by Traci Lords
Tori Amos turned out to be magic in concert. She played to a packed house in Auckland Hall the following month. I dragged my driver, Otis, with me. Tori wore blue jeans and red ruby slippers. I sat transfixed in our front-row seats watching her writhe around on the piano bench as she played. Her curly orange hair hung in her eyes as she wailed “Silent All These Years.” Then she stood up with the microphone and walked across the dimly lit stage as she spoke the words to the rape song “Me and a Gun.”
The notebook page on which I wrote “Father’s Field.”
Man, she was brave. I was amazed that anyone else shared the same horrible thoughts I had entertained as a teenager, the very thoughts that had driven me to drugs, drowning me in a sea of meaningless sexual activity.
She said out loud what I’d always fought to hide. Why did I do that?
I was quiet on the ride home. Bowing out of the evening’s clubbing schedule, I called Brook from a soapy bubble bath. I missed him. I felt vulnerable and had done a lot of thinking in my time away from home. I was changing. It was unsettling. I thought I’d already put the pieces of my life together. I thought I’d already dealt with everything in therapy. So why was I spending so much time thinking about these things all over again? Why did they even matter anymore?
I wanted to go home.
45
Shades of Blue and Green
I came back from New Zealand three months later with a few good stories, a few more friends, and the shadow of things past hanging over me. I was thrilled to see Brook. We spent the afternoon on our sunny front porch painting each other’s toenails shades of blue. “It’s clear you missed my grooming services,” I teased, marveling at how long his nails had grown. They practically curled over the tops of his toes, strangely resembling Mr. Steve’s claws, a comparison that earned me a playful swat from my indignant husband.
Coming home was always weird for me and this was no exception. It seemed my body arrived before my spirit did. I think I felt our separation more than Brook had. I sat there in the sun taking him in, chatting about the cast, filming in the jungle, my Slip ’N Slide ride into the waterfall, how bummed I was that I never got to meet Stephen King in person—you know, light stuff. But what I really wanted to talk about was Tori Amos and how her song had affected me. I’d never spoken about the rape to anyone, not even Brook. I searched for a way to tell him, but it all seemed wrong. As much as I wanted to share my feelings, something stopped me. I wasn’t sure I would ever tell another soul my secret.
Why had I been silent all these years? Was it because I didn’t want Brook to see me as a victim? Was it because saying the words made me feel so helpless? Or was it because I didn’t want my husband to have that image of me? Why after all these years did I still carry such shame? How does anyone get over these things? Maybe I needed a new round of therapy? Argggggggg! The thought of spending more time in the shrink zone practically made me groan out loud. I’d already done a good three years, on and off. Wasn’t that enough time to unload a girl’s baggage?
I listened to Brook talk shop, grateful for the distraction. He sucked on a cigarette, filling me in on the new movies going into production around town. I’d have to ask my new management team if there was anything in them for me, I thought. Brook always had his ear to the ground, looking to get the jump on his competition. He was stressed about booking another prop gig, but I took it with a grain of salt, knowing full well that Brook was always worried about his next gig. He didn’t need to be, though. His reputation always put him in front of the line.
Our painting chores complete, we walked our pretty feet off into the kitchen, strapped on our aprons, and fried up some bacon. We built bacon and bagel sandwiches and brewed up a pot of coffee, falling back in sync with each other.
The next day I entered the elevator at 8730 Sunset Boulevard, pressing the button that would take me to a meeting with my new managers, Juliet Green and Alan Siegel. I didn’t know them very well, having signed with them only a couple of months earlier. But I was already impressed with their connections, having booked the Tommyknockers film through them. I was sure they’d want to hear all about my filming adventures and readied a few quick sound bites from my trip to New Zealand for their amusement.
Juliet Green, a petite woman with curly brown hair, was like a steamroller. A straight shooter with impeccable taste, she had strong opinions about my career and what it would take to get me from point A to point B. My agent, Don Gerler, was not in these plans, and I knew that if I wanted to continue on with Ms. Green it would mean listening to her advice.
Gerler’s days were numbered. Juliet wanted to see me represented by a more prestigious agency, and although Gerler had always been respectable in my eyes, I was still being offered bad-B-movie auditions while the Movies of the Week and serious independent films came and went without ever landing in my hands. Treading in unknown waters is always risky, but there was no doubt it was time to take the leap. I had never had a woman put such faith in my career, and I wondered if there were more Juliet Greens in the world. Could this be my time? Was it possible for me to step into the next phase of my life? Was I beginning to look different to the world?
I was a grown-up, happily married, with some good work to my credit and a reputation for being professional and kind. But how do I get people to focus on that? Juliet said there would be doors that I would never be allowed to walk through, but there would be those we could break down. It had been five years since my departure from porn and I was only beginning to get recognition as a legitimate actress. There was still much to learn, much to do, and much to forget.
The task seemed daunting. But with her at my side, I took the leap and fired Gerler, diving into uncharted waters feeling confident she’d be there to toss me a life preserver if I needed one.
