“I’d rather not do that,” I said. “It’ll get infected.”
“Fine,” Suze sighed.
I was sure she’d be upset or take me off the shoot for saying that. I couldn’t believe she had agreed so quickly. I’d never stood up for myself before. It felt good. I’d have to try this again sometime. Maybe I could ask for a nicer fucking motel next time.
With Nikki Tyler.
And so it began. I woke up at five every morning and got to the studio by seven for makeup. If I weren’t so young, my face would have looked like hell after all the sleep deprivation. Though she is a great person and a talented photographer, Suze, I soon realized, is also a shark. Her specialty is naïve young girls—much like myself—who are so happy to have a modeling opportunity that they’ll do anything. Once she sank her teeth into me, she didn’t let go. She shot me until I was half dead.
The pay was three hundred dollars a day, but sometimes she’d cram three different photo shoots into a day. And I had no idea how much she was getting paid for the photos or how many magazines she was selling them to. I was only supposed to be in L.A. for two days, but she kept me for a week, shooting nonstop. For all I know, she snuck into my hotel room while I was sleeping and shot more sets. Probably the reason she liked me so much was because I was so grateful that I didn’t complain once. If she wanted me to balance on one foot on a cliff, I would have done it, because I was finally living my dream.
The third day, Suze planned a big wacko shoot with ten girls at a huge mansion. As I sat in the makeup chair, I watched one hottie after another arrive—stuck-up, fucked-up, worked-up, or hard-up. They all seemed to be looking at me and wondering what a little girl was doing on a set full of women. And I was in mouse mode, stuck in my head and not talking, as usual. However, once Emma was finished with me, all the girls looked at me differently. They couldn’t believe the transformation. Suddenly, I was competition.
Outside the mansion, there was an opulent fountain spitting water dozens of feet. I sat on the marble steps, talking with Emma, when a blonde with long, straight hair and the cutest little freckles walked up. “Hi, Em!” she chirped.
Then she looked at me: “What’s your name?”
“Um, Jenna.”
“I’m Nikki. Nikki Tyler. You must be one of Suze’s new girls.”
I couldn’t believe a model had actually acknowledged my presence. She was so outgoing, and I was entranced by her freckles. Throughout the different setups, such as the classic lay-all-the-girls-naked-in-a-row-on-deckchairs-and-get-a-shot-of-all-their-butts pose, she stayed at my side, gave me advice, and filled me in on gossip about the other girls. As the day wore on, thanks to Nikki’s support, I started to get comfortable enough to let my personality out in the photos. My eyes sparkled, my energy intensified, and I even started suggesting poses. And the more I relaxed and expressed myself, the more Suze encouraged me with deep heartfelt praise, such as, “Yes! That’s it, you dirty little thing.” Because I was so flexible from dancing as a teenager, I could contort my legs and spine in ways that the other models couldn’t, inspiring Suze to actually name poses after me, like the Jameson Split, for which I balanced my body on my upper back with my legs spread, my ass in the air, and my head resting on one leg.
Of course, in the excitement of the moment, I thought Nikki was being sweet to me because I was the new girl. I was too naïve to realize that she was as bisexual as the day is long and completely on the make. When we paired off together for a girl-on-girl shoot, she’d follow through by kissing me on the lips whenever the camera stopped, even though intimate contact between the models was not allowed. For some reason, it neither made me uncomfortable nor aroused. I just thought it was rad. She, on the other hand, was a psychology major, and knew just what she was doing. She wasn’t getting sexual enough to send any warning signals, but not being so distant that I didn’t at least entertain the idea.
I was giddy by the end of the day, because I knew I stood out from the other girls, even though they had much more experience. Life was repeating itself. I liked thrusting myself into these new worlds where I didn’t fit in or know everything, especially when I ended up discovering a natural talent that surprised me.
When the photo shoot ended, Nikki switched into her mild-mannered day guise—horn-rimmed glasses, overalls, and a ponytail—and offered to drive me back to my hotel.
