I did a lot of thinking as I flew to Cannes. Thanks to my scene with T.T. Boy, I had been nominated for the top awards at the Hot D’Or Awards, the biggest adult-film event in Europe, which coincided with the Cannes Film Festival and a convention for foreign buyers of adult movies. Between this and Howard Stern, I realized that I really had a life now. I was no longer just dabbling in the adult world for money or something to do. This was my identity and career. I would be representing Wicked and myself at the biggest film festival in the world. And nobody really knew yet who I was or where I came from. I could get off the plane and be anyone I wanted. I could be an untouchable icon, a slutty party girl, an uptight prude with a dark side, or the living embodiment of the fantasies of every male in the western world —and some of the females, too.

I was twenty-one years old and finally beginning to get comfortable with myself. My boyfriend, Steven St. Croix, had absolutely no control over me; neither did Steve Orenstein or my dad or Joy King or anyone. I was my own person, and every one of those people believed in me. Cannes was going to be the start to my new life.

Steve Orenstein and Joy were with me. I had lost my passport the day before we were supposed to leave, so Steve had taken me to get a new one. Afterward, I spent twenty-four hours packing ten suitcases, because I knew Cannes was a big deal and I wanted to be prepared for anything. They were bringing over two other girls, Juli Ashton (a former high school Spanish teacher) and Kaylan Nicole (the reigning queen of anal at the time), both of whom were more experienced and popular than I was. As catty as it sounds, I wanted nothing more than to prove myself over these chicks. But it was going to be hard, because I was trying to learn from them at the same time. They had realized that with their beauty, boobs, and status, the rules that applied to the rest of the world didn’t apply to them. They had the attitude that they could do absolutely anything they wanted. (Little did I know that this would be Kaylan’s last trip to Cannes: soon after, she quit the business, denounced porn, and became a Sunday school teacher; Juli went on to host Playboy Night Calls.)

On the flight, they ordered drink after drink, traipsed around the plane like it was their living room, and acted openly sexual with each other, much to the excitement and consternation of the male passengers. Even though I’d been in lesbian relationships, I’d never been that forward in public. My dad the cop had taught me to follow the rules, and their behavior confused me. On one hand, it made me uncomfortable; on the other, I wanted to have the guts to act that free. I’d say, “Oh my gosh, you aren’t supposed to get up and go to the bathroom right now while the ‘fasten seat belt sign’ is illuminated,” and they’d look at me as if I were the stupidest girl they’d ever seen.

The minute we got off the plane, we were in another world. It was one I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl, imagining what it would be like to be an international jet-setting model. In fact, it was wilder than my dreams. Flashbulbs went off everywhere. The paparazzi screamed and fought to take pictures of me, even though they had no idea who I was. It was so overwhelming and disorienting being pushed through the admiring crowd toward a waiting limo. I knew, for the first time, what an actual celebrity must feel like. I had only been playing at being one, but I now felt it was within my grasp.

As we raced away in the limo, I realized that if I worked this right, it could be a big opportunity for me. I could get my name everywhere. When I got into the business, I thought being an adult star was just about doing scenes and selling videos. But I never thought that this psychotic melee would be part of the bargain.

We arrived at what looked like a palace: the Royal Casino hotel. I’d never stayed in a room that immense and ornate before. Joy had booked interviews and photo ops for me every ten minutes. And I was excited to do all that work. I was willing to do anything to be someone who everyone loved. Looking back on it, it was just a new type of insecurity replacing the old one, and I was giving myself away to the needs and expectations of the public instead of the needs and expectations of the men in my life. It was just a new form of dependence developing. And it was equally detrimental to any sort of mental stability.

A press conference promoting the Hot D’Or awards kicked off the schedule. This would be my first chance to show everybody what I was about. Of course, I had no idea what I was about. But I knew what I needed to do. So while every other girl at the conference wore her sluttiest stripper and hooker clothes, I changed into a beautiful blue Versace suit. The press conference started at noon; I waited until 1 P.M. to arrive in order to make the biggest splash possible. There is a little girl who is still inside me, and that little girl doubts everything I do, but I always force myself to go out and do everything —no matter how trivial— bigger and better than everybody else does, just to spite her.

When I entered the room, everyone suddenly went silent. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, because they were all looking at me like I had arrived late to class on my first day at a new school. Suddenly, all my mental preparation vanished, and nervousness seized hold of my body: I started shaking uncontrollably and hives popped out on my arms and neck. As I walked toward the table where all the other girls were sitting in awkward silence, I kept telling myself, “Calm down, calm down.” People were talking to me. I couldn’t process a word they were saying.

