She loves sitting at Pierre’s desk. His chaos is inspiring. The weird plastic goblin with the red cap. The fat blue Ice-watch with the broken strap. The AC/DC zippo.
He is away for two weeks. Working at a dance festival in Dijon. Doing the sound. That’s his job. She is often on her own. Well, often without him. She doesn’t talk to him about what she does when he is not here. She thinks he probably suspects, and if not, it doesn’t matter. Things work fine the way they are. Before, with other guys, it used to cause a lot of problems; there would inevitably be a night when she didn’t come home and didn’t let them know in advance. Pierre is often away for three months at a time, she has all the time in the world to be a dirty stop-out. When he is home, she is so desperate to spend time with him that she never dares to sleep around.
She is a freelance rock journalist. The print media is dying on its feet and the music business with it. She signs her pieces Lydia Bazooka. When she published her first article, she was high on life for months. She’s over all that. A woman in the music industry. Whatever she does, whatever she writes, she is treated like a weirdo and a moron.
She never got to fuck Alex Bleach. When he died, she was devastated. That voice. Those chords. He was a god. She never thought about sleeping with Alex Bleach. It would have been blasphemy. He fills her with infinite gratitude. Before she listened to his records, she had no idea she could feel such deep emotions; Alex opened her up. It was someone within her that he summoned, some connection to mysterious spiritual forces whose presence she loved, even if the intensity of emotion could be painful. He opened a door onto the extraordinary. She had interviewed him several times, for different magazines. He seemed to like her. Until one day, on a music website, she published a particularly wild article – faced with a mood of general indignation she admitted it was a fantasy, and as far as she was concerned she had simply expressed her fascination with him. Alex Bleach read it – and vowed never to see her again.
Years of loyal, faithful service, sleepless nights spent making sure every article was faultless, hours spent hanging around in hotel bars, flights to go and see him play in Quimper or halfway round the world.
All so that one day Match would send her to cover the recording of his new album. Lydia was thrilled – in the print media, Match was a freelancer’s wet dream. Then the coup de grâce: the magazine’s music editor phoned the day before the interview. Bleach’s manager had called to say: “anyone but Lydia Bazooka”. She got the call while she was waiting for her treatment session at Body Minute. The world came crashing down. It is impossible to comprehend the anguish of a rock critic who has fallen out of favour with her idol.
It went on for two years. Having to read interviews with other journos, having to buy tickets to go to his gigs and avoid wandering like a lost soul around the dressing rooms. Two years of obscurity before a day came when the press officer put her name forward for the official webcam interview – the interview that would be posted on the artist’s official website, and even though she was off-camera, it was her voice asking the questions so everyone could witness her readmission to the inner circle. Finally, they picked up their old conversation.
It was to be his last album. Lydia did not know this.
Among the people she hangs with, it’s difficult to brag about the fact that she is writing a biography of Alexandre Bleach. It’s too middle-class hipster for the baby fascists of her generation. Alex is old hat. She doesn’t give a shit. She takes it on the chin.
In an interview with a journalist from Vogue, two years before his death, Alex said, “It gives me no pleasure to imagine boatloads of little white kids trying to reach Egypt because there are rumours of jobs in the United Arab Emirates, I don’t get a hard-on picturing them being gunned by police as soon as they reach the shore, or stoned to death by Muslims who think blond boys stink and blonde girls are whores. But that’s how it will be. Europe is finished, tomorrow we’ll be the immigrants. I’d like to imagine we might try something else. But I don’t believe it will come to that either. That’s the one great advantage of contaminated water – a tumour doesn’t give a fuck whether you kneel or stand to pray or whether you’re broke or loaded. A tumour eats away at your brain, and that’s that.”
The interview was a big hit on nationalist French websites.
Lydia goes through every interview in detail. Unable to actually write, she immerses herself in her subject. She listens to Alex’s voice on her headphones. She enjoys spending time with him. Every day, she reworks the list of people she needs to meet. Those she has contacted have all refused to cooperate. They claim it’s too soon. What they mean is that, as a journalist, she’s not famous enough. Lydia knows her subject, she knows that Vernon meant a lot to Alex, though they were only three years apart, it was at Revolver that Alex discovered rock music, a fact he never forgot.
