As I eased myself back into the world of Suze Randall and photo shoots, my attitude began to transform. Before, I never had an opinion about what I would wear, who I was working with, or how they wanted me to pose. But, slowly, I realized that they needed me as much as I needed them. I could have some sort of control.
So I started opening my mouth: “This lipstick doesn’t match this outfit”; “What do you mean there’s no lunch?”; “You’re shining a backlight through my head, and it’s making me look bald”; “I’m not eating cold cuts again.” Remarkably, I found that people listened —and obeyed, because they knew that the more comfortable I was, the better the pictures would be.
I wasn’t a terror to work with —that would come later— but I was making my first tentative steps toward diva-dom, not necessarily a good thing.
Off camera, I lacked any sort of stability. Getting away from Las Vegas was probably the biggest decision I’d made in my life since running away from home. Suddenly, I really was independent. Living on Nikki’s couch without a car, I felt the immensity of the world outside of Las Vegas. I was in a city in which no one knew or cared about me besides her. I knew my living arrangements were only temporary: one day, I would have to leave. And then I’d be truly alone. The problem with sobriety was having to deal with reality. I needed to make some real money. I couldn’t suck off people —Dad, Jack, Nikki— anymore. And there was no way I was going to end up like one of those old strippers dancing with worn-out heels and a worn-out smile.
Weeks later, at a photo shoot, I met a producer who worked for a company called Heatwave. He wanted to put me in a movie, Silk Stockings starring Tiffany Million. I had really only dabbled in adult movies before, primarily as a way of getting back at Jack. I was through living my life in response to Jack’s actions, but I wasn’t exactly sure what to do instead. Heatwave was a respected company at the time and the pay would be five thousand dollars per scene, nearly twenty times what I made from photo modeling. On one hand, those sweat droplets from Sponge Cake still hung vividly in my mind’s eye. On the other hand, there was the memory of the polished, professional set of Andrew Blake. I wrestled with the decision for weeks. Nikki was dead-set against it. In fact, she was devising her own exit plan from modeling; her parents were covering her (and thus my) rent and car payments as she put herself through makeup school for film.
“You’re making a big mistake if you go back to that world,” she said. “You’ve done magazines, but movies are entirely different. You’re really compromising yourself. Are you prepared to deal with the psychological effects of having sex with men you don’t know? You got lucky with Randy West. But what about Sponge Cake? That’s what all these movies are like. Whatever you go on to do in life, these films will be with you forever. Think about how it will affect your future relationships. And, God forbid, one day you are going to have to explain them to your children.”
She was such a mother figure to me that I thought about every word. I lay on her couch, unable to sleep for entire nights sometimes, wrestling with myself. I couldn’t invade Nikki’s space like this forever. I had to make a life for myself. I was good at this whole sex-on-camera thing. I enjoyed it; and, if I only chose high-quality projects from reputable directors, I could avoid the less savory side of the business.
Everyone I talked to told me not to get into adult films. They all had their reasons. And they all made sense. But the notion wouldn’t leave my head. I just wanted one person to say that it was a good idea —one person to support me— and I’d be able to move forward. My instincts kept screaming that it was the right thing to do, but they kept fighting with my brain, which said it was sheer idiocy. That support eventually came from my father.
I called him in my usual state, upset and holding back tears, and told him that I was alone, scared, and considering accepting an adult film offer.
“Ignore what everybody else says,” he said. “They have their own reasons. How do you really feel?”
“I want to do it,” I blurted. “I really think this can be my life.”
“So you’ve made your decision,” he said. “I can’t say that I agree with it, but I support it. The only thing I ask is that, if you do it, make sure you do it right. Don’t ever compromise yourself and don’t let anyone get the best of you. When you show up for work, know that you are an asset to them and not the other way around.”
When I hung up, I was relieved. Not only had my dad given me advice, but he’d actually given me good advice. The closer I came to deciding to say yes to Silk Stockings, the more vehement Nikki became in trying to dissuade me.
“Don’t fucking do this,” she’d yell. “You are destroying your life.”
This was the type of reaction I would have expected from my father. And as I always do when confronted with authority, I rebelled. I was upfront with Nikki about everything, so when I later told her that I’d called the producer and accepted the offer, she blew up. “If you do this,” she screamed, “I do not want you living here. You can pack your fucking bags and get out.”
Nikki was so upset that she wouldn’t even drive me to the first day of shooting. She’d always been a blunt girl. That’s what I had liked about her in the first place. Of course, she loved me too much to boot me out.
I pulled up to the studio in a taxi. The first person I met was an actor named Lyle Danger, a dark, moody, well-built Slovenian with smoldering eyes and a day of stubble on his chin. Like me, he was also new in the business. So we both sat quietly around the set, nervous and shy, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. I liked him right away. Of course, the business would eventually change him into another creature entirely.
We didn’t shoot our scene that day, but afterward I asked him for a ride back to Nikki’s. He was hesitant, but I pleaded and eventually he gave in. When I saw his ride, I realized why he had been so reluctant: it was a bucket truck with a cherry picker in the back and the words ONE TWO TREE on the side. His day job was running a tree-trimming business.
