Every bond that held Rod and me together —except for that proclaimed by church, state, and Wicked contract— had crumbled to dust. The final blow came when we concluded that I needed to work with other directors and performers in order to maintain the momentum of my career. So I decided to return to the glory days of Blue Movie by collaborating with Michael Zen, and Rod decided to pick Asian girls instead of me for his sex scenes.

Unfortunately, filming didn’t get any easier. The Michael Zen movie was called Satyr, and it was such a miserable experience that I don’t even remember what it was about. All I can recall is that I was supposed to turn into a unicorn in it, so they made my legs really furry and gave me a horn that looked like a zit. Rod was my co-star and, interestingly enough, he had no trouble getting hard for Asia Carrera in the movie but couldn’t get an ounce of wood for me the next day to save his life.

By 2 A.M. on day three, I was exhausted. I had been in every scene, and still had two sex scenes left to film, which meant at least five hours of work to go. Michael was fighting with the production manager, J.B., and the crew about the lighting setup and I interrupted and asked if they could hurry it up because we were all getting too exhausted to give our best performances.

I’m sure I delivered the comment a lot bitchier than I remember it. Either way, the lighting director took it personally, and complained to J.B. When they were finally ready to shoot, J.B. came into the makeup room and ordered: “Get your whore ass on set and do what you do best.”

He had just used the wrong word. I ran after him in a Tasmanian Devil frenzy. The crew had to pull us apart. It was late and my nerves were frayed, but nonetheless J.B. was out of line. And I was right: they were wasting time arguing about the lighting. When he left, I collapsed in my makeup chair and started crying.

Lee, my makeup artist, shut the door and tried to soothe me. Just then, Rod came bursting into the room. “You stupid fucking whore,” he yelled. “You are going to ruin this whole production. You can’t treat people like dogs after how hard they’ve worked. Who do you think you are?”

“How hard they worked, you selfish bastard? I’ve worked just as hard. And I’m the one who has to be on camera and look beautiful at four in the morning.”

We yelled at each other for ten minutes, making Lee so uncomfortable he cleared the room. Finally, I packed my shit and left the set.

As soon as I arrived home, the phone was ringing, as I knew it would be.

“Everything’s okay now,” Rod whimpered. “We’re sorry. We fired J.B.”

So I returned to the set and everyone was obsequiously nice to me, kissing my ass and making sure I was happy. In many ways, it was just as uncomfortable as having people yell at me. But I learned who was in control and who had the real power. If anyone else had walked off the set, even Rod, they’d have been fired and taken off the project. The movie needed me.

Even at my worst, however, I never pulled rank for no reason. There are times when I wish the industry had a union, because the shooting schedules are inhumane. It generally takes a good three weeks to shoot even the crappiest independent film; we do it in one to six days.

So many factors contributed to my attitude at the time. Mostly, I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of my fame. I also wasn’t going to allow anyone to treat me disrespectfully because of what I did. But a lot of it was my relationship.

My marriage showed no signs of improvement. In bed, I would move my foot over to touch his, and he would move his leg away. I needed so badly for him to do something to show that he loved me, something to counteract the constant drama on the set, but instead, he’d shut himself in his room for days and say that he had scripts to write. I had been much better off living alone: I didn’t realize that it’s a lot worse to be lonely in the company of someone you supposedly love than it is to be lonely by yourself.

After we wrapped shooting on Satyr, I couldn’t take it anymore. The exact words I used were: “If you aren’t going to fuck me, I’m going to find someone who will.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

There was no love, or even consideration or good will, left between us anymore. So I packed my shit and left without another word. The minute I left, I knew I was doing the right thing.

I piled everything in the car and drove off. I didn’t know where I was going. But somehow, I found myself at the door of a place I recognized: the Vagabond Inn.

It was all still there: the bug stains on the sheets, the light-phobic roaches, the asshole at the front desk demanding a credit card. But I was different. The little girl, wide-eyed, innocent, and fearful, was gone. I was a star now, supposedly; a married woman, on paper at least; and a confident adult in control of her own destiny, at least in other people’s perception. But in truth I had traveled so far and gone nowhere: I was still alone, looking for someone to help me make my way through the wilderness of the world. Every clearing I thought I had found turned out to be just a chimera.

I threw my bags in the corner of the room and lay on top of the bed in my clothes. I turned my mind off and stared at the ceiling, waiting for an epiphany. It never came.