When I sat down, the noise resumed and everyone began clamoring to interview me. It was my first press conference and I wasn’t very polished. But I had my training from the pageants, so I just made strong eye contact and told each journalist the answer I thought he wanted to hear. Afterward, I couldn’t remember a single word I’d said.

At the time, porn was huge in Europe, and fans and photographers chased our cabs and limos every time we left the hotel. They’d mob us in the street, asking for photos and autographs. More excitement surrounded us than the mainstream actors, because we made ourselves more accessible.

I always made sure I had the best outfit on. If there was a photo op, I made sure I was front row and center. If there was a television camera in the vicinity, I made sure I grabbed the microphone. I don’t know what came over me. I took over absolutely everything. I was competing with some of the best girls in the industry, and I had to prove why, out of all of them, I deserved to be starlet of the year. Even when photographers would yell “Pamela” at me, I’d play along, mugging for photos and letting them think they had Pamela Anderson. Looking back on it now, I’m ashamed at how selfish and opportunistic I was, but at the same time, success requires some familiarity with the fatal flaw of narcissism.

On day two, we had to sign autographs at the convention. It was a complete anticlimax. The Cannes administrators had stuffed all the porno people in a horrible little cubbyhole in a basement underneath the theaters where the mainstream films were being shown. As we walked in, I picked up a book-size guide to the premieres, which the festival had published and handed out to everyone attending. I flipped it over and noticed a giant picture of my face on the back. The only text on the page was the word “Jenna.” Wicked had sprung for a lavish color advertisement.

Unbeknownst to me, everyone in the mainstream film industry was asking who this blond girl on the program was. So a producer at the E! Channel decided to hunt me down and solve the mystery. As I was leaving the convention late that afternoon, an E! cameraman saw me and yelled, “Jenna!” I turned around and he approached me. “Who are you?” he asked. “You have to tell us.”

And then, in one of the boldest moves of my life, I snatched the microphone out of his hand and an alter ego I never knew I had leaped out.

“Hi, I’m Jenna Jameson, and I’m reporting to you from Cannes, France, where the biggest celebrities in the world have gathered to spend a week sunning, partying, and watching movies.”

I think a part of me had always wanted to be a television show host. I had been watching Cindy Crawford on MTV’s House of Style recently, and thinking about how much better of a job I could do —if only I looked as fabulous as she did.

“I’m here because I work for Wicked Pictures, where we make adult films so hot that if you don’t cover your eyes, you’ll probably explode. I’m up for the top awards this year. And I’ll probably win them too, but you’ll have to come along with me to see.”

On one hand, I was completely seized by the moment and blathering; but on the other hand, I knew exactly what I was doing —trying to trap E! into covering the awards show in the process. When I was finished, everyone was in shock. Not necessarily because of what I said, but because, like Howard, they had no idea a girl who looked so young and innocent could actually be a porn star. Fortunately, the producer was standing nearby and, as soon as I finished my ridiculous monologue, she ran up to me and said, “Would you mind being our correspondent here for the whole festival?”

“No problem,” I said coolly.

The minute she turned her back, my whole face twisted with excitement and the words “Oh my God!” resounded loudly through my head.

For my first appearance on E!, I walked down a pier and bought an ice cream cone while discussing a premiere that night. Behind me, the camera captured crowds of people chasing me trying to take pictures, thinking I was some sort of star. Perception, I quickly learned, is reality.

That night, I interviewed actual stars, none of whom had any idea who I was or what I did. They just thought I was the pretty new face of E! And they actually respected me for it. My heart was beating so fast it felt like I was on meth again. I was twenty-one years old and living out my dreams. And the strangest thing of all was that I had no fear. I was the most self-conscious person I knew, but somehow, I wasn’t afraid to step up to the plate for E!, as if somewhere in the back of my mind I’d been preparing for it my whole life. I was actually reinventing myself. All those months of eating ramen had paid off.

That night, we all dressed up and Joy took us to a club which opened at midnight. All of Cannes, it seemed, was packed into this immense place and stripped half-naked because there was no air-conditioning. I was so full of adrenaline from the E! experience and alcohol that I climbed up on the bar with Juli and Kaylan, and stripped down to my bra and bikini bottoms. Then, half a dozen random girls climbed up on the bar with us, and we all started groping each other. This was nothing unusual for the club: there were couples making out all over the dance floor, and even fucking in the stairwell.