*
She would like to track down the fuckwit who came up with the idea that every headline on the Yahoo! homepage should be a riddle – the “incredible discovery at Chicago airport” – the psychopath who came up with the most irritating clickbait formula imaginable by not telling readers what the article is about.
She clicks on the Facebook tab again. Yes! Vernon has left her a private message. If she’s up for it, he can swing by for a coffee and she can tell him what she wants. Oh, she’s up for it! She is so up for it.
PAMELA WENT BY THE RUE MARSEILLE TO PICK UP DANIEL’S favourite bread. The cold snap came on suddenly, she turns the radiators up full blast, the studio feels like a cosy womb. He makes the green tea, it is a ritual, before uncorking the Jägermeister and skinning up the first spliffs – they are having a body-pampering afternoon. Pamela Kant talks about her latest brilliant idea, writing a children’s book, a guide to porn. Since they’re gorging on porn on the internet before they even learn to read, she thinks it only sensible to tell them what it is.
“But it’s true, though, you can’t BitTorrent a series without seeing some babe sucking cock, someone’s got to talk to kids about this stuff, am I right? When it comes to illustrations, I think we should go with something cutesy . . .”
“But what exactly are you going to explain?”
“I was thinking about starting with a brief history, the seventies, state censorship, the eighties, video recorders, the nineties, camcorders . . . up to the internet. That way, you can give them a list of the classics, so they can start out with soft-porn flicks . . . after that I’d explain how you shoot a scene, the make-up, how many people are on set . . . Take the mystique out of it.”
Daniel carefully pours the dregs of his green tea into the bin and then rinses out the filter. He has always been a little O.C.D. But she knows that when he takes his time like this it is to avoid giving her an honest answer. Pamela has spent years trying to come up with the book that she should write. All the major porn stars have published at least one book. She refuses to be the only hard-core hustler not to swan around bookshops doing signings. For a while, she toyed with the idea of a biography of Gypsy Rose Lee but gave up on it based on the lack of interest on the project. Daniel points out:
“It’s a brilliant idea. But I’m not sure the public are ready for it . . . The thought of a girl who’s done hardcore porn talking to their kids might make them uncomfortable . . . you know what people are like.”
“Yeah. That’s the point. It’s not like they’re going to tell their kids about this stuff. People are all the same, the minute you mention porn, the light goes out, their minds glaze over, it’s like their intelligence goes on holiday. Do you spend time on YouPorn?”
“Never.”
“I’m not surprised. All you care about is pretending you’ve never done hardcore porn.”
She feels like being aggressive because she finds it difficult to talk, even to Daniel. She spends a lot of time on YouPorn. She feels like the wicked stepmother in “Snow White”: she goes onto porn-sharing websites to see if her films are still in among the “Most Viewed” website on t
he screen, who is the hottest babe on the scene . . . She stopped filming a decade ago, but people still remember her, she has held out much longer than anyone else in the business. But her star is fading. She is used to the idea. The golden era of true porn stars is over. These days, girls on Facebook call themselves porn stars when they’ve only shot three homemade flicks . . . The last time she was online, she came across this film. The girl was probably Hungarian. She was tied to a bed. Some guy was pouring neat vodka down her throat. She was not consenting. She was begging, you didn’t need subtitles to understand what she was saying. It was a gang-bang, the guys fucking her had put paper bags over their heads to remain anonymous. The girl was sobbing. She wasn’t pretending so as to make the whole scene more exciting. Things had barely started when she realised she was no longer in control. Almost as soon as the filming started, she wanted to stop. Pamela would like to talk to Daniel about the film, if there is anyone who might understand what she feels and not try to humiliate her, it is him. But she felt so degraded by what she had seen. She cannot bring herself to talk about it. This is the nature of shame. It leaves you speechless.