“So where are you staying?” she asked.
“The Vagabond Inn,” I told her.
“No!” she screamed, jamming on the brakes. “They did not put you there. That is no place for a girl on her own. You’re coming to stay with me. I won’t hear any protest.”
Game, set, match: Nikki Tyler.
PART
2
I know about sex the way some people know about music or computers. It’s my livelihood. Where women in other professions talk about the interest rate or comp cards, we talk about shaving pubic hair (using Neosporin instead of shaving gel helps reduce shaving bumps) and getting menstrual blood out of panties (try hydrogen peroxide). But what women ask me about most often is how to give a good blow job.
If a girl wants to keep a man in her life she can read The Rules, or she can learn how to give killer head he’ll never forget. So, unlike the previous set of commandments, these are for female readers—or for male readers to give to their girlfriends.
I.
THOU SHALT MAKE EYE CONTACT: When you’re going down on him, keep your hair out of your face and look up at him with big doe eyes. Make sure that you’re always giving him a good show in bed because men, as we all know, are turned on by visuals.
II.
THOU SHALT START SLOW: Begin by slowly licking, then putting your mouth around it, and finally, after ten minutes, start massaging the base with your hand. But be forewarned, once you’re using your hand and mouth at the same time, a lot of guys will come quickly and the fun’s over.
III.
THOU SHALT USE THY HANDS WISELY: In addition to stroking him, try tickling his balls a little. Two-handed stroking, especially if both hands are twisting in different directions in rhythm, is a nice treat, but it can send him over the edge too quickly. Keep in mind that if you’re feeling too much friction, you’re doing it wrong. Back off, and use lubrication if necessary.
IV.
THOU SHALT SPIT BEFORE SWALLOWING: Not only does spit help reduce friction and provide natural lubricant, but it’s also sexy for him. The way to get good consistency in your spit is to deep throat. The farther down your throat the spit comes from, the thicker it is.
V.
THOU SHALT WATCH HIM SPANK: Most guys don’t just piston up and down. If you watch him masturbate, you’ll know exactly what he likes. Usually, there’s a swoop in his motion. Imagine how you like to be played with, and treat him with a little twist to your wrist.
VI.
THOU SHALT USE THINE TONGUE: While he’s in your mouth, stick your tongue out as far as it will go. Then wiggle your tongue on the underside of his shaft. It may make you gag at first, but your partner will be using the Lord’s name in vain within seconds.
VII.
THOU SHALT SHIELD THY TEETH: Most girls wrap their lips around their teeth to protect the guy, but the problem is that it makes a hard ridge. Instead, shield your bottom teeth with your tongue, and open your mouth as wide as possible so that your top teeth stay clear.
VIII.
HONOR THE SCROTUM: This little variation is rarely shown on camera because it doesn’t look good; however, it feels great. Put both of his balls in your mouth—suck if necessary to get both balls to come down—and jack him off with your hand. Then extend your tongue so that you can lick the sensitive area between his ass and balls.
IX.
THOU SHALT EXPERIMENT WITH FACIALS AND SWALLOWING: A facial is when a guy comes on your face, and there’s no man I know who isn’t turned on by one. Swallowing is also a major turn-on. Though still an acquired taste, it tastes better if he has a good diet (especially on
e that includes pineapples or pineapple juice).
X.
THOU SHALT NOT GET IT IN YOUR EYES: Not only does it burn, but you can get an infection. Also, wash it off your face afterward with lukewarm water. Hot water makes it too crusty and hard to remove. The last thing you want to do is go to school or work with jizz on your chin.
Nikki had a cute apartment in Sherman Oaks near Mel’s diner. When we got there, she introduced me to her boyfriend, Buddy, who must have known her M.O. The three of us sat on her couch and watched television for an hour, until Buddy suddenly stood up and said, “Okay, goodnight girls!”
As soon as he left for bed, the atmosphere suddenly became tense. Nikki wanted me, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable yet.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” she asked.