When he dropped me off, he agreed to pick me up the next day for work. Finally, there was another friendly person in this town. Nikki, of course, neither liked nor approved of him (though that would soon change).
It was beginning to get very uncomfortable in her house. It wasn’t just because of the movie, but also because I noticed a glue gun in the kitchen. Nikki was staying up all night working on strange art projects that meant a lot to her but made no sense to anyone else. I recognized the behavior. And I also recognized the cause. Buddy was telling Nikki every day, in subtle and not-so subtle ways, how fat she was. He’d push her out of the house and order her to go to the gym. Instead, she became so depressed she’d go to Winchell’s, buy a dozen donuts, and sit in the car eating them.
Then, in the middle of shooting Silk Stockings, I was fast asleep just before daybreak and Nikki was up organizing her shoes for the tenth time, when all of a sudden the dishes in the kitchen started shaking, followed by the bottles in the bar. Then books and videos started falling off the shelves until, finally, the TV set smashed to the floor.
We ran outside. An earthquake had struck in Northridge nearby. Before our eyes, Nikki’s windows shattered —now we were all homeless— and the house next to us collapsed, killing the people inside it. We sat on the side of the street, stunned and in silence. And I was supposed to be at work in less than three hours.
On set, I was scheduled to finally shoot my scene. As soon as the camera started rolling and the male lead, Bobby, walked in, I felt the air fill with tension. It was so thick that I could almost feel the resistance as I moved through the room. He stood there, smoldering and sexy yet nervous and intimidated.
All the tension and fear of the day just exploded out of me. It was as if I needed to prove to Nikki that she was wrong, that this was my calling. Every part of my body —my hands, my mouth, my legs— began pumping in a different but perfect rhythm. I suddenly understood where the phrase sexual dynamo came from; I was a frigging machine. And I was so in the moment —more connected to life and myself than I had been since my last scene with Randy West. I was fucking good at this. When the camera stopped rolling, everyone applauded.
After the shoot, I asked Lyle to give me a ride back to Nikki’s. Bobby hitched a ride with us as well and squeezed into the cab of Lyle’s ridiculous truck with us. As we drove back, our hormones were still whizzing around from our scene together. We never made it to Nikki’s. We had Lyle drop us off at a motel instead. I felt bad for Lyle because I could sense that he really liked me, and was new in the industry and reaching out for someone. But my body wanted Bobby. As soon as we entered the room, we tore each other’s clothes off and fucked savagely. But the passion only lasted five minutes —not because either of us came, but because it just felt weird having sex together in real life. The chemistry on screen was not that of attraction but a different kind of partnership, the bond of two new actors emotionally invested in creating a perfect scene together. I don’t know who said it first, but we both thought it at the same time: “This is not right.”
A few days later, Nikki and Buddy moved into a new house. It was bigger than their last place, so I had my own bedroom. But I never unpacked. I knew it wasn’t going to last long. Our friendship was turning to rivalry as Nikki began accusing me of competing with her and lying to her. But I couldn’t have a rational conversation with her, because her personality had been taken over, eroded, and replaced with paranoia. Whenever I said anything about her partying, she accused me of trying to drive a wedge between her and her husband. That may have been true when I first moved in, but I had quickly realized that she was under his thumb. It was interesting to observe their relationship now that I wasn’t in one. I could see the way Buddy would make fun of her weight or encourage her to party, just like Jack had with me.
The final blow-up came when I confronted Nikki about her partying, and she responded by accusing me of slutting around town and lying to her about it. She was my only support in Los Angeles, and now she was screaming at me like a lunatic.
“I opened up everything to you —my home, my life, my love— and all you’ve done is disrespect me,” she yelled. “I want you out of this house tomorrow.”
“I want you out of this house,” she yelled, so loud that her voice went hoarse. “Tomorrow.”
Only Nikki’s brother, Michael, shared my concern for her and understood what was going on. From the moment we met, there was chemistry between us, if only because I couldn’t have Nikki and he was a tall, strapping male version of her.
I had no idea how to find my own place in L.A., so he bought a paper and circled a dozen apartments to look at. The first day we went hunting for a place, we passed a piercing parlor in Studio City. I had Michael stop and walked inside. I had an impulsive idea of commemorating my new independent self with a memento: a belly-button piercing, which was poked by a creepy little white guy named Flavia with dreadlocks down to his knees. Then we drove to see the first apartment, a little studio on Dickens and Van Nuys, across the street from a newsstand. I loved the place, not to mention the fact that I didn’t have far to walk to pick up the magazines I was in.
We moved my worldly possessions —one small bag of clothes— out of Nikki’s house. It was one of the most painful things I had to do: I felt grateful to her for so much. Since I’d first met her, she’d been a voice of sanity in the craziness of this business. Without her, I probably never would have gotten back on my feet and in the game after Jack. I would most likely have been taken advantage of by someone who saw my desperation, neediness, and confusion as vulnerability. But when I left her house, we didn’t say a word to each other. Not even good-bye.