She imagines the feminist sluts gleefully rubbing their hands: See? We told you, sex is always hostile to women. All the old biddies, the ageing grannies who only noticed their snatch when they were giving birth would have a field day, they always refused to distinguish between choosing to be a porn star and being raped. But Pamela knows it is not the same thing. This is the first time she has ever seen a rape, and it has nothing to do with what she used to do.
She got into porn in the early 2000s. She was lucky. She experienced the last glory days of the profession. She earned a good living – more than she ever dreamed of earning. There were a few arseholes, but you get them in every job – but mostly, it was a friendly environment. Back then, people still talked about porn stars. There was a lot of rivalry between the girls – though they got along well – they all wanted to be the best in the business. Pam wanted to make a name for herself. Not everyone could make it big, but it was not particularly complicated. Eliminate the competition, capture the biggest market share, maximise your competitive advantages – an economics teacher at school had left a marked impression on her, she had a clear idea of what she needed to do to be the best. It worked out pretty well.
Giving it up had been hard, as it was for all the girls who did porn. People still recognised her in the street, but she missed the atmosphere of being on set, she missed the photo sessions and the intoxicating feeling of being the centre of attention, of being able to deliver what is expected of you. She loved being treated like a legend, like a movie star.
Afterwards, the most difficult thing is realising that you never really give up. You are cut off from the business, you lose the friends, the easy money – but you are marked for life. While she was making porn, she only hung out with people in the business and disapproval was only a vague concept. But wearing the badge of ‘Porn Star’ every day among ordinary people is a different matter. She would rather die than actually say the words, but good guys always win in the end: they make your life so difficult that even someone like Pam is forced to finally face it – she would have been better off keeping to herself. Ten years on, she still cannot go shopping in a supermarket without being recognised by some stupid bitch who glowers at her – women are her harshest judges. Those who settle for what is expected of them despise strong women. If they could, they would burn their husbands’ idols. They know their men get hard at the thought of Pamela Kant and it sickens them. The porn industry has become the dreary business imagined in their sick fantasies.
Two months ago, she took a job doing hair and make-up for a film. She thought she might use the opportunity to take some photos of the girls. Shooting started at eight a.m., so the actresses had to be in make-up by six. Everyone was still on the set at three o’clock the next morning. Of the five actresses, two were gorging on laxatives to stay thin, they had vicious stomach aches all day and their skin was shot to shit. Another girl’s boyfriend spent all day plaguing her with text messages asking for nude selfies from the set. And she sent them. One had a boyfriend who was constantly calling in a jealous rage because he worried that every guy on set had a bigger cock than he did, though as they talked Pam found out that he was the one who got her into porn, even set up her first shoot . . . and he was only thirty years older than her. The fifth girl was fine, but she has already been filming for five years, the porn industry is done with her, she’s worked with every director, every producer, it’s time for her to give up gracefully . . . In this business, it is important to manage your exit. This is something Pamela learned from Coralie, Ovidie, Nina Roberts and girls with names like Elodie . . . It is important to get out before you start accepting films you should not accept. What shocked her most is how freaked out all the girls were by anal. This is not a profession you can do if you hate sodomy. It’s like saying you’re allergic to flour but you want to be a baker. Listen up, girl, for pity’s sake find another job.
Daniel tucks into the box of candied chestnuts. He eats like a pig and never puts on a gram of fat. She cannot live without him, they are constantly together, but she sometimes finds him exasperating. He knows this. Daniel has transitioned. F2M. Pamela had never heard of the term until Déborah, her best friend, decided to become Daniel. Even the choice of a first name can be very confusing. It came on her like an urge to piss. Déborah and Pam had got into porn at the same time and left the business together. They were good friends. They had been through a lot together – some hilarious, some not so fun. And then one day, wham. “I’m taking testosterone.” Shit. At first, Pamela didn’t even know what she meant. She thought testosterone was something you took to stop painful periods, or to lose weight – Déborah was carrying a few extra pounds at the time. Nothing heralded, or justified this decision. It meant – simply – transitioning to become a guy. Pamela read up on it, usually when people do this, it’s been eating away at them for a long time – like “I’ve always known I was a guy trapped in a woman’s body”. In cases like that, fine – it makes sense. But Déborah . . . honestly, she was just doing it to piss people off. “Why are you doing this?” “I felt like trying. I’ve got tattoos, I’ve done porn, I’ve smoked crack. Why shouldn’t I become a guy?” Because it’s not the same kind of thing, you idiot . . . You don’t give yourself daily testosterone injections for shits and giggles. Pamela immediately predicted it would be hell on earth – illness, depression, regrets, feeling out of place . . . not to mention the aesthetic aspect – for fuck’s sake, woman, don’t you realise how dumb men are? Do you really want people to think you’re one of them?
