Hi, I’m Jenna Jameson. You may not know me, but I was in a movie for Heatwave called Silk Stockings. Is it possible to make an appointment with Steve Orenstein for sometime next week?”
To my surprise, his secretary said yes. She didn’t even ask what I was coming in to talk to him about.
“How about Friday afternoon at three-thirty?” she asked.
“Let me see,” I said, rustling through the pages of a magazine to make it sound as if I were checking a day planner. “I’m pretty booked that day, but I can juggle some appointments around. I’ll see you then. Thank you.”
Steve Orenstein had founded Wicked Pictures just two years prior, in 1993, but was already making over a dozen movies a year. His mother was a bookkeeper who had taken a job accounting for an adult-magazine business. Like any good mother, she procured a job for her son there, and he gradually rose through the ranks of the industry until he decided to form his own production company —with his mom as accountant, of course.
On Friday, I dug into my shoebox of rent money and pulled out thirty dollars to cover the taxi ride to and from Canoga Park. Then I put it back in the box: If I didn’t get the job, I wouldn’t be able to cover my rent. I called Lyle Danger and begged him for a last-minute lift to Canoga Park.
I was so nervous on the ride there that thick droplets of sweat were running down my body. The words of encouragement my father had spoken to me on the phone rang through my head. I kept repeating to myself, over and over, that I was the prize. I needed to walk into Steve’s office with the attitude that I had just bench-pressed the world. It had to be conveyed not just by what I said, but by how I moved, the way I held myself, and the sound of my voice.
I knew I wanted not just a job, but a contract. Wicked was a small company and so far Steve Orenstein had only granted a contract to Chasey Lain, a beautiful brunette stripper from Florida.
The only problem was that I had no idea what a contract entailed, how much money I should ask for, or what terms I wanted. But I came up with a plan: I was not going to discuss money whatsoever, but instead tell him that I was all about the fame. This way, I figured, they’d be more likely to back me because asking for money was taking something from them. But with fame, they had something to gain: cachet and, more importantly, cash. In addition, they knew I would work hard for them, and not just try to get away with as little work as possible for the paycheck. It was like the old Hollywood studio system, in which actors and directors signed exclusive deals with studios, which in turn harnessed their entire marketing power into making them household names. Although this system was seen as exploitative by modern Hollywood standards, it also produced some of the most awe-inspiring females in cinema history: among them, Betty Grable, Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, Mae West, Greta Garbo, and Joan Crawford.
I sat in the waiting room sweating for fifteen minutes before the secretary told me to go to the first office on the right. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I started shaking. The office itself was unimpressive: a tiny cubicle with bare corrugated steel walls in an industrial park. But I’d never been so nervous in my life, because this was it. I didn’t have a backup plan.
The room contained only a black lacquer desk and a leather couch, which revolted me. It looked sleazy and disorganized, and I reevaluated my goals on the spot. But then I took a good look at Steve.
He sat behind his desk, with assorted stacks of paper piled up to his chin. He was little, with red curly hair and an easy smile. Then there were his eyes; he had really happy eyes. And he had a tic of blinking a lot, which made me comfortable because he was nervous in his own way too. Even rarer, during the entire time I spoke, he never once looked below my chin. He let me talk, and didn’t interrupt at all. He only had two main questions: “What are you about?” and “What do you want out of this?”
“Listen,” I said. “I’ve done a billion magazines. With no one’s help, I made myself the most photographed girl in the business. The movie scenes I’ve done have been pivotal. A lot of people know who I am. I know what I’m worth, and I’m ready for the next step. The most important thing to me right now is to become the biggest star the industry has ever seen.”
As soon as I said that last phrase, Steve’s eyes lit up. Either he really believed in me or he thought the delusions of grandeur coming out of the mouth of a baby-faced twenty-year-old were humorous.
I assumed the best and went on. “You and I want the same things,” I said. “You are a new company in the industry. You care about quality and perfection, because you want to be the best and the biggest. I want the same thing for myself. And together we can change things. So you can either sign me or I can go to another company and take them to the top. It’s up to you. I’m going to be a star with or without you, so let’s do this.”
I had nothing to back this up whatsoever. I was just talking out of my ass. I glanced at Steve. He was looking at me in awe, and I thought, “I did it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Come with me.”
He walked me out of the room to where his assistant was sitting and dictated: “I, Jenna Jameson, agree to be under contract to Wicked Pictures. I agree to star in eight Wicked productions a year for a fee of six thousand dollars per film.”
Suddenly, I had a thought: what if my novelty wore off for them one day and they ended up signing a bunch of girls? “If you want me to do this, I need to be your main priority,” I insisted. “So if you want to sign any other girls, I need to approve them first.”
Steve’s assistant looked up at him and, to my amazement, he nodded his consent. She pulled the sheet out of the typewriter. This was my contract. And, because I felt comfortable with Steve, I signed it on the spot. Afterward, we all stood there beaming like long-lost friends. Steve asked me what I wanted as a signing bonus, and I requested something I desperately needed: a refrigerator.
No girl goes into the business saying, “I’m going to be a big star and conquer the world,” especially then. But that was what set me apart. I knew Wicked could help me achieve that. However, by putting myself entirely in their hands, I was being very naïve. Signing a two-sentence contract without a lawyer could have been a career-ending mistake. But luckily, I happened to walk into the office of the most honest man in the adult-film business. And, even though we don’t work together anymore, that’s still true today.
With Steve Orenstein, on the far left.