After the Andrew Blake movie was released, I received a call from Randy West, a roots-rock singer from New York who had moved to Los Angeles to become a star. But soon he was making a living with his surfer-hoodlum-doughboy looks instead: first as a Playgirl model, then as a Chippendale dancer, and, finally, starting in the mid-seventies, in adult films. After appearing in hundreds of movies, he had decided to start his own video line, Up and Cummers, a gonzo series which usually starred Randy having sex with different girls. The conversation went something like this:

Randy: So, are you interested in coming out to L.A. to shoot a video?

Me: Absolutely not. I only want to do high-end stuff.

Randy: The pay is three thousand dollars for one scene.

Me: What day you want me there?

I told Randy that I would only do scenes with girls, and he agreed. He told me the girl would be Kylie Ireland, a stripper and former video-store manager from Colorado who had gotten into the business the week before and had already filmed five movies. He flew me to Los Angeles and I stayed at his house in the Hollywood Hills. Unlike Andrew Blake, Randy West’s entire crew consisted of himself. As for trailers and Kraft services, there were none. And, for a set, Randy just threw a blanket down on the lawn and let us go at it. I felt comfortable with Kylie instantly. She didn’t take herself too seriously, and wasn’t constantly condescending to me and acting competitive like other girls.

There was no script, no lighting, no direction —it was just sex in front of a camera. From the second work started to the second we were finished, the elapsed time was an hour and a half. We kissed, ate each other out, and played with some toys he had brought. It was easy work.

Unlike Andrew Blake, Randy wanted to film me again. Right away. The moment we finished filming, he pulled me aside. The conversation went something like this:

Randy: I will pay you twice as much if you do a boy-girl shoot.

Me: I told you, I don’t want to do that.

Randy: How about we do a boy-girl-girl shoot, you only work with the girl, and I still pay you twice as much?

Me: Sure. I don’t see a problem with that.

Randy: Will you do a little bit of head?

Me: We’ll see how it goes.

I had only worked with a guy once before, during a photo shoot with Suze a few months before. She’d called me and said she had an amazingly talented and ridiculously attractive male model she wanted to photograph me with. I wavered, so she sent me pictures of him from Playgirl. He was their Man of the Year. I decided that if I was going to do a boy-girl shoot, I might as well start with the best.

The next week, I went to Suze’s studio, which was decorated like a bad Western set, and met Marcello. He was incredibly attractive, a cross between Antonio Banderas and the one-hit-wonder Gerardo, but he was also the most stuck-up, self-obsessed man I had ever met. He fussed over his hair more than most girls, couldn’t stop gazing at himself in every reflective surface, and even brought his own face tanner. Fortunately, I didn’t actually have to touch him anywhere. All I had to do was get close enough to make it seem real. He was so creepy and unlikable that I didn’t work with a guy again until Randy West.

Randy, who of course volunteered to be the man in the shoot, was a decent guy. He was a little old and had the fashion sense of a homeless wrestler, but I didn’t have to touch him if I didn’t want to. So I figured a threesome —technically a two-and-a-halfsome— would be tolerable. Before shooting, he interviewed Kylie and me. It was the first time I had ever been interviewed. Though I would soon tire of hearing the same questions constantly, it was exciting because as I spoke, it dawned on me for the first time that this really was a professional career for me now, albeit an odd one.

During the scene, I was even inspired to help Kylie give him a blow job. I needed something to do to keep from looking stupid on camera, so I just held it in my mouth a little. But afterward, as I sat there trying to keep myself busy while watching Kylie and Randy fuck, I thought, “That doesn’t look so bad.”

Randy West must have either recognized my potential or wanted to fuck me really badly, because afterward, he pulled me aside again. The conversation went something like this:

Randy: How about doing a shoot with just me tomorrow?

Me: How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t really want to do that.

Randy: How about I pay you two thousand dollars more?

Me: Two thousand more than today?

Randy: Yes.