But what is most annoying is how happy Daniel is being Daniel. The illness, the depression the regrets and so forth may come some day, but for the moment it’s mostly . . . little bow tie, short-leg jeans, visible socks, impressive muscles, thin hipster moustache . . . Daniel simulates fulfilment so well that it is difficult not to be dubious. He had a mastectomy without a second thought, using the same absurd logic, “I had breast implants, why shouldn’t I have my breasts removed?” If you go around doing everything you could possibly do there is no end to it, but, okay . . . . Today, he is wearing a men’s black Dior jacket over a little Fred Perry shirt. With the tattoos, the delicate features and the shock of dark slicked-back hair, he has a lot of style. And a lot of money. He managed to get a job in one of the first e-cigarette shops in Paris. Pamela would not have bet a centime on the fake fag business, who wants to smoke a fountain pen? But it was bigger than anyone could have imagined. And Daniel, rather than staying on as a sales assistant and taking home minimum wage, became regional manager responsible for expanding sales outlets in Paris. The job was a gold mine. It drives Pamela half-crazy: it would never have happened without the transition. As a former porn star, Déborah would never have got a job in sales. Or she would have been fired as soon as they found out, and you try taking a case for wrongful dismissal and arguing that your bo
ss discriminated against you because everyone can go online and watch you suck off three guys in a row! And even if Déborah had changed the way she looked, let’s say she got a nose job, changed her hairstyle, put on twenty kilos – so much that she was unrecognisable . . . no-one would have given the job of business development manager to a woman. Daniel told her every last detail of this meteoric promotion, shocked to discover that it was all based on backslapping, laddish jokes, being more comfortable around other men and evenings spent smoking cigars . . .
She finds Daniel’s pragmatism depressing. But he is still her best friend. She cannot live without him. To cap it all, Daniel is attracted to women. It’s the last straw. Déborah had a heart like an artichoke – “a leaf for anyone, but a meal for no one” – she loved every man, one at a time, she could even be infatuated . . . but Daniel evolved: you should see the way he has with girls. So when a cute little dark-haired girl offered to iron his shirts and do his shopping, he thought to himself – why not? I got fucked like a bitch by the finest stallions of my generation, I’ve got a good basic knowledge, I know what to do to fulfil a woman who likes that kind of guy. Self-confident, a macho dickhead. Pamela’s pride as a first-class courtesan is wounded: she has never used a strap-on, it was never part of her artillery. And now she gets the impression that Daniel knows things about sex that she doesn’t. The very idea is intolerable.
There’s no knowing what will happen when you’re with Daniel. He struts in the Métro, preens on café terraces, dances at parties – and no-one can quite work out why his face seems oddly familiar. That said, minus the breasts and sporting a little beard, a porn star, even a famous one, can be difficult to recognise. So while monsieur swaggers around town, Pamela is forced to go to the post office as soon as it opens when no-one is about, shop for groceries on line, and stream movies at home . . .
Pamela is not secretly jealous that he has made such a success of everything he set out to do in recent months: she is openly jealous. And it makes Daniel laugh, though he puts up with her even when her hostility becomes insufferable. Because one thing has not changed during the transition: they still need each other. Pamela curls up on the sofa while he attacks the washing-up. She never really cared about housework, whereas he cannot bear to spend the evening in a messy studio.
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