Hobble, hobble, hobble, door locked. Oh shit, door locked and purse is still in Tim’s love den—shit!
Around the side of the house to Callie’s window, bam, bam, bam, bam, “Callie!” Loud whisper-scream so Lissette wouldn’t hear me and proceed over yonder and beat the shit out of me.
I heard Callie: “Oh god, I’ve gotta get off the phone and call the police—someone is outside.”
I was still pounding on the glass, wondering if blondes do have lower IQs. Around to the front door. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, as I peered into the entry hall door. I could see Callie crouched on the floor calling the police. Oh god, Callie, you can’t be this stupid, you really can’t.
Around to the back of the house I ran. Maybe we’d left the back door unlocked as usual. As I ran to the back door, the inevitable occurred—not Lissette as expected, no, something more lethal to little suede pants. The sprinkler went off. The sprinkler sprinkled my little suede pants until they were drenched and cold and sagged around my oh-so-perfect size-2 booty—like poopy diapers on a toddler.
The back door was unlocked. The police were called off. Lissette went back into Animal House’s house and all was quiet this birthday eve. This eve of New Year’s Eve.
Tim came over the next day and explained a few things, including he didn’t really think it “appropriate” to have our New Year’s Eve date now with Lissette and the engagement and all. You think so, motherfucker? You really think it “inappropriate”?
Tim and Lissette were soon unengaged, and I was soon in love with another actor, trading Animal House in for a Hardy Boy.
Tim taught me something I could never have learned the easy way . . . don’t trust actors no matter how many éclairs they offer you.
Art is what you can get away with.
—ANDY WARHOL
The Art of
Anal Sex
“NO!”
I’ve already told you. The only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torture. I know none other as sure.
It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.
—MARQUIS DE SADE
The Art of
Pain
THE ART of living with a perverted man is both precarious and dangerous to the soul. Being with one is a bit like being owned by a rabid dog, albeit with black latex. It’s not my intention to “out” the assholes who tried to destroy me—unless it makes for a funny story. It’s not my intention to make the girlfriends I confided in hate the men who have done cruel or bizarre things to me—they already hate them. I guess my intention is to warn women about men like this next one.
At one time or another, most strong women are drawn to one of these guys. If you LIVE through it, you will have funny stories to tell. But most don’t. This chapter is out of sequence. Kinda like my life was.
I’m the girl who developed the “one hit” theory at an early age. True, women can miscalculate the sanity of their male choices, but five minutes after he gives you that first hit, punch, trip, or shove, you should head on down the road.
There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. As an example, I’ve had two men hit me, well, sorta. One flogged me with a beach towel and the other slapped me after I slapped him in the face because he said Ann-Margret was sexy.
I’ve had men do the occasional “puffing up,” like an ape. This posture makes a girl think the gorilla is going to give her a pounding if she doesn’t shut up and stop taunting it. And yes, I’ve had the walls behind me slugged, instead of my face, which proved painful to the fists that mistook cement for Sheetrock.
There was the one guy who used to hit the bed close to where I was sitting, making it clear I was the real target and not the Tempur-Pedic. I also have to admit I’ve been grabbed hard a few times. But that’s the extent of my male-inflicted physical abuse. I must admit reluctantly that I’ve given a few “reasons” to be more physically aggressive. When I go in for the kill I can antagonize a saint.
I remember when Parker was throttling me with a beach towel after he overheard me tell another actor “I love you” on the upstairs phone. While I was getting a soft thrashing I was thinking to myself, Should I cry “abuse”? My answer was no. If I were him, I’d have strangled me.
So, I can unequivocally say, I’ve never been physically abused by a man.
But the most damaging abuses, in my opinion, come in the form of invalidation, nullification, and trickery.
One man in my life was a master of said abuses to the nth degree. Let’s just call him “Christian Black,” for the sake of his undeserved anonymity.
Black was devastatingly handsome with a devastatingly enormous penis. He was a creative genius and unfathomably charismatic.
I’ve since learned from other powerful women that this is the lethal combination. If you throw in richer than dirt, it is the crowning blow. Black was not that, but he possessed the other qualities in spades.
I met him on the set of a famous TV series. I wasn’t in the production; I was just visiting a friend.
If Black had lasers for eyes he would have bored a hole through my soul. Instead he just used his normal eyes and his devastating smile to lure me in his direction. All he said to me in that first encounter was “Hi, I admire your work.”
Really? I thought, I admire your Marlon Brando dimples. I have no idea who you are so I can’t admire your work but I highly admire that you look like an aquiline Greek god.
The next time I met Black was in the lobby of a hotel. I was leaving for Italy the next day to put a charity project together.
He walked right up to me. “Hi, remember me? I’m Black.”
Wow!! Do I ever!! Of course I remember you! You’re the most handsome man on earth, you crazy fool! As I came to my senses, I answered coyly “Oh, hi Black.”
“May I sit down?” he politely asked.
“Of course,” I coolly said.
