by Tommy Lee
Whatever, Pamela. You swallowed some—you know you did. But that’s cool.
I hung with her all night. At around two in the morning she’s ready to bail and I’m not having that at all. I walk her to the car and plant a kiss on her. She’s like, “I think I’d better go.” I’m like, “Oh my God, no. No way. Please don’t go.” She was flying to Cancún to work the next day. I wasn’t having that either.
Pamela’s friends, by the way, were not having me—at all. That whole night they were just trying to make whatever was happening between us stop. Her best friend, Melanie, hated me from the beginning and kept hating me for a long time. She is one of those controlling personalities and it was obvious to me right away. Pamela told me later that that night Melanie kept shaking her head and telling her, “Pamela, he is fucking trouble. You are not going anywhere with him.” I didn’t give a fuck. I asked Pamela for her number. And after I got it, I started calling it right away. It wasn’t even an hour later and I was like, “Hey, what are you doing?” She’s packing, getting ready to bounce to Cancún, and I’m like, “Without me?” She just kept saying, “I have to work. I can’t hang out with you, I have to work. Do not come to Cancún.”
HAND ME THE MIKE, BRO! YOU KNOW I CAN SING!
Actually that was the message that got me interested. I call him back as Melanie sits there shaking her head and I tell him, “I’ll spend twenty-four hours with you and that’s it. Then I never want to see you again.” Tommy said, “Okay, fine. I’ll pick you up tomorrow.” He promised to make me chicken cacciatore or some other famous dish of his that he cooks up in a Crock-Pot. Melanie and I have been best friends for twenty-five years and that night is the only time we’ve ever fought. I still had a few drinks in me, so when she told me I was crazy for even talking to him, we got into a full-on screaming argument.
I woke up the next day and thought, “Oh, shit, what did I do?” The phone started ringing soon afterwards, and it was Tommy calling over and over. He was saying things like, “Where are you? I’m gonna find you. I’m coming over there to pick you up.” He was being psychotic, and it was a little scary. I tell my girlfriend to tell him that I’m not there. She takes the next call and tells Tommy that I’m getting my nails done. He says, “Where?” Melanie is caught off guard, so she says I’m at the salon in the hotel. He hangs up and calls back a minute later. “Put her on,” he says. “There’s no salon in the hotel.” We bolt right away because he’s coming to get me for his twenty-four hours. I heard later that he’d made a few pit stops—one of them was at a sex shop called the Pleasure Chest, where he bought chains and stuff. I’m sure they went to good use, but he didn’t use them on me, not the next time we saw each other at least.
BUT WE DID USE THEM ALL RIGHT. YOU KNOW WE DID. AFTER YOU BLEW US OFF,
WE HEADED BACK TO THE BEACH HOUSE OF SIN AND CALLED A PORN STAR.
CHECK THE STORY A FEW CHAPTERS BACK.
ACTUALLY, LET’S READ IT AGAIN.
IT IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE MISTY WATER-COLORED MEMORIES, ONE OF THOSE TIMES T-BONE AND I REALLY SAW EYE-TO-EYE.
A month passed before I spoke to Tommy again. I don’t know how he got my home number but he did.
What are you talking about, baby? You gave me your home number the first night I met you. Maybe you need some ginkgo biloba. Whatever.
To me, that meant get your ass to Cancún immediately. I hang up, turn to my buddy Bobby, who’s hanging with me, and tell him to go home, pack a bag, and call our friend Doug because the three of us are going to Mexico—now. I keep calling Pamela all the way down there—in the car, in the airport, on the plane. I’m calling about every twenty minutes. I keep leaving messages saying things like, “I’m on my way,” “I’m on the plane now,” “I’m here,” “Where are you?” We check into a hotel and I call every hotel in Cancún until I find hers. I’ve left so many messages that she is either too scared to answer her phone or pretty fucking confident that I’m so insane that I will find her no matter where she is. I do find her hotel, of course, and I leave a message and start waiting.
I’m out of my mind and I really don’t know what to do. My buds and I are chillin’ poolside, eating, swimming, and getting stupid. Every twenty minutes I go back to my room, hoping to see that little red light blinking on the phone. I think about going to her hotel, but I don’t want to totally be Mr. Stalker Guy. But fuck, I want to see her. I have to see her.
I run back and forth to my room like a jackass for a few hours until, finally, the red light is blinking. I’m like, “Yes! That’s awesome! ” It’s Pamela, she’s in her room, and she says that I should call her back. Yes!
After I get her message, I don’t call her back right away. I just chill for two hours. I take a bath, I read for a while. I call my mom, I meditate, and do some yoga. I pull a horseshoe out of my ass. And if you believe that crap, I’ve got some swampland in Florida to sell ya.
I call her back so fuckin’ quick. I don’t need a pen, paper, nothing. Her number is so important that for once, my short-term memory works. Waiting for her to answer, I’m pacing back and forth so crazy that I rip the phone right off the nightstand. She answers and I just say, “Dude, I’m here.” She pauses for a long minute and then she says, “You are fucking out of your mind.” I go, “I know. Are you done working yet?”
