Beauty, Disrupted

by Carre Otis

  But for some reason I was unable to follow my heart. Once again I went against my gut. I called Paul back and told him to send the car.

  Hollywood was calling, and I wasn’t going to resist.

  That moment marks a page in my history like no other. It was a turning point, one that sent me down a long, dark path. And it would take me at least ten years to find my way back into the light. Little did I know that I was about to be cast in my first movie, meet my future husband, and basically fall flat on my ass. All very publicly.

  Chapter 3

  The Mickey Years

  MEETING MICKEY ROURKE

  There are moments in life that define us. Moments we know are coming. And one of those defining moments for me was the first time I met the man who would become my first husband. I walked through the door to Zalman King’s house, and I changed my life.

  It was a warm and sticky Los Angeles afternoon. I saw him right away. I will never forget the lone figure hunched in a corner. There at an open kitchen table, with stringy dark hair shrouding his face, trembling hands lifting a dainty saucer of coffee to his lips, sat the famed Mickey Rourke. I was curious but for some reason unimpressed. Instead of feeling any great sense of intimidation, I actually felt quite unaffected. That realization released a warm confidence within me.

  My eyes rested momentarily on his hands, his pinkie finger raised as he took a sip of coffee from his cup. Mickey had unusual fingernails that seemed to curl over the ends of his nail beds, arching more like claws. A red flannel shirt, with a wifebeater underneath, didn’t hide his impressive torso and biceps. He was a strong, solid man. He wore torn blue jeans and a pair of unlaced boxing shoes. His legs were crossed as he tapped his foot. In the silence he carried an attitude that said he was nobody’s fool. There was an ashtray in front of him, full of cigarette butts, one still smoldering.

  Mickey didn’t stand or acknowledge me. I waited for a beat and then decided to enter the kitchen and look for some food. I was hungry after the drive from Ojai. Without looking at him or saying a word, I opened the large refrigerator door and rummaged for something to eat. I found leftover broccoli. I took it out and put some on a plate. Pulling out a chair, I sat down across from him and began to eat.

  He lit another cigarette, and when he set it in the ashtray, I reached over, picked it up, and took a drag.

  He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and smiled. It was a surprisingly open smile, a playful smile, a beautiful smile. And I smiled back. I looked back down at my broccoli, finally a bit bashful. There was energy. There was chemistry. Basically we set the room on fire.

  Not a word was spoken, just a long pause. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one—just a pregnant silence. Zalman, the director of the movie they were casting, walked in. I already knew that the name of the film was Wild Orchid.

  “I see you two have met.” Zalman and his big nose nodded with an approving smile.

  Mickey and I both kept smiling. It was rather funny, really. We hadn’t met, yet we both felt so familiar to each other. I was happy to see him. Unsure of why, I felt an immediate closeness and kept smiling.

  “Nah, Zalman. We haven’t met.” Mick looked at me, a shadow of formality crossing his face. He was changing before my very eyes. “Mickey Rourke,” he said as he stood with his hand extended. And I stood as well, grabbing his hand, happy to finally be touching a part of him. I looked him in the eye, let him know through my gaze that he had met his match, and introduced myself.

  “Carré Otis. Nice to meet you, Mickey.” I smiled again. And although it was our formal meeting, we had already shared something in the moments before Zalman’s entrance. And we both knew it.

  Zalman laughed and motioned for us both to join him in his sitting room. I hadn’t a clue what the film was about, nor did I have any idea what casting for a movie entailed. I wasn’t an actress. Just a pretty girl. And my looks were why I was there. In that sense I was nobody’s fool either.

  I stared wide-eyed at the artwork and statues that dotted Zalman’s enormous living room. Larger-than-life bronze figures hung about, alongside casts of oversize feet, hands, and breasts that were shaped more like missiles. Mickey watched me and laughed. He was amused by me. That much was clear.

  Zalman told me a bit about the script. He said that they were casting for the part of a young lawyer named Emily Reed. The film was shooting on location for three months in Brazil.

  He handed me a few pages out of a script. I had never seen one before. I looked down, confused.

  “Oh,” I said. “You want me to read this?” I was great at being myself. I wasn’t so sure I could convincingly pull off being someone else.

  Mickey sensed my apprehension. “Zalman, give me a few minutes with her, okay?”

  “Sure, bro. Whatever you say.” With that, Zalman left.

  Again I was alone with Mickey. And for the first time, I felt nervous. He was an actor. I was not. And I was uncomfortable.

  He put a hand on mine “Breathe. It’s just a fucking script,” he said reassuringly.

  He had a “Who gives a shit?” attitude, and it immediately put me at ease. There was an element of rebel in us both. That was partly where the familiarity lay. But there was something else as well.

  “Carré, why don’t you lay back? Just lay down on the floor. Let me do an exercise with you.” I must have looked at him suspiciously, because in an instant he justified it by saying, “No, it’s safe. Really it is. I used to be an acting coach in New York.”

  I was in no position to question this, so I did as I was asked. I lay down, resting my head near the very large foot of a statue. Looking up at her tits, I began to laugh.

