Underneath It All (9 page)

I arrived in Burbank later that afternoon, nearly an hour late. The flight's delay had made it impossible for me to be on time for the day's shoot, and I only hoped my tardiness wouldn't make Raven look bad. I was anxious and suffering from a pounding headache as my taxi finally delivered me to the location somewhere deep in the San Fernando Valley. I scrambled to gather my things as the car pulled into a long dirt driveway. Wrestling with my luggage, I dug up the hundred-and-twentydollar cab fare and silently cursed Sonny for not picking me up, costing me my hard-earned tips from the night before.
The taxi left me standing in a cloud of dust as it pulled away. I had no idea where I was, but by the looks of the sparse surroundings it was the middle of nowhere. Hobbling down the dirt driveway, I struggled with my bags, feeling weak and irritated from lack of sleep. I stopped to check the address in my purse, hoping Raven hadn't sent me on a wild-goose chase. Up ahead I could see a weather-beaten red barn and some horse stables.
According to my watch I was forty-five minutes late. Crap — so much for making a good impression. This was the first job I'd booked without North and I really wanted to start off on the right foot with Raven's agent. I hoped the clients were still there and hadn't reported my tardiness by now. Man, I hate being late!
The dust from the driveway tickled my throat and I couldn't stop coughing as I approached the barn. I couldn't believe this was the place. Dropping my things, I gave the thick barn door a pounding. Hell000000000000! I was hot, sweaty, and wanted to get on with it. No one answered. I was screwed, in the middle of nowhere without a car or phone. I started to think Raven had tricked me when I heard some voices. Walking around to the back of the barn I saw a film crew standing in a field. I couldn't believe what I saw next.
There in the middle of the field was what looked like a large, circular clothesline attached to a six-foot metal pole stuck in t ground. Hanging down from four equally spaced positions on
the line were black leather leashes, and attached to those leashes were women. Three spots were taken and only one was unoccupied.
That's my spot!
I realized with horror.
I stood gaping at these "pony women" trotting around in circles. It was a bizarre spectacle. They wore tall black leather boots, black studded leather G-strings, and black bras with the nipple area cut out. One had a horse gag in her mouth. A hooded man, well over six feet tall, stood in the center of the ring, whipping their muscular asses and ordering them to "mush, mush" as they trotted by.
I was paralyzed with a mixture of fascination and disbelief. It momentarily struck me as funny, but my amusement quickly vanished as a tall Japanese man, who I later realized was the director, noticed my presence. Rushing to my side, he started rattling on in a language I didn't understand. Then an unbelievably tiny Japanese lady, maybe four feet five inches, started circling me and tugging at my clothes as if I weren't in them. I felt like I was on another planet. I couldn't understand what these people were talking about, and although this tiny grandma of a woman wielded a rather ominous-looking riding crop, she struck me as harmless. Politely bowing, she offered me a leather straitjacket, which seemed to me appropriate, since I'd been feeling suicidal for months.
A crazy laugh escaped my mouth as I glanced toward the galloping pony people nearby and wondered exactly what they had in store for me. I'd never seen leather work like this and was mesmerized by the sight of one particular pony girl with dark-chocolate hair. She was being spanked lightly and purred in pleasure.
Was she for real? Did that feel good?
I had no time to contemplate this further, as I was quickly undressed by the grandmotherly-looking woman and outfitted in full-on leather, studs, and a cat-woman mask. It was the middle of the summer, ninety degrees outside, and I looked like an X-rated Saturdaymorning cartoon.
The clients were dead serious about what they were doing, but their stoic demeanor made it impossible for me to keep a straight face. I felt as if I'd fallen into the twilight zone. Had the whole world gone crazy?
Led to the post and tied up with the other "horses," I suddenly gave in to a fit of laughter, the kind that shook my whole body. My "mature" adult persona completely fell away as I stood half laughing and half crying in my tall boots. I wondered if my giddy behavior somehow gave away the fact that I was only sixteen. But the other "models" trotted along obediently, oblivious to my hysteria.
The shoot ended a few hours later as the sun went down, and I caught a ride to Hollywood with the chocolate-haired model I came to know as Cheri. We stopped off at a local I Hollywood watering hole called Barney's Beanery, and after several brewskis I dared to ask her if she liked her job. She erupted in a deep, throaty laugh and said, "We just made a grand apiece. What's not to like?" She then polished off her beer.
I could see her point. "Some people just have weird kinks," she said, her Japanese clients being some of the oddest. She told me our shoot had been tame compared with some of the stuff she'd been booked for. I was curious.
Really? Hmm...like what?
Over the next half hour Cheri schooled me, telling me "splosh" videos were all the rage. "Sploshing" is getting tied up and then having food thrown at your naked body. Cheri's only rule was that she got to wear sunglasses to protect her eyes.
"Are you messing with me?" I said, squinting my eyes.
"Nope." She smiled. "Coconut cream pies smell nice and feel sexy when they slide down your belly."
Wow
. . . . I pictured a cool pie sliding down my tummy. I didn't really get the sexy part, but I found it amusing, and my new friend and I sat giggling in our booth watching the traffic go by.