“What are you working on?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m going to Italy tomorrow to do some charity stuff, and I’m trying to figure out the exchange rate of the dollar versus the lira.” What transpired next was subtle, yet slightly insightful.
He said, “I’ll come to Italy and help you.”
I laughed, “Oh you will, will you?”
“Yes, I will.” He smiled. “I like what you’re doing. That’s all. I’d love to help you,” he said.
And there it was; hook, help, and sinker. I’d never had a man use “help” to lure me in.
I was curious about this “help” he had offered, and I showed him a map of all the places I was going in Italy. But I was running behind and had to get packed and do my errands before I departed, so I told him I had to leave.
At the end of our conversation he closed with “If you need any help, I’ll come over at the drop of a hat.”
And there it was again. He didn’t have me at “hello,” he had me at “help.”
I turned down his offer, as I was already going to Italy with another man. I went to Italy for three months and forgot all about Christian Black.
So I did my charity work while I traversed Italy, giving the term “under the Tuscan sun” a new and dangerous meaning. The person I’d gone with threatened to break up with me, saying, “There is no oxygen in your universe, no room for anyone else.” He was right; I had sucked up all the air and was fighting for more. When we got back from Italy, we broke up.
Black must have heard the rumor. He called me and asked me to come to his house to tell me about the Italy trip. I told him I was doing errands and could only stop by for a few minutes, but he said that worked out perfectly because he had to go to an event.
I was sitting on the edge of his bed as he was getting ready for his engagement. As he passed by me, he gave me our first kiss: a little tiny, soft kiss on the lips, followed by probably about nine little tiny rapid kisses, barely-touching-me kisses.
My first make-out encounters have always been, There you are, here I am BAM! Full-on making out.
Bu
t not from this gentleman. It threw me into a dreamy tailspin. I felt dizzy and in a slight drug delirium, like I’d just taken a couple of Quaaludes. My heart pounded like I’d been kissed for the first time. Then he was off. I just stayed still, perched on the edge of his bed. I sat there for a long time wondering What the hell just happened? I was under his gentle, charismatic spell.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the “Blacks,” it’s that they are slow, gentle, subtle, and endearing. The agenda is laid out like sweet agave nectar—clean, clear, easily digested.
Perverted men never have a P branded on their foreheads. They’ve had lots of practice enticing butterflies into their web. Every step is calculated like lining up dominoes, delicately ensuring the rows don’t topple into a cascading avalanche.
But how could I have known this? I was the girl who thought kinky sex was “doing it” any other way than missionary. I once had a guy smack me on the ass when we were kissing, and I fled his house immediately, knowing he was a perv. It helped that he whispered, “Daddy needs to spank his bad girl,” but I had that radar, that instinctual red flag that pops up, that is innate in women. The flag that tells us this guy is nasty and this would be the tip of the nasty he’ll become. I didn’t hesitate with this guy, “Reed, I said I gotta go, I’m late.”
Women have built-in danger barometers. Or it would seem. For the straight-up freaks, the antennae work well. But for the masters of sexual manipulation and deception it seems the bells, whistles, flags, and radar are rendered useless long before they go in for the kill. It’s like the way a wave erodes a shoreline: it happens slowly, and then before you know it, the foundation of your house is crumbling.
Christian Black had a room in his house that was essentially a dungeon/shooting range combo. It was decorated with a dental-office chair, an S&M black leather swing, and other gadgets of pain. There were no windows . . .
“What the hell is this?” I asked when he took me in there on our first real “date” to shoot .22s in his basement firing range. Oh lord, at this point in the story I can hear all the girls who’ve fallen for this dude screaming, “Oh my god!! I used to date that guy! I know Black!!”
“Oh, this shit?” he laughed and explained. “I just did an indy film in here, just haven’t gotten rid of it yet.”
Phew, I thought, phew! What was I thinking? Of course, that’s it. There’s the logical answer I needed. Phew! I really did believe him. After all, he was the guy who had done nothing with me but give me nine tiny kisses, as gentle as a baby’s kisses.
“When does the movie come out?” I asked.
“Um, uh, the movie should be released in about six months, a cool movie—I play a perv.”
I teased, “Now, you’re sure you’re not into this kinky stuff, right?”
“Yeah, right! This is where I bring all my victims,” he laughed.
He laughed. My god, how funny my new love was. How funny and witty and handsome. I hadn’t seen his enormous dick yet, or I would have included that, too.
It all made sense to me, it truly did. S&M was so far from my reality that it wasn’t even a thought. And zero flags went up, zero bells chimed, nary a bleep on my superb radar.
Just an acting role. Just an indy movie. Just a shooting range where we spent hours firing hundreds of rounds into paper targets. He didn’t even kiss me.
I was madly in love. He was just mad.
The sick threads of his web had begun to attach to my mind.
He never did anything or tried to do anything to me with that equipment or in that room, which was further evidence he was telling the truth. He was a “good” guy. Or was he?