She was there with three of her girlfriends and she told them to get ready because they were all going out for just one drink with Tommy. It would be fine, what could it hurt? We met at the Ritz-Carlton and I was wearing a tank top, of course, so they kicked us out.
We ended up somewhere ridiculous like Señor Frogs or something stupid like that. That one drink turns into many drinks, and we move on to this massive club called La Boom, which is a loud as fuck dance club. We ran into someone with some E and all I remember about that night is Pamela and I staring into each other’s eyes for hours, only taking breaks to blink and drink. I had to marry her. Right now, in Mexico, as soon as fucking possible. I’m definitely my father’s son—he knew he wanted to marry my mom the first time he laid eyes on her.
I turn to my friend Bobby and ask him to give me the ring off his pinky. I put it on her and ask her if she’ll marry me. She says yes, and four days later we did it. But first, we went back to her hotel and it was fucking insane. She was in the penthouse suite and the elevator went right into the room. It had a swimming pool in there and a huge sound system. It was fucking sick! That suite had everything you would ever need. That night we made love, and I couldn’t believe I was fucking Pamela Anderson. Neither could my friends.
WHATEVER, PAMELA. I HAVE A BETTER MEMORY THAN EITHER OF YOU TWO. TRUST ME, THERE WAS SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE.
I WAS IN THERE, FRIENDS.
I CAN STILL SEE IT.
I COULD DRAW YOU A MAP IF YOU PAID ME.
THAT’S A JOURNEY I WON’T FORGET.
I TOO, WAS FUCKING PAMELA ANDERSON.
I’m with you on that, my man. We were totally in. The next morning after that first night, I watched Pamela go into the room connected to her suite where her girlfriends were staying and show them how big you are, using her hands like she’d just caught a huge trout. (She had.)
That morning her girlfriends were like “Woah, hey! ” They were all the people who didn’t want us to be together. Whatever. When all our friends were together having breakfast, Pamela and I told everyone we were getting married. They freaked.
There were things to take care of before our nuptials. We had to get blood tests—and we did, at like two in the morning in some scary, shady Mexican hospital.
Then we had to find a priest. It was now the weekend and also some Mexican holiday so all of the priests were busy. We called everywhere and finally found one. He came to the hotel, met with us, did the paperwork, and set a time. Pamela wanted to get married on the beach in bathing suits with cocktails. It was crazy. Neither one of us called our parents or any of our friends—we just did it. Everyone found out about it through the tabloids. Who knows how they got t
he pictures—we never saw anyone taking them. Sneaky bastards.
What? No I didn’t. Are you just puffin’ your chest up, baby? Isn’t it already puffed up enough?
It was an amazing ceremony, right there on the beach in the late afternoon, just before sunset. I remember when the priest said, “You can now kiss the bride.” I picked her up and carried her straight into the waves. We kissed, swam, and played in the water forever. Our friends were up on the sand, standing there waiting, like, “Are you guys done yet?”
Hey, Ms. Not Always Right, you didn’t talk to your brother until we got home. Don’t you remember sitting on the floor at my beach house while he yelled at you and you cried? It was gnarly. You called your parents from Cancún and I called mine. My parents said they were happy as long as I was happy. They were just bummed that they weren’t there to see the ceremony.
While we’re flying back home, Pamela is asking me where I live and what I like for breakfast. It was so bizarre—we clearly don’t know each other at all. She asks me if we’re going back to her place or to mine. I say, “Back to my place. I live on the beach in Malibu, right on the sand.”
When we land, there is a paparazzi feeding frenzy waiting for us in the airport. They follow us back to my house and camp out, and it is the beginning of all that fucking bullshit. We have to hire twenty-four-hour security guards to keep the photographers off the hills and the beach. I had to deal with that shit in my other marriage, but this was much, much worse. We are being stalked like you would not believe—and it’s never let up to this day.
Just before I met Pamela, I had found the place where I wanted to live and love. I put the place in escrow. I knew when I saw it that it would be my castle—and now I had found my queen. It was a house with no neighbors, on the top of a hill in Malibu. When I walked in, I noticed that every room was different—it wasn’t your normal setup at all. Some rooms were round, some were angular, it had an elevator, there were different levels in the main rooms, and there was a lot of land ripe for whatever type of landscaping I could dream up. I’ve always loved designing my environment, whether it’s my bedroom, my house, or just dimming the lighting in my hotel room by putting towels over the tops of lamps. This place had the potential I had been waiting for. You’d never guess it by looking at me, but I’m a closet horticulturalist. I love trees (don’t tell anybody). When I saw the bald yard behind the house, all I could think about was going to a nursery and creating something you’d see in a postcard or at some fourstar resort. I’d traveled constantly for so long that I wanted my home to feel like I was on vacation. And I knew what I wanted. I’d seen some of the most exotic places in the world on vacations over the years and had taken notes and shot pictures of the plants, trees, and architecture that I loved. I couldn’t wait to show Pamela our future Love Palace.
Woah, hey! Slow down, Ms. Jumping Ahead! That’s how you feel now, but I don’t remember you being spooked when we planned to start our life and family there.