46
Star Sauté
It was a scorching ninety-one degrees in Sherman Oaks, California, as my husband and a small army of movers finished unloading the final boxes into our newly rented house in the heart of the Valley. Both of our careers were in transition. We had outgrown our adorable Hansel and Gretel home but were still uncertain about where we wanted to nest permanently, so we opted to save our money and rent a three-bedroom Valley home with a pool and huge garage for Brook to store his props in. His massive collection included everything from ladies’ purses to rubber guns, and our new garage was already overflowing with boxes on wheels containing his prized prop kit. It was then I discovered that a property master was just another name for junk man. Through the kitchen window I watched him methodically organize hundreds of sunglasses by brand. The sweat rolled down his face as he lovingly cleaned each pair and then placed them in their proper case.
What an odd creature, I thought, smiling to myself.
He hustled about in his Hawaiian shorts and combat boots as I watched the neighbors watching him. So much for blending in. Brook didn’t care, though. He dubbed it his “festive moving outfit.” What could I say? He was a constant source of amusement. He’s still cute, I thought, taking in his oh-so-pale Baltimore bird legs and noticing the extra married poundage he’d put on, which had earned him a rather undesirable Sam Kinison comparison by the press at a recent party we’d attended. Funny how un-Hollywood the two of us really were. We rarely went out, cooking feasts in our kitchen instead, and never hit the club scene, preferring an occasional bottle of champagne in the privacy of our own home. We were recluses and I believe that served me well. There was no evidence of my wild-child party-girl days.
As I unpacked my pots and pans I watched Brook take a seat out front by the white picket fence and grab a smoke. What are you thinking about right now? I wondered as I studied the expression on his face, but couldn’t gauge his thoughts.
Change was thick in the air—I could feel it in my bones.
I’d been spending way too much time away from home and I wondered if it was shooting holes in our marriage. There was so much I wanted to do, and ironically, the safety I felt being
married was exactly what allowed me to swim in uncharted waters with sharks. Was I naive to believe our marriage was that solid? Why was it accepted for a man to put his career first but when a woman did she was criticized? My husband was always there to hold me when I fell on my ass, whether that meant I lost a role, got trashed in the press, or just felt beaten up and wanted to give it all up, disappear from the public eye, and get a normal job. While he supported me completely in those moments, he still couldn’t hide his jealousy over the time I spent pursuing other things.
My ambition was the greatest problem in our marriage, and as I grew and added music to my career wish list, things became even more difficult. Brook always fancied himself the singer of the family, having grown up playing in bands, and he wasn’t thrilled when I started studying music and hired a vocal coach named Robert Edwards to help me expand my vocal range. He wasn’t exactly against it but he wasn’t for it either. And it just added to the building tension between us.
I’d spent the past month working on a film in Italy called Mafia Docks, only to return home and win a role in the enormously popular show Tales from the Crypt. Thanks to my gamble on Juliet Green and a new agent named Stephen LaManna, the quality of projects I was now doing was light-years beyond the Gerler days. But I still struggled to book jobs I could be proud of while earning a reasonable income.
I got word later that afternoon that I had been offered a role in the TV version of Smokey and the Bandit. It was a very G-rated project and exactly the type of good-girl role I had yet to play. The only catch was it filmed on location in North Carolina. Would three more weeks away matter? I hated the idea. Brook and I were both edgy from the move, but it was about more than that. I was worried about how my husband was spending his lonely evenings. I’d begun hearing disturbing gossip over the last month as Brook completed work on the film Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Rumor had it that while I was on location in Italy he was getting cozy with an actress in the movie. I’d found no concrete evidence to support these claims, but the shadow of doubt had been cast. The source of this gossip was undeniably reliable, but I needed the cold hard facts before I would ever confront my husband with such an accusation.
The filming of Buffy ended without further gossip, but I wondered if my leaving town again would open the door for such temptations. We had been married for three years now. Was he bored? Our sex life was great—we had no problem in that department. So why then would he go elsewhere? Was it the distance? Or was it something else? Conquest? A new piece? Man, what a thing to think about before leaving town. Was he capable of bringing another woman into our bed? Would he risk my leaving him?
As I fried chicken for dinner, I thought of the actress in question. I imagined covering her with eggs and flour, and plopping her into my pan—voilà, star sauté.
I loved my husband and I wasn’t going to let my imagination get the best of me. But I wasn’t a fool either. This time, I asked him to come visit me on location. And I’d make sure he had a smile on his face when he went back home.
47
Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines
I opened the front door of our Sherman Oaks home and a monster jumped out at me, its snarling fangs tearing into my leg. A fit of hysterical laughter followed my shrill screams of terror. I knew immediately who the culprit was: Brook, now the puppet master, emerged, a perma-grin on his face.
“Very funny.” I slammed the door in protest, realizing he must have gotten the job working on the monster movie. I looked from my husband to the gremlinlike creature he held protectively in his arms, worried I might retaliate and rip its face off. I growled back at it, making them both jump. Continuing grumpily down the hallway, I looked forward to a hot shower.
I’d just finished work on Tales from the Crypt that evening and was stiff as a board. I stood in the shower wondering how I was going to drag my weary bones to the airport later that night. Drying off and popping two aspirin, I could still feel the hands of the episode’s lead actor, David Paymer, around my neck pretending to strangle me.