“Okay, sure. Cool.”
She rifled through her videos, and put one in. It was a porno. A Savannah movie: Savannah Superstar. Her game was tight and clearly well-rehearsed.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“Yeah, a little.”
She brought me a big soft blanket from the closet, threw it over me, climbed under it, and put her arm around me. It was just like being at a horny high-school jock’s house.
Her strategy was to get me so turned on that my desire outweighed my discomfort. First, she laid her hand against the side of my leg. Then, gradually, she started rubbing the side of my knee in slow, less-and-less-innocent circles. As agonizing minute after minute ticked by, she worked her way up to my outer thigh and then around to my inner thigh. She was careful not to touch my private parts, but she was also careful to bring her hand just near enough to make them tingle with anticipation. Soon, I stopped paying attention to the movie and started paying attention to how her hand was making me feel, and that’s when my libido began to overpower my brain.
Suddenly, all the tension erupted and we were all over each other. Nikki locked lips with me, and pushed me down. She straddled me and pulled off my top. Her hands and mouth were everywhere. She was much more aggressive than Jennifer had been—and much more experienced, if that was even possible, even though she was only two years older than me. All I could do was kiss her and scratch her back as she ravished every inch of my body.
We rolled off the couch and onto the floor. While she was going down on me, she reached under the couch and grabbed an immense flesh-colored dildo. She didn’t like vibrators, because she was extremely sensitive and considered batteries to be cheating. But she loved dildos—the bigger, the better.
After three hours of sweaty, psychotic sex, she handed me a huge black strap-on. Evidently, she wanted me to wear it. I had never even thought about using one, but after all the pleasure she’d just given me, I could hardly deny her some reciprocation. I will never forget the feeling of putting it on: when you have a huge thing like that between your legs, something just comes over you. You turn into an animal, a monster, a maniac—in short, a man. As it stuck out of me, she rubbed lubrication over it with both hands, and my nerves began to merge with this giant piece of plastic. I could feel every sensation.
She turned around and kneeled on all fours, expectant. This was weird. I stepped behind her, with one knee on the ground, and wrapped my body over hers. My intention was just to put it in slowly, so that I didn’t hurt her, but after the head went inside, something came over me. I thrust the rest of it in, and slammed her hard. I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.
“Don’t move your body back and forth,” she advised me. “Rock your hips upward, like a guy. Mmm. Now move your pelvis down a little, so that it hits my G-spot.”
When I complied, she went crazy. Just looking at the veins on her neck popping out, her upper back mottled red, and her face transfixed in ecstasy made my body convulse with another orgasm.
After I pulled out, we collapsed and fell asleep on the floor together with the thing still hanging from my pelvis, brushing against her leg. In the morning, she dropped me off at my next photo shoot.
I didn’t want to impose on her, so I spent the rest of the week at the hotel. I saw Nikki one other time, and nothing physical happened. We just went to dinner, talked for hours, and planted the seed for a real friendship. She had gotten into nude modeling, she said, when she was looking for a way to pay the vet bills for her sick dog and happened across an ad for bikini models.
“Any time you’re in L.A.,” she said, “my place is your place.”
Then I flew back to Jack and the hellhole in which we lived. I put the $2,100 I’d made in L.A. into my treasure chest —I had stashed about $33,000 in a box under the bed—and went back to the Crazy Horse. Though it might not seem like a lot of money after so much time stripping, there are side effects of the job: it spoils your relationships with both men and money. You see too much of both, and you lose respect for both. That is why most strippers are bisexual and why I learned to live up to the “heartbreaker” tattooed on my ass.
As for the money, it makes it hard to ever work a normal job when, instead of a paycheck, you’re getting fistfuls of tax-free cash nightly. As a result, you tend to spend it almost as quickly as you get it—on clothes, nice dinners, hotel rooms, champagne, drugs, and other vices for yourself, your friends, your boyfriend, and your boyfriend’s friends.