  “Close your eyes and go back. . . .” And then Mickey proceeded to guide me through a sense-memory exercise. It was powerful and corny, but I wanted to impress. I was just wondering where it was all leading when he said, “Now sit up and read the lines.” I did. And it worked. I was present, reading Emily, not being Carré. Mickey smiled. “That was great.”

  We worked on the scenes several times with Zalman in the room, and then after an hour or so we were alone again. Sitting, just the two of us on the oversize green velvet sofa.

  I recall feeling the warmth from him. The heart that beat in him. Before I left Ojai, my friend Sparky Shooting Star had woven a black condor feather into a braid in my hair. “For your protection,” she’d said. It hung down onto my shirt, a story of its own. Mickey watched me. His eyes studied me. He lifted a hand to feel the braid that held the feather, then leaned in as if to smell me before sitting back again with his eyes closed.

  “Tell me the story of this . . . the feather in your hair.”

  And I did. I told him many stories that evening. As we sat so closely on that couch, an indescribable electricity moving between us, we worked our way through the past and into the present. I was the strongest I’d ever been in that moment: sound and centered. Mickey listened intently, stroking my hair with the familiarity of a long-lost lover. It was love and longing and breathtaking intensity, all at first sight.

  My car had been waiting outside for me, and as night fell, I knew it was time to go. I bit back a momentary twinge of anxiety, unsure if I would ever see him again. Truth be told, I wasn’t nearly as interested in getting the role in the movie as I was in him. Knowing him. Being with him. Loving him. But we didn’t exchange numbers. If we were meant to see each other again, I trusted we would.

  We hugged good night, locked in an extended, private, and powerful embrace, one that I think neither of us at the time could explain. Mickey walked me out to the black Town Car, opened the door in a very gentlemanly way, and nodded his head good-bye. And for some reason when I sat down in the backseat, enveloped in the night and the silence, there were tears streaming down my face. Tears of excitement, tears of sadness. I was head over heels. I was wild and raw, filled with a yearning that had never existed in me prior to meeting this man.

  The drive back to Ojai flew by. I was lost in gidd
iness. And although I stayed for the remainder of my retreat, only a part of me was there. The other part of me was already with Mickey. The passion and fury and confusion I could feel that first night encapsulated everything that was to come. After only a few hours with him, I knew as well as I knew anything that Mickey had a heart of gold. And I would come to know that he also had an iron fist.

  WILD ORCHID

  I waited, knowing he would call. I waited, knowing somehow that the movie was mine. It’s not even that I was right for it. Unlike others who had tried out for the part, I wasn’t an actress, nor had I ever tried to be one. But what was clear to me was the karma that Mickey and I had with each other. And I was certain that it would unfold.

  When I heard that Cindy Crawford had been offered the role of Emily, a part of me was relieved. The other part of me was undaunted. Again I was certain that Mickey’s path and mine would cross. I couldn’t really explain it.

  The call did come. And when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone, my heart jumped, my stomach did flips. I just wanted to be with him. We talked, and when he asked if I wanted to know about the movie, I said no. I just wanted to be close to him again.

  He pulled up on his Harley, the loud motor revving outside my friend’s apartment. Sharon had been on retreat with me. “I’m warning you, Carré,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “He fucks anything that moves.” I laughed as I slammed the front door, racing down the steps, my hair flowing behind me. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what they said about him. My mind was made up, and I was ready for the ride. Or so I thought.

  I had never been on the back of a motorcycle, but I immediately knew what to do. I swung a long leg up and over, wrapped my arms around Mickey’s middle, and pulled myself tight to his back. I held him like that for a minute as he leaned back into me. He laughed. “Aren’t you even going to say hello, Otis?”

  I crooked my neck around so that we were nose to nose. “Hello.” I smiled. “Now drive this thing!” I was beside myself with excitement. Motorcycles, I was about to find out, are a great excuse to snuggle up and be close with someone. It’s an intimate experience: A big, warm motor humming between your legs, vibrating your whole body. The sensation of letting go and surrendering to what’s ahead. Rider and passenger merge in the movement of what the road brings. Words have no place. The wind just whips them away.

  Our first days together were full of magic and lust. Mutual obsession grew stronger, and though it seemed settled that I wouldn’t be in Wild Orchid, Mickey and I began to spend more and more time together. He was secretive. He was giving. He was loving and funny. We were friends. We were both completely smitten.

  It was exciting and confusing to be with Mickey in those first days and weeks. I’d never wanted a man as much as I wanted Mickey, but even when we were having sex—especially when we were having sex—I was conscious of performing. As with every other man I’d been with, my lust always vanished when I felt him inside me. Once we were actually having sex, my focus was on making him come quickly and getting it over with. In that sense I was an experienced actress. I’d learned too young the power of my sexuality, and at times it felt like the only leverage I had. I wanted to be the greatest lover Mickey had ever been with, so I was focused much more on how I made him feel than on what I was experiencing. I was years away from giving myself permission to focus on what I desired, years away from having an orgasm with anyone other than myself.