An hour later Cheri dropped me off at her agent's office in Hollywood.
She'd already given me the lowdown on him. He specialized in rock videos, Playboy Channel soft-core erotic movies, and pinup-type modeling. He was an R-rated version of North minus some of the sleaze. Cheri told me she made a pretty good living for a nineteen-year-old who'd never gone to college. Saving her money, she hoped to one day make it big and star in a movie with Sylvester Stallone.
"Whatever you do, Krissie," she said, "watch out for the porn guys. They'll mess you up bad."
My stomach dropped. I looked away. If she only knew . . .
"Don't worry," she said. "You're beautiful. You'll do fine."
I was taken aback—beautiful? I didn't feel beautiful. She said she'd never done anything that she couldn't live with, and I couldn't help but think I'd never done anything that I
could
live with.
Where did that leave me?
She dropped me off minutes later, gaily waving good-bye.
As I watched her drive away I wished I'd met her years earlier. She was like an older, wiser sister and I missed mine. Lorraine had always known the way out of tricky situations.
Why couldn't Igo back home? How much worse could facing my mother and sisters be than this?
I kicked a can and walked down the block to where I was safely out of view. I spat, disgusted with myself.
What's wrong with me? Why can't I just fucking stop this crazy shit?
I paced the sidewalk and tried to collect myself.
I had to do something . . . something right. If I could just fix this mess, do one good thing . . . maybe, just maybe, I could face my mother again.
Fixing my makeup, I took a deep breath and walked into the office, determined to get my life together.
I didn't want to be a porn star forever.

Later that evening I arrived home in Lawndale. If was nearly midnight. The meeting with the agent had gone well and I now had new representation and an audition the next day.
I crept quietly into our house, not sure if Sonny was there or not, and if he was, I wanted to let sleeping dogs tie. But the house was empty. Looking out the back window, I spied an empty space where my Vette usually sat. Shit. My car was gone.
I knew he'd taken off in my Corvette to get at me. Great, I thought.
Where did he go?
I'd been worried all the way home in the taxi, hoping that Sonny's foul mood would improve with word of my new agent, but now I'd just have to wait for him to come crawling in.
Standing at the front window, I watched the cars come and go, sinking my toes into the scarlet carpeting. Why couldn't I just leave Sonny? What was this power he had over me? I was disgusted with my own helplessness. Fighting the urge to smash every lamp in the room, I watched time tick by, wondering if he'd come home at all.
The bars closed in a few hours and I contemplated hunting him down, pretty sure he was at one of our regular drinking haunts in Hermosa Beach. I checked my watch and decided against it. It was almost last call. He'd be wasted by now. l le was a mean drunk and I was too tired to fight.
I scrubbed my face and climbed into bed, my world quiet for once. I fell asleep. It was the first time I'd done that in a very long time. Usually I just passed out.
My peaceful slumber was interrupted by the ringing phone. It was Sonny. He was in jail. He'd been arrested for a DUI and sobbed into the phone about how sorry he was. He didn't mean to wreck it.
What?!
Would I come get him?
The policeman I spoke to said I couldn't collect my car or my boyfriend until the morning. All I could do was wait.
At 7:25 in the morning I saw my beautiful black Vette sitting in the police impound lot. She was a total wreck. Jagged cardboardlike pieces of my precious getaway car glared accusingly back at me, and I had no idea what to do next. I felt numb and utterly defeated as my eyes drifted down to the gravel that my dream car rested on.
I was such a loser Why had I let this happen?
Leaving the impound lot alone, I made the two-mile trek home leaving the car and Sonny behind. My car was gone—history.
I was screwed. How was I going to get to my audition? I didn't have a credit card or bank account. I always got paid in cash. And I didn't have enough of that to replace the car
. The questions screamed through my head as I hailed a cab to Hollywood and sucked in a smoky drag of my Marlboro Red. I smiled to myself as I imagined Sonny sitting in jail.
Fucking asshole—let him rot.
Running my fingers through my hair, I contemplated life on my own.
I lit another cigarette and tried to squash my growing panic. I was only a kid!
Who was going to take care of me now? Maybe I should have bailed him out. It was an accident. He loved me. He told me that all the time.
Tears threatened to blow my cool demeanor as I arrived at the casting session, but I pulled myself together as I walked into the office. An attractive Asian receptionist greeted me, inviting me to have a seat and saying Mr. Bell would be out shortly. I counted ferns in the plush waiting room—six in all— and tried to remember to what I was auditioning for. Popping a wintergreen mint in my mouth, I prayed I didn't stink of this morning's blow-and-booze breakfast. I straightened my miniskirt and crossed my legs protectively, almost groaning out loin asI imagined someone throwing hams at my nude body.
Jesus, I wasn't in the mood for any bullshit.
Scott Bell was all smiles when he greeted me. He looked like a Hollywood version of Sonny, with perfectly highlighted blonde hair moussed into a Ken doll coif and crystal-clear blue eyes that screamed, "Hi, I'm a nice guy!" His name should have been Skip, and his overeager friendliness seemed really false. He was the type of guy who'd probably never struggled a day in his life, and in my pissy state of mind I wanted to slap him.
