Until the day they bury me, a discarded pile of flesh, bones, and silicone, I will always be answering the same question. It comes at me every time I leave the house —which is less often than you might think because, believe me, it’s not easy to tear myself away from the E! channel. Be it a man or a woman, a teenager or a grandparent, an attractive person or Bill O’Reilly, they all want to know: “So how did you start doing porn anyway?”

When someone asks an actor, a photographer, or a snowboard instructor how he or she got into the business, what they generally want to know is how to break in themselves. But in the case of my profession, what they generally want to know is what enables someone to make the decision to have sex with strangers on camera for a living. This is why the second question I get asked most commonly is whether I was beaten, abused, or suffered some sort of childhood trauma like a bump on the head or food poisoning.

The actual answer, which I never really realized until I started writing this book, is this:

Baby steps.

STEP ONE

Teenager wants to be a model.

REASON

Like all teenagers, she thinks she’s special.

STEP TWO

Teenager starts dating a tattoo artist and biker.

REASON

He’s older, badder, and allegedly wiser.

STEP THREE

Teenager becomes a stripper.

REASON

Work, money, and approval of boyfriend.

STEP FOUR

Teenager starts modeling nude.

REASON

It’s just like real modeling, except with stripping added in.

STEP FIVE

Teenager starts acting in soft-core all-female adult movies.

REASON

Revenge.

I knew that Jack was cheating on me. The only problem was that I hadn’t caught him yet. I staked out the tattoo shop, did drive-bys to check his whereabouts, and combed every inch of the house for telltale hairs, earring clasps, ponytail holders, and unfamiliar perfume smells. And my searches were thorough, because they were usually conducted under the influence of meth.

One night I got my chance. Jack was throwing one of his usual parties at the tattoo parlor and a tall, thick-bodied blond girl stood in the corner. Her eyes met mine and I just knew: she was the one —my rival, my enemy, my nightmare. As the night went on and the intoxication level increased, the girl kept looking at me not only like a woman sizing up her competition but also like a woman who was clearly attracted —or at least intrigued.

So when Jack went to make a beer run, I decided to befriend her. Her name was Lacey. Once I established that she knew we were dating, I set my trap.

“You know, me and my old man, we have a pretty open relationship,” I told her. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I really get off on sharing girls with him. I love watching him fuck. So, since he told me that you guys have a little thing going on anyway, do you want to come do it with both of us?”

I wasn’t sure how she’d react. I was being so direct. But her eyes lit up and she said, “We’ve only fucked a couple of times and, yeah, it would be fun with you.”

Boom! Caught.

Now, a lesser girl would have kicked the crap out of her then and there. But I had learned the finer points of detective work from my dad. I knew that if I attacked her at the party, that would just make me look like a psycho bitch. If I waited and actually caught her in the act, however, then that would be another story.

So later in the night, I told Jack that I was attracted to Lacey and asked if we could take her home to play with. The idiot had no idea what was up and thought he could get away with fucking the other girl he was seeing right in front of me.

After the party, we brought her back to the house and all sat on the couch talking. I went to the bathroom, stayed in for a good ten minutes, and when I walked back out, Jack was still sitting on the couch. But his pants were down and she was kneeling in front of him with her top off, blowing him. I lost it. Knowing something like that is happening is one thing, but seeing it is another story altogether. My skin color must have changed from UV-lamp tan to sunstroke red. I was at the couch with her hair in my hand within a quarter second. I dragged her outside, kicked her in the stomach, and screamed, “How dare you fuck my boyfriend behind my back, you motherfucking bitch? If you ever come around here again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Then I slammed the door.

When I saw her clothes on the sofa, I realized that I had forgotten something. I opened the door, spit on her, and then slammed it again.

“You are out of your fucking mind,” Jack yelled. He was in shock. “You’re the one who invited her back here.”

“You lying son of a bitch. You’ve been fucking that girl. She told me.”

And then I broke down and started crying. “How could you do this to me?”

Jack didn’t even bother explaining. He walked to the bedroom and slammed the door. I cried so hard that night I practically dehydrated.

As time passed and the wound didn’t heal, I decided to get back at him and cheat, in my own way. In the biker and tattoo-artist community, the worst stigma a man can have is if his old lady is sleeping with someone else —and everyone knows it but him. And the best way for me to do that was on camera.