Suddenly, I looked down and saw a black-haired waiter with a perfectly chiseled jaw staring up at me. One of the things I liked about France was that the guys were hot but the girls weren’t, so the odds were in my favor. But I was never the type of person to pick up a guy. I had never made a first move in my life. I’d just wait until a guy propositioned me, like Victor and Jack had. But I was no longer Jenna Massoli, or even Jenna Jameson. I was Jenna! with an exclamation point. So I jumped down from the bar and knocked the tray of drinks out of his hands. Looking back on it, I can’t remember whether I was just drunk and clumsy, or trying to be forceful and sexy. Probably both.

Then I raised my left leg up, rubbing it against his outer thigh, and thrust my fingers into the tangles of his hair. As he started to open his mouth and say something, I pressed my lips against his and thrust my tongue down his throat. The words died in his mouth, and he wrapped his arms around me and started kissing me back. It was the greatest feeling in the world. Here I was, a fucking porn star, and I was so excited just to be kissing some waiter.

He grabbed my hand and led me across the dance floor and through a door that led to the employee bathrooms. We stopped in the hallway and our lips met again. I massaged his back, and worked my way down to his ass. He slid his mouth down to my neck, and grabbed a handful of flesh with such force that I broke out in goose bumps.

I reached around to the front of his pants. I had to see what it felt like. His cock strained against his black pants, throbbing every time I squeezed it through the material.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I asked him.

“No,” he said slowly, in an adorable accent. “I don’t have to do anything.”

He cupped his hand over the front of my bikini bottoms and just left it there, letting the heat spread through me until I was dripping wet. Then he moved my bottoms aside and rubbed his middle finger against my lips until it just slipped inside. With his thumb, he worked my clit as I ground against his hand to a shuddering orgasm. I hadn’t expected to come so soon.

“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” I told him.

We left the club through the employee exit, went back to my hotel room, and fucked until the sun came up. I had always heard that French men were great lovers, but between his stamina, his sensitivity, and the French phrases he kept cooing in my ear, he surpassed my expectations. I had no idea what he was saying, but it totally turned me on, even though for all I knew he could have been whispering, “You stupid American bitch.”

When it was all over, he wrapped his naked body around mine. Instantly I stiffened. I hate cuddling. When I’m hot and sweaty and sticky, the last thing I want to do is be pressed up against something else that’s hot and sweaty and sticky. I pulled away, and he looked hurt.

“How old are you?” I asked. I didn’t know anything about this guy.

He looked at me sheepishly and turned away.

“You can tell me,” I said. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

He muttered his answer, and my jaw hit the floor. What I’d just done was probably illegal in many parts of the world.

The next day, I met a director who gave me an extra ticket to a premiere that night. “I want to see the reaction when you walk the red carpet,” he said. I had just a few hours until the movie, so I ran through Cannes, looking for something to wear until I fell in love with a black Valentino dress that, at $3,800, cleaned me out.

I changed in the back room of the shop and took a cab to the premiere. When we pulled up outside, it was a mob scene. There were limos everywhere, and the press was packed around the red carpet like gamblers at a cockfight. My biggest fear was that no one would recognize me, or care. When I was about a quarter of the way down the carpet, someone suddenly screamed “Jenna!” and the pandemonium began. It was a moment I wanted to last forever: it felt like I had arrived.

When the movie started, I couldn’t even pay attention. My head was spinning. I left after fifteen minutes and found the E! crew waiting for me at my hotel. They wanted to film me at a members-only swingers club that night.

For the rest of the week, I spent my mornings autographing at the convention dungeon, my afternoons filming for E!, and then I would party until dawn, sleep for two hours, and start all over again. I couldn’t remember ever having so much fun in my life.

I swept up at the Hot D’Or Awards on my final night in Cannes, winning Best New American Starlet and Best American Actress. Afterward, I looked around the room and thought, “I did it. I’m the most popular girl here.” As shallow as it is, that’s what I thought at the time. Life was like high school, a popularity contest in a classroom as big as the world.

Mainstream fame, or at least the tantalizing possibility of it, had now entered my bloodstream. I was never the same afterward. Returning home on the airplane, swigging miniature bottles of Jack Daniel’s with Juli and Kaylan, I was now one of them: I could do no wrong. And I could get away with anything, because I was Jenna! with an exclamation point. I thought I was finally finding myself, but in reality I was turning into a monster.

Laure Sinclair and me at the Hot D’Or Awards.