But I felt like I had saved enough money for Jack and I to move to—and nicely furnish—a place where the hot water worked, the rats and roaches were exterminated, and the wallpaper wasn’t yellow and peeling. Over the next month, I looked at dozens of apartments that were listed in the newspaper, until I finally found a nice two-bedroom in a high-rise downtown. I agreed to move in and went home to my stash. I pulled out the box and dumped the bills onto the bed to count them. One dollar, two dollars, three dollars, four dollars, five dollars, six dollars, seven dollars, eight …
I suddenly blanched. They were all singles. What happened to the fistfuls of twenties and hundreds I’d been saving for so long? Only one person knew where I kept the money.
As soon as Jack came home from the tattoo shop, I confronted him. “Where the fuck’s my money?” I yelled.
He couldn’t even be bothered to lie. “I borrowed some,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Fuck yeah, I mind,” I told him. “We need to move the fuck out of this shithole.”
“I know, baby,” he said. “And that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I thought I could make you some more money at the Golden Nugget.”
Jack loved to get high and gamble. I just never realized he’d been doing it with my money.
“Go to work,” he said, as he chopped up a couple lines on the kitchen counter. “You’ll earn it back in a week anyway.”
“You asshole,” I yelled, punching him in the back. He didn’t give a shit about me or my money.
I swore that I’d earn back that cash and leave his ass for good. Then I bent over the kitchen table and sniffed a giant line of meth, wiping away the suddenly distant memory of L.A. and Suze Randall and Nikki Tyler. It was the first line I had done in at least half a year. And it was the line that would ultimately send me over the edge. Doing drugs for fun and recreation is a lot less harmful than doing them for an emotional reason, such as trying to forget about the fact that your own boyfriend stole your life savings.
There was something about Vegas that was poison. Every day I spent there, I slowly lost my grip on reality. Even Jennifer, my only real friend there, was disappearing deeper into boyfriendland every day. It seemed as if the better and more exciting L.A. became, the worse I made Las Vegas for myself. I had such a drive to succeed, but somewhere even deeper there was a part of me that felt unworthy, as if I didn’t deserve it. And so I punished myself constantly—with insecurity, with drugs, and with Jack. Whenever I left town, I was sure Jack was cheating on me. So when I returned, I’d inspect the apartment for clues and sometimes even follow him when he left the house. That kind of behavior was beneath me. Even though I had found a much deeper emotional connection with Jennifer
and then Nikki, I was completely co-dependent on Jack—in part because I felt him pulling away and it hurt me. I hated him for that. And I loved him for it, as well.
After one of our screaming matches, I was sobbing naked in the hallway, wiping away actual foam that had formed around my mouth from ranting and raving so much. And I was suddenly seized by the desire to call my dad. I missed Tony, and wanted to make sure he was still alive. Last I’d heard, after I’d talked with my father, he’d invited Tony and his girlfriend, Selena, to live with him so he could keep an eye on them. My dad had helped start some sort of real estate business with his brother, Jim, so to further rehabilitate Tony, he had brought him in as a partner. But Tony was still so heavily into drugs that he was constantly stealing things of my dad’s to sell.
When I called my dad’s house, no one answered. I thought nothing of it at the time, but I kept calling. And when no one answered the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, I began to worry. After five days without hearing from them, I asked Jack to drive me to my old house to look for them.
It was the first time I’d been home since running away. When we pulled up outside, the door was unlocked and hanging open. Something was definitely wrong. The television was on. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table. And the phone was ringing.
I picked it up. As soon as I answered, the line went dead. I began to cry uncontrollably. I had no idea where my family had gone or what had happened to them. Sure, it had never been much of a family, but it was better than not having a family at all, which seemed to be the case now. I called my grandmother, and there was no answer at her house either. All Jack could say was, “What the fuck is wrong with your dad?” The hypocrisy of the comment didn’t strike me at the time.
How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale Page 8