The first time we made love (I hate that term), it was mind- and body-blowing. He smelled like a combination of sugar and clean sweat. He was loving, gentle, and a bit of an expert. I remember vividly when I laid eyes on his cock-a-doodle do, I thought I had hit the mother lode. In my not-so-vast dick experience, I’d only encountered what I would call “regular dicks,” not tiny (except for the hairless man), not huge, just regular, except Doug who had regular length but mighty girth.
But this thing was off the hook! At first I was afraid of it, like a mighty monster unleashed in the room. I wondered, Will something like that fit in something like this? But the prospect of it was exhilarating. I’d only heard stories of huge-dicked men like Lee Majors and John Holmes . . . and all black men. I thought, Well . . . either I’ll die being ripped apart, which will make for a unique Enquirer story, or I’ll figure how to work into it. And you know, you DO have to work into it. Sorta like a born-again virgin, I was.
It was all straight-up, straight sex. Except for the adjustment of Black’s blackman dick, it was same ole, same ole. Oh, and did I mention that he was really good at it? The best; no one else had ever come close. Wild and strong, he threw me around like I was Tiny Barbie. All was good in the big-dicked hood.
And this normal yet stunning sex went on every night for about three months. Tiny kisses, deep kisses, incredible, creative, passionate, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone” sex.
I was at the top of my game in all senses. Hit movie, hit series, movies “on the table” for my hiatuses, in my prime, in my zone, madly, deeply in love.
As he began to make love to me on that November night right before Thanksgiving, I was at the pinnacle of love and trust for this man. I’ve finally done it right, I thought. I never imagined life could be this unique and glorious, and I’ve finally found the person that I’m willing to do anything for. I’m willing to share the oxygen.
As I was lying there in some lovesick delirium I felt his hand move around my throat. Whoa, what’s this? I thought. Then his other hand slipped over my mouth while strategically pinching the air off in my nose. My first reaction was to start laughing; I just couldn’t stop laughing and giggling because I couldn’t imagine it was anything but a joke.
I remember the look in his eyes when he pulled back from me and asked, “Do you think this is funny?”
I immediately became introverted. Oh, god, had I insulted him? Had I made him feel like I thought he was going to hurt me?
“Er, uh, well, no, not funny, but it’s uh, no, I don’t think it’s funny.”
He put me in my place, didn’t he?
But he wasn’t hurting me, and we began making love again. His hand went back to my throat, his other hand across my mouth to keep me from breathing. There wasn’t a lot of pressure on my throat—he wasn’t actually choking me—but there was definitely too much pressure.
I kept fighting off laughing, but again I started giggling. I wasn’t afraid at all. I just thought it was funny, that he was kidding me, playing with me. And again he drew back and asked, “Do you think this is funny?”
This time I couldn’t stop laughing, and I said, “Well, it better be funny, or you’re getting off on killing me!” Hahahahahaha.
His eyes looked like he snapped back into his head, like he snapped out of this peculiar trance.
He started laughing, too. “I’m just fucking with you!”
And I believed him.
Of course he was just fucking with me, otherwise I was with someone who liked choking women. Someone who got off on pretending he was killing women. Wow! Phew! That was a close call!
We giggled together and made love and slept like babies.
A few weeks later, there was that hand around my throat again, there was that trancelike look in his eyes, and there was that other hand cutting off my ability to breathe unless I turned my head and gasped for air. And after a few weeks of this, the girl who laughed before had changed. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t feel like laughing, and my thoughts had shifted to I was too straight before. Too dull, too regular, too mainstream, not hip, not cool, not edgy, not Hollywood.
And that seed that was forming inside my mind, like a malignant tumor, began to grow.
What was once funny and unreal began to be normal, escalating, and varied.
Bizarre sex toys, ridin
g crops, weird role-playing, wigs.
We never spoke about it, and I never queried it. We began fighting, outrageous fights. At first I delighted in the fights, and anything became fair game, except physical abuse.
I felt like a modern-day version of George and Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Our fights became epic! I’d never rolled like this! With other men I was analytical and civil. It seemed so boring compared to flipping tables over, crashing vases, clearing entire table-tops with my arms, screaming at the top of our lungs, and my favorite: bolting out of the house, yelling, “I’m fucking leaving you!”
The more bizarre our fights got, the more perverted our sex life became, including the “rules.” Rule number one: What he did to me couldn’t be done to him. I was tied up. He was not allowed to be. I was choked and “play” suffocated. Never him.
I followed the rules like a good little slave.
His secret weapons were:
1. You’re getting fat.
2. You’re older than I am.
3. Why are you wearing that?
4. Why don’t you do what you did to me two weeks ago?
When I would say, “I don’t remember what we did two weeks ago, could you tell me?” his answer was “No, if you can’t remember what I like, then forget it.” There were many more rules, equally lopsided.
He was insanely jealous of my fame, and he pouted or caused an enormous fight if I didn’t wear hats, wigs, or dark glasses to conceal my identity when we were out.
He didn’t like any of my friends, and he frequently protested that they all hated him. So he set about his agenda of culling me out of my herd so that I belonged only to him.
He made Mickey Rourke in 91/2 Weeks look like a novice.
The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 11