was in the business, I had to at least shoot a lead before Wicked would make me a contract star. With his clout, he walked me right in to meet the directors at the companies that he wanted me to work with. I never had an adult agent, and I never had an adult manager. I can hear you thinking, “Oh, here’s where she gets screwed.” Quite the opposite. I am the first to admit I was handed this golden ticket. I was in the right place at the right time and I grew the right set of balls in the moment so that I would not miss my shot.
I never had to climb the ranks or do the hard stuff. Or do scenes without a condom. I’ve been in the adult industry all this time and I’ve never had a dirty test, which is when you test positive for chlamydia or gonorrhea. I don’t have herpes, which is crazy, because a lot of people do, especially in the business. And it’s because Brad took me by the hand and walked me into the office of people who he trusted and he knew would take care of me. I only did top-shelf projects, and I was usually the lead. I know that was a source of a lot of jealousy for people who had really done their due diligence and had worked their way up. Later, when Adult Video News nominated me for Performer of the Year—which is like a Best Actress Oscar in our industry— they asked the people nominated to do on-camera interviews that they teased until the end of the awards show.
In the interview, they asked me, “Why do you think you deserve to win Performer of the Year?”
“I fucking don’t,” I said. “I’m embarrassed to be here—I didn’t earn this. There are girls who are literal sexual acrobats and have been in the trenches. I’ve been a cream puff.” They never nominated me again. That’s my problem, I’m too honest. But I think the girls in that room could look at me and say, “At least the bitch is honest.”
When I started doing films, Brad gave me some advice. “You should stick to doing girl-girl and solo stuff at first,” he said. “Pace yourself. Because if Wicked decides to give you a contract, they’re gonna want your first boy-girl.” Brad also wanted to be the one to do my first boy-girl scene with me. He wasn’t giving that up.
When an opportunity arose to do a scene with him as a lead in a Wicked film, I took it. For Heat, Brad wrote me as Charlotte, a Louisiana vixen—hmmph—who plots to steal eighty-seven thousand dollars from a drifter con artist whose car breaks down in my little town. I found doing a boy-girl scene to be easier for me than girl-girl. Just logistically, when it comes to kissing another woman, you’ve got two sets of lashes hitting, the lipstick all over the place. Guys usually have no ego with me, whereas girls … Let’s be honest, this is a business where your income and popularity are directly related to how pretty you are.
By the time I did Heat, I was blonder. I’d noticed that the head of Wicked preferred blondes, and the more blond I got, the more work I got. Finally, I went fully blond, and it’s amazing what blond hair and big boobs instantly do, by the way. Everyone thinks you’re stupid, but they sure want you around. Sure enough, two months into my career, Wicked signed me and I had to finalize a stage name. My initial thought was Stephanie Storm, but they said it was too close to Stephanie Swift, another actress.
“Why don’t you keep Stormy?” the boss said. “There’s never been a Stormy, and it just suits you.”
Going with Stormy felt weird. Brad was born Rod Hopkins. Marilyn Monroe was Norma Jean Mortenson. If I had to be this larger-than-life character onscreen, could I really do it as Stormy? But I went with it, and chose Daniels as a last name, a tribute to a Jack Daniel’s ad I saw that called it “a Southern favorite.” You can take the girl out of her Dodge Durango and hitch-trailer …
Magazines were really huge back then, and Brad told me I needed to start meeting photographers. “You can shoot with them and increase your profile without saturating the video market,” he said. “Are there any photographers that you know?”
“Not in L.A.,” I said. “The only photographer that I know by name out here isn’t interested in shooting me.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Because I’ve submitted Polaroids for years and they’ve never even responded.”
“Well, who’s that?” he asked. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to shoot you.”
“You have to say that because we’re fucking,” I said. “Her name’s Suze Randall.”
“Suze?” he said. “Let’s go to her house right now.”
“What? You know Suze?”
“She shoots me all the time,” he said. “She’ll shoot you.”
Suze Randall is a legend in photography, not just for being so talented, but for being a trailblazer. Born in England, she was initially a model, then became Playboy’s first female staff photographer and also one of the first women to direct porn. I was so nervous for the entire ride to her place, a thirty-acre ranch outside Malibu. As we approached, I saw she had horses, and my heart leapt a little.
She greeted us in riding pants, a dirty shirt, and a Q-tip shock of white hair. She immediately grabbed at Brad’s crotch. “Did you bring me a new little sluttie?” she asked, her demented singsong British accent making her sound like some horny headmistress. I was instantly in love. “Ohhhh,” she purred. “We need to get her on the calendar right away.”
The next time I was at the ranch, we shot in her studio. Before Suze even showed up, there were hours of prep work on lighting and wardrobe. Emma Nixon, a former model, did my makeup, and once again I was blinking from the weight of fake lashes. Finally, Suze came in and sat on a skateboard so she could quickly roll back and forth to get the angles.
“That’s right, show ’em your pink little twattie,” she said. “That’s a good little piggy. Piggy, piggy, piggy.” She could never get away with that now, but after I was over the initial horror, I fell deeper in love. Especially when I saw the finished product. She went on to shoot me fifty times and got me my first layout in Penthouse.
Once again, Brad had opened doors for me. I began tagging along to all of his sets to watch him direct. He was great at what he did, but writing all those scripts didn’t seem to be his favorite part, so he sometimes fell behind. We were sitting in bed together and he was grimacing at the screen.
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