I played the game instead, returning his smile, hoping to at least get a job out of this. He had to be around thirty-five and reeked of cigarettes. His pet project was a softcore film he was making. He casually slid his wedding ring off as he asked for a picture and resume. I lied, telling him I was all out.
His eyes seemed to devour me as he probed me with questions, digging into my personal life and making a point of telling me he was recently separated from his wife. Losing my patience, I wondered,
What is this?
The Dating Game? He asked if I acted under my real name, Kristie Nussman, or if I had a stage name. I had to get out of there. Did he know something? Was he going to start trouble with my new agency? Or was he just another guy who wanted a piece of me? Fed up with this game of cat and mouse, I interrupted him saying I had another audition. I no longer cared if I had the job or not.
I walked toward my new agent's office on Santa Monica Boulevard with a bad case of the blues. Kicking stones to pass the time, I felt like I could sleep for days.
There was a lot I wanted to forget.
I walked faster, trying to shake off the itch to score some drugs. Dealers littered the street corners, tempti ng me with their very presence. They laughed among themselves, seemingly carefree. I was no longer scared of them, though, no longer a stranger to their world.
I forced myself down the street. I wasn't going home. After leaving Sonny in jail, I wasn't about to face his punishment just yet. I'd check in with my agent, and then satisfy my need for speed later. I decided I'd lie low in Hollywood for a few days, passing several motels along the way and guessing any of them would do.
I dragged myself into my agent's office a half hour later and began to tell him what had happened at the audition. He stopped me, saying Scott Bell had already called. Bell had told him that I was really Traci Lords and that he was interested in discussing a possible business deal with me. He'd asked the agent to set up another meeting. It was scheduled for 7:30 that evening at a restaurant called Mirabelle's in Hollywood. "That's all I can do for you, Traci," the agent said. "I don't handle porn girls." Humiliated, I left his office.
I'm not a porn girl anymore!
Bell had cost me my agent.
I checked into a cheap motel up the block and had a soak in the tub. I didn't know what to do next. I was alone in Hollywood, agentless again, and had a dinner date with a guy I wanted to punch out. Did he know that he just ruined everything for me? Had he done it on purpose? What did he want from me? Was he really a legit filmmaker like my agent said? I was no longer the gullible girl from Ohio and something told me the whole thing stank. The least he can do is feed me, I decided, setting out in search of something to wear to dinner.
Later that night, I headed for the restaurant. I'd been told Mirabelle's was a fancy French place and I hoped the short black dress I'd bought was a winner. I strutted across Sunset Boulevard amid a sea of catcalls, which made me question my choice of wardrobe. The dress was on sale for $19.95. Did I look cheap? Insulted by the propositions of two different men, I quickened my pace.
Minutes later, I entered the softly lit restaurant and was shown to Mr. Bell's table. I was flustered by the walk there and still pissed Bell had complicated my life. But I was determined not to let it show. As I took a seat, the waiter offered me a drink and I looked around the room to notice what the other women in the restaurant were having. They were all enjoying light- colored beverages in slim glasses. I wanted to be as sophisticated as they were, so I said in my most adult voice, "I'd like a glass of Tott's, please," having no idea it was the cheapest champagne one could buy.
Scott laughed, saying what a kidder I was, and promptly ordered me a glass of Pinot Noir. He condescendingly told me Tott's was "low rent." Embarrassed, I was about to tell him where to stick it when the waiter returned to card me. Scott smiled, but I could tell by the deepening redness on his forehead that he was mortified. I was clumsily searching my purse for the Kristie ID when the contents fell on the table.
"Oops," I giggled, returning my switchblade to my bag. "Girl's gotta be careful." I innocently smiled to the stuffy waiter. Bell was speechless. I presented my ID, swallowed my drink, and walked out the front door. Fuck it. I was done.
Bell came after me, apologizing for his bad manners. I stood fuming in front of the restaurant and aware of the attention we were drawing.
"Please, have some dinner with me. I'm really sorry, Kristie. I have a business proposition that is going to make you a very wealthy woman. Just hear me out."
One lobster and a bottle of wine later, I listened as Bell made his pitch. He said that he had an investor who would bankroll a film production company. It would be called TLC, the Traci Lords Company. It would produce three X-rated films starring me. I would be required to perform three sex scenes per film. He would write and direct.
Embarrassed he was talking so casually about this in public, I kept checking for eavesdroppers. How had the day gone so wrong? Stupid Sonny wrecked my Vette, I lost my agent, and now this guy was trying to get me back into porn. I couldn't take any more. I told Bell I wasn't interested. Thanking hint for dinner, I left abruptly.
Tears drenched my face as I walked home feeling sorry for myself. Life sucked, and I was sure I was at the end of the road. I'd only gotten a few blocks when a horn blared at me. Startled, I shot the Benz driver a nasty look only to realize it was Bell. Quickly, I wiped my eyes, not wanting him to know he'd upset me.
"What?" I snapped.
"Kristie," he said, "get in. Let me give you a ride." I hesitated for a moment and then wearily climbed in. He was a jerk, not a killer, and I was dead tired.