  Already in those early days, my craving for him was at its strongest when we weren’t together. We’d be separated for a few hours, and I could think of nothing else but being with him again. We both loved the drama of it all, loved the fantasy of being head over heels in love, unable to be apart. When ­people ask why I would end up staying with him for so long, this is a huge part of the answer. The times we weren’t together were the times I wanted him most. Not only did my lust vanish when we fucked, my mad fantasy of who he was and who we were together faded when I was around him, too.

  But I wasn’t thinking about that disconnect, not yet. I was thinking about other things. For one, the paparazzi were already on our asses. Mickey was still involved with another well-known model, and neither of us needed any premature exposure in the press. We were in an intense state of “like” that was bubbling over with want. But there was a lot we needed to wait and see about. The movie was just one of those things.

  When it was finally announced that I had gotten the role of Emily, I was both elated and terrified. Elated that I would be with Mickey for months in Brazil—and terrified by that same fact. I didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t an actress. And I wasn’t too sure if our relationship could survive, much less evolve, under the watchful eye of the public. But the thought of not being with Mickey was more upsetting.

  In an instant my life changed. I was a young model on my way to Brazil to make a movie. But just because you appear in a film doesn’t mean you’re an actress. I would learn this very painful lesson in time. If I had different representation, maybe my experience would have been better. Paul was my modeling agent at the time and had limited prior experience with actors. I would ultimately come to think of him as someone who’d make a deal with the devil if it paid the bills and put him on top. Basically I felt that’s what he did with me.

  I had no protection. No support system. And no business doing a movie without rehearsing or working with an acting coach. There were very few provisions in my contract that ensured access to the things I needed in order to stay healthy and remain sane. Because the film was not a union film, I didn’t have the SAG-mandated twelve-hour turnaround. I was expected to work six days a week. This might have been fine for a seasoned actor, but for me it was death by way of absolute exhaustion. I was about to learn what working around the clock really means. With such a relentless schedule and so little preparation, the climate had been set for some serious tensions and some seriously bad acting. And not just on my part.

  Sadly, I didn’t have a clue about any of this before signing on. When I boarded a Varig Airlines flight in Los Angeles, bound for Rio and seated in first class, I had no idea that I was flying high into the unknown, alone.

  Mickey had his entourage by his side. But without agents, friends, or family members watching over me, I was just a kid playing a game of hardball with the big boys. I was out of my league. Way out. Mick, by contrast, always traveled in a pack. On this particular movie, the entourage included Bruce, Franco, and Mickey’s little brother, Joe. Each of them could be sweet or a complete asshole from one moment to the next. Just like Mickey. And they were all under the spell that he cast.

  They only called me by my last name. They were like a band of big brothers, joking and teasing with me—and threatening anyone who got in their way. As much as I would like to think they loved and cared about me, I knew they were just following orders. And those orders would change depending on the boss’s moods. I came to learn that absolutely everything under the sun was relayed to Mickey. Even things that were totally unrelated to our relationship were dutifully reported back. It was as if the walls had ears and the mountains had eyes.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what would happen when we arrived in South America. I’d been on the cover of magazines before, but I had never really been a recognizable celebrity. Clearly, things were different now. Within hours of our landing, my name was in every newspaper in the States and Brazil.

  We were booked at the Intercontinental, and by the second morning of our visit the media was reporting everything from what we were having for breakfast to where we were sleeping. They said that Mickey and I were cohabiting, but the truth was that, for many reasons, we were staying in separate rooms. I was relieved to have a little private space of my own. The attention was overwhelming. The public scrutiny was incredibly intense. And on top of it all, rumor had it that the locals were not happy we were there.

  The crew was mostly from California, so a certain camaraderie existed. We were all far from home, working one
hell of a grinding schedule. I was getting special treatment because I was a lead, but it was nowhere near the treatment Mickey got. What really shocked me were the additional demands he’d make, despite the amenities he already had. I didn’t know the tricks of the trade and what was and wasn’t “standard” star behavior. All I knew was that a whole new side of him was emerging on and off the set, and it wasn’t always pleasant to watch.

  The night before filming began, there was a cast party in the hotel. The first week had been spent mostly working up “looks” for each character, dealing with hair, makeup, tests, and locations. What should have been a comforting process—one that could have helped familiarize me with the way things work on set—only seemed to make matters worse. My apprehension was building. Maybe it would have been better if I had just dived right in. The more time that passed, the less certain I was that I could pull off being Emily.

  I threw on a tiny Azzedine Alaïa dress and a pair of Marciano half cowboy boots and made my way down the elevator and out to the pool area where the party was being thrown. Tiki torches lined the huge infinity pool; a beautiful young Brazilian boy manned a tropical floating bar. There was magic in the air, and we were all letting loose, readying ourselves for the long and grueling weeks ahead of us.

  Even though our call time was 4:00 A.M., the crew was partying.

  I danced my way over to the open bar and ordered a glass of white wine. Just then someone came up behind me and put his hands over my eyes. I stiffened immediately. I had always hated when ­people did that. It seemed to bring back some very bad memories of waiting in the unknown, in vulnerable and compromised places. I pulled the hands from my face and turned around. I was relieved to see that it was Mickey. But something was different. Something had changed between us.