After we moved in, the two of us started redoing everything. All the walls were white, and when we walked through the house with our interior designer, I took a can of spray paint and wrote, “White walls are for hospitals” on them. The original doors were verde green—some Mexican or Mediterranean color of the month. It’s like teal—and I hate teal.
ME TOO, BRO. IT’S A PARTY FOUL. MAKES ME AND THE BOYS WANT TO ROLL UP AND HIDE IN YOUR BELLY.
We redesigned our house from the ground up and we renamed it the Love Palace—because we made it that way. If you’ve seen MTV Cribs —and I know for a fact that those fuckers released my episode on DVD without breaking me off any extra change—you already know how fat this pad is. We did it right. We’ve got a movie room made of purple velvet where the couch is sunk in the floor and the subwoofers are under your ass. We tore out the original bedroom because it was all his-and-hers (What the fuck is that?) and made it one big Love Space. It has an open shower that you can see from anywhere in the room,
OH YEAH. PERFECT! GLAD YOU HEARD ME CALLIN’ FOR THAT ONE.
a terrace, a fireplace, a mirror above the bed, and another one that slides across the window, triggered by remote control, by the massive round bathtub. We’ve got heart-shaped front doors made of glass and iron, a pillow room with a fireplace out of I Dream of Jeannie, and a thirty-foot swing in the round living room that hangs over my grand piano. Basically, we made it into a huge adult playground.
Everything was perfect in my mind. I was building my dream house with my dream girl—and I’d made sure she was that. There’s one way to separate the beautiful women from the truly beautiful women and that is by their toes. If a girl’s toes aren’t lovely little piggies, she is completely off my radar no matter what she looks like. She can be Miss America, but if I look down and her feet are busted, it’s off. Let me give you an example of the worst kind of toe jam: Picture clear plastic, high-ass, come-fuck-me stripper pumps with a set of crooked toes hangin’ ten over the front. For God’s sake, ladies, do what you have to do, because there has to be a solution. Is the shoe too big? I haven’t worn pumps, but it seems to me that if they fit right, them thangs wouldn’t slide out there on their own like that. When they do, it’s like a fender bender: Everyone slows down to check it out then speeds up and moves on real quick, knowing that no one is hurt but the shit is mangled and in desperate need of a toe truck.* Pamela, my ex-wife, the mother of my kids, one of the most gorgeous women I have ever laid eyes on, has the most amazing toes. When we were together I had to keep myself from eating them right off her feet every fucking day. Dude, it was hard. Her toes are perfect. Fuck, her whole set of feet is rad. But I knew that before I met her. I’d seen nude pictures of her before we met and the first thing I did was clock her toes.
In the first few years of our marriage, Pamela and I had way too much fun—more fun than humans are allowed to have. That very first year, for my thirtieth birthday, she threw me the raddest birthday party in the history of partying.
Pamela had a huge village built and called it Tommyland. That little pleasure carnival was the closest I’ve ever been to seeing the circus that marches through my head actually walking around in real life. There were tents with tons of pillows on the floor, midgets wandering around on stilts, a cage of tigers—one of my favorite animals—and contortionists from Cirque du Soleil performing for us. There was a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and one of those crazy swing rides that has no other purpose but to make you sick and dizzy.
The little people (which is what they like to be called) and dudes on stilts greeted everyone as they arrived. The little guys blew horns, rang bells, rolled out a red carpet, and shouted, “Welcome to Tommyland!” in their little Munchkin voices as we all walked between rows of torches into my kingdom. I thought, “Finally, we’re here. I’ve made it to the Land of Oz!” There were sword swallowers, flame eaters, and most of our friends were in costumes. I had this insane moment in the tiger cage. I sat there with them, just stroking their fur, tripping out on how huge their paws are, how insane their muscles are, and freaked, knowing full well that if they wanted to, they could end my time here real quick. It was the trippiest Fellini movie you’ve ever seen; a living, breathing one, starring me and my friends.
The best man at my wedding, Bobby Hewitt, the drummer from Orgy, and his twin brother, Fabio, came dressed up as naughty nurses and that fucking killed me. They did it way too well and they were the backup singers in a fucked-up lounge band that Pamela found. The lounge set closed the night and it totally freaked me out. Those dudes played old Sinatra songs, horrible disco ballads, and except for the dancing nurses, they were all dressed in these white polyester suits looking like some crazy combination of Elvis, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and Mel Tormé. I was scared.
There was a full-on rock show before that though. A band named Crown played and when I got my chocolate cake, I was so fucking into it that I went right up onstage and fed the entire band, midsong. It was my party, dude, I could do whate
ver I wanted, and the band had to have some cake. That cake, by the way, was delivered to me on the shoulders of a dude dressed up as Mighty Mouse—one of my childhood heroes.
After Crown’s set—which was fucking awesome —we had a jam session and after that we made a huge drum circle. Pamela had my drum kit up there and just about every other kind of percussion instrument you can imagine. It was retarded—and so was I. By that time I was so wasted, so happy, and so far gone that when I went onstage to thank my wife, I fell over the monitors. I was That Guy, Mr. Shitty, the one who falls over in slow motion and has no idea he’s even falling.