I had hoped to spend some time with Brook before I left for North Carolina to film Bandit, but time had run out. I kissed him good-bye and reminded him of his promise to visit me on location. He said he’d try, sending me off with an unsettling feeling in my guts. Try hard, baby…real hard….
As the mechanical bird carried me off to another hotel room, to another group of people to win over, and to another credit on my résumé, I was grateful to have the job but uncertain of the price my absence would cost me at home. Was I too obsessed with my career? Was I a bad wife? Was I driving my husband away?
On the surface I didn’t think there was anything wrong with our marriage, and I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew there was trouble in paradise.
48
Sweet Meat
Chanel!” exclaimed the six-foot platinum blonde drag queen blocking my path as I walked through the nightclub.
“Be gone!” demanded my cross-dressing cohort, Vincent Domini Fauci, snapping his fingers in front of the intruder, reminding me of the grandmother Endora from Bewitched.
“See that, honey? I told you, you look fierce,” Vince said, dragging me deeper into the pounding walls of the flesh-throbbing gay club. He was proud of the smoky eyes he’d painted on me. I was his makeup showpiece as we made our way toward the bar, where buff boys in short shorts danced on platforms.
Androgynous fashion plates chatted animatedly as they kicked back cocktails. I surveyed the dim room. RuPaul’s “Supermodel” boomed and strobe lights danced off the club’s walls, disguising the beard stubble of the woman next to me. But the meaty paw holding her martini told another story. Being a gay man in North Carolina was a dangerous thing. The gorgeous cow-grazing fields gave way to streets filled with beer-drinking good old boys who didn’t take kindly to “sweet meat.” This club was an oasis for the young gay population of the North Carolina hills. It was their safe zone. I was pretty sure I was the only female by birth there.
I tugged at my skintight fishnet dress as we positioned ourselves to get the bartender’s attention. Catching my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, I laughed. I was a gay man’s creation. I looked like an old Blondie record cover with my thick black eyeliner turning my lids slightly catty and my eyelashes miles long. I smiled at my glitter-covered pal. He had been nonstop entertainment since I arrived a month ago.
As a showgirl at a modeling shoot, mid-1990s.
The collection of Traci Lords
Vince was my makeup artist on the show Bandit, where we’d become close after a minor mishap. The first day of shooting I walked into his trailer and took a seat in his chair. He carefully applied my foundation, his hands shaking so bad I thought he was going to poke me in the eye. Finally I asked him if he was all right, and he started to say something. But I wasn’t listening. My eyes were drawn instead to his obvious erection. Adjusting his crotch, he burst into tears and walked out of the trailer.
I just sat there processing this odd occurrence.
I found Vince on the steps of the makeup trailer. He wouldn’t look at me. “Hey, man, what’s up?” I said teasingly.
“I’m so sorry,” he gushed. “I just think you’re such a goddess. Apparently my body agrees. But I swear to God I’m gay! Please don’t have me fired!”
After that, I became the goddess of Vince’s world. I hadn’t been familiar with diva worship but caught on fast. He painted my face every weekend before we hit the town, and we shopped for ridiculous outfits in the conservative shopping mall in the city. Vince and I favored latex, finding our best treasures in the sex shop down the street. I’d never had the nerve to walk into a sex shop before, fearing I would see myself staring back at me from a porn video. But my world was different now. That fear no longer held the same weight. I was with Vince and I’d discovered an acceptance in his world—the gay community—that I’d never known before. In this company, I wasn’t the only one who’d been persecuted because of sex, and I was cert
ain no matter what I bought in a sex store, I still wouldn’t be judged.
I saw the same old faces on the porn covers displayed in the “New Releases” section, happy not to be one of them. Trying not to stare, I headed off toward the dressing rooms, the image of Ginger Lynn’s latest porno cover fresh in my mind. It was unbelievable that she was still doing porn all these years later. My God—how had she survived it? I’m so glad that isn’t me, I thought as we abandoned our shopping spree for Mexican food.
Over carnitas my thoughts returned to Brook, and I poured my heart out to Vince, worried that my marriage was really in danger. Vince did his duty as a good friend, listening to me ramble on through dinner about my marital blues. Brook and I had been battling over the phone since I arrived. We couldn’t agree on the smallest things. Bottom line: the distance had done its damage.
He canceled his visit to see me and I felt snubbed.
“I thought I was the most important thing to you,” I spat over the phone.
He said he couldn’t leave town. He was waiting to hear about another job.
“It’s just a weekend! Come on! I miss you.”
I hung up feeling more uncertain than ever. My husband had stood me up again, breaking his promise to visit me on location for the umpteenth time. He always found a reason why he couldn’t come. I didn’t expect him to follow me around the world, but I guess I secretly wished he would. His decision not to fly down came at a time when I already doubted his commitment to our marriage.
Thoughts of that tarty actress filled my head and, not privy to his comings and goings while I was out of town, my imagination conjured up the worst.
Makeup artist Jeff House paints my face, Los Angeles, 1990.