Me: Is tomorrow good for you?

It wasn’t just the money. The ever-increasing amounts just helped rationalize it. I was nineteen and had been in every hard-core adult magazine there was, except for maybe Over 60 and Still Swinging. There was nowhere else to go. Adult films seemed like the natural next step. Many of the other magazine girls at that time didn’t move on to film. There were notable exceptions, though: Savannah, of course, whom I had seen in my dad’s copies of Penthouse and Hustler before she ever appeared in films; Racquel Darrian was a top nude model; and Janine Lindemulder was one of the most published girls in Penthouse before she started working for Andrew Blake. Besides, if I made it in film, then maybe the magazines would finally start calling me Jenna Jameson in my pictorials instead of Shelly and Daisy and Missy.

After my tentative threesome with Randy, I knew I could do it with him. And if, along the way, I got a couple jabs in at Jack, all the better. For the girls who get penetrated in every hole in their first film, it’s physical and mental overload. The easiest way to approach anything new is to take those cautious baby steps, and Randy was teaching me how to walk one thousand dollars at a time. Of course, he denies to this day that he gave me that much money, but that’s probably because other girls would expect it then, too.

The next day, Randy set up the camera in his bedroom as I put on a sexy white tennis dress. He stood behind the camera and posed me, asking me to lick my breasts and spread my legs and —something I wasn’t expecting— put my fingers in my ass. I was caught off guard, but I just smiled, arched my back, reached my hand behind me, and hoped he didn’t push me any further. I was so used to posing for Suze that I knew exactly how to bend my body, turn my head, and seduce the camera. While I was tentatively putting a finger up my backside, Randy climbed onto the bed with me.

He interviewed me for a while, rubbing his hand lasciviously all over my body. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it, because he seemed a little bit lecherous. But the moment he shut up and stripped down, something snapped inside me and a primal part I had never been in touch with leaped out. It was like the moment I first used a strap-on with Nikki, only much more intense. I turned into a different person. Doing scenes with other girls was like dancing with another woman: There was no one to lead; it was just fluffy and tame. With a guy, there was strength, energy, intensity, and passion. It was a dance in which we wrestled for control. And as soon as I let go and abandoned myself to the moment, I won.

I wasn’t ready to experience something so explosive, something in which I had absolutely no shred of self-consciousness. Neither was Randy. When I gave him a blow job, working my mouth and my hand on his shaft with an expertise I never knew I had, he kept stopping me. From the grimace on his face, I could see that it was taking every ounce of self-control he had to keep from blowing his load and ruining the scene.

It was so much different from sex at home, because here I had the camera as an audience, and every muscle in my being was just naturally flexing, twisting, and arching to make sure our dance looked good for the lens. And knowing that I looked sexy made the sex itself better. Randy, in the meantime, seemed to have forgotten about the camera entirely. When I was on top of him, he had this expression on his face that read, “Holy shit!” And when he flipped me over, he kept whispering my name under his breath and throwing me into positions that seemed more for his benefit than the camera’s. Then, about forty minutes into it, something strange happened.

As he was nearing orgasm, he suddenly stopped his jackhammer pounding and leaned over my ear.

“Can I come in you?” he asked.

I was expecting him to follow the tried-and-true formula of pulling out for a pop shot on my face or boobs. And, to tell the truth, it was the part of the scene that I was dreading the most. This was not something I had done before with Suze or in soft-core.

Instead of pulling out, however, he came deep inside me. I thought, “That’s not going to look very good on film.” Then he pulled out and said, “Squeeze.”

I flexed my PC muscle and the cum just burst out of me, accompanied by a loud squirting sound. It would be an unglamorous but pivotal moment for the adult film business —one of the first internal pop shots.

Afterward, Randy kissed my back. It was a strangely affectionate move to make in a movie like this. Then he turned to the camera and said, “She’s kind of like Randy West with a pussy and tits.”

I had found my calling.