by Traci Lords
Fixing my makeup, I took a deep breath and walked into the office, determined to get my life together.
I didn’t want to be a porn star forever.
17
Crash and Burn
Later that evening I arrived home in Lawndale. It was nearly midnight. The meeting with the agent had gone well and I now had new representation and an audition the next day.
I crept quietly into our house, not sure if Sonny was there or not, and if he was, I wanted to let sleeping dogs lie. But the house was empty. Looking out the back window, I spied an empty space where my Vette usually sat. Shit. My car was gone.
I knew he’d taken off in my Corvette to get at me. Great, I thought. Where did he go? I’d been worried all the way home in the taxi, hoping that Sonny’s foul mood would improve with word of my new agent, but now I’d just have to wait for him to come crawling in.
Standing at the front window, I watched the cars come and go, sinking my toes into the scarlet carpeting. Why couldn’t I just leave Sonny? What was this power he had over me? I was disgusted with my own helplessness. Fighting the urge to smash every lamp in the room, I watched time tick by, wondering if he’d come home at all.
The bars closed in a few hours and I contemplated hunting him down, pretty sure he was at one of our regular drinking haunts in Hermosa Beach. I checked my watch and decided against it. It was almost last call. He’d be wasted by now. He was a mean drunk and I was too tired to fight.
I scrubbed my face and climbed into bed, my world quiet for once. I fell asleep. It was the first time I’d done that in a very long time. Usually I just passed out.
My peaceful slumber was interrupted by the ringing phone. It was Sonny. He was in jail. He’d been arrested for a DUI and sobbed into the phone about how sorry he was. He didn’t mean to wreck it. What?! Would I come get him?
The policeman I spoke to said I couldn’t collect my car or my boyfriend until the morning. All I could do was wait.
At 7:25 in the morning I saw my beautiful black Vette sitting in the police impound lot. She was a total wreck. Jagged cardboardlike pieces of my precious getaway car glared accusingly back at me, and I had no idea what to do next. I felt numb and utterly defeated as my eyes drifted down to the gravel that my dream car rested on.
I was such a loser. Why had I let this happen?
Leaving the impound lot alone, I made the two-mile trek home leaving the car and Sonny behind. My car was gone—history. I was screwed. How was I going to get to my audition? I didn’t have a credit card or bank account. I always got paid in cash. And I didn’t have enough of that to replace the car. The questions screamed through my head as I hailed a cab to Hollywood and sucked in a smoky drag of my Marlboro Red. I smiled to myself as I imagined Sonny sitting in jail. Fucking asshole—let him rot. Running my fingers through my hair, I contemplated life on my own.
I lit another cigarette and tried to squash my growing panic. I was only a kid! Who was going to take care of me now? Maybe I should have bailed him out. It was an accident. He loved me. He told me that all the time.
Tears threatened to blow my cool demeanor as I arrived at the casting session, but I pulled myself together as I walked into the office. An attractive Asian receptionist greeted me, inviting me to have a seat and saying Mr. Bell would be out shortly. I counted ferns in the plush waiting room—six in all—and tried to remember what I was auditioning for. Popping a wintergreen mint in my mouth, I prayed I didn’t stink of this morning’s blow-and-booze breakfast. I straightened my miniskirt and crossed my legs protectively, almost groaning out loud as I imagined someone throwing hams at my nude body.
Jesus, I wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit.
Scott Bell was all smiles when he greeted me. He looked like a Hollywood version of Sonny, with perfectly highlighted blond hair moussed into a Ken doll coif and crystal-clear blue eyes that screamed, “Hi, I’m a nice guy!” His name should have been Skip, and his overeager friendliness seemed really false. He was the type of guy who’d probably never struggled a day in his life, and in my pissy state of mind I wanted to slap him.
I played the game instead, returning his smile, hoping to at least get a job out of this. He had to be around thirty-five and reeked of cigarettes. His pet project was a softcore film he was making. He casually slid his wedding ring off as he asked for a picture and résumé. I lied, telling him I was all out.
His eyes seemed to devour me as he probed me with questions, digging into my personal life and making a point of telling me he was recently separated from his wife. Losing my patience, I wondered, What is this? The Dating Game? He asked if I acted under my real name, Kristie Nussman, or if I had a stage name. I had to get out of there. Did he know something? Was he going to start trouble with my new agency? Or was he just another guy who wanted a piece of me? Fed up with this game of cat and mouse, I interrupted him saying I had another audition. I no longer cared if I had the job or not.
I walked toward my new agent’s office on Santa Monica Boulevard with a bad case of the blues. Kicking stones to pass the time, I felt like I could sleep for days.
There was a lot I wanted to forget.
I walked faster, trying to shake off the itch to score some drugs. Dealers littered the street corners, tempting me with their very presence. They laughed among themselves, seemingly carefree. I was no longer scared of them, though, no longer a stranger to their world.
I forced myself down the street. I wasn’t going home. After leaving Sonny in jail, I wasn’t about to face his punishment just yet. I’d check in with my agent, and then satisfy my need for speed later. I decided I’d lie low in Hollywood for a few days, passing several motels along the way and guessing any of them would do.
I dragged myself into my agent’s office a half hour later and began to tell him what had happened at the audition. He stopped me, saying Scott Bell had already called. Bell had told him that I was really Traci Lords and that he was interested in discussing a possible business deal with me. He’d asked the agent to set up another meeting. It was scheduled for 7:30 that evening at a restaurant called Mirabelle’s in Hollywood. “That’s all I can do for you, Traci,” the agent said. “I don’t handle porn girls.” Humiliated, I left his office. I’m not a porn girl anymore! Bell had cost me my agent.
I checked into a cheap motel up the block and had a soak in the tub. I didn’t know what to do next. I was alone in Hollywood, agentless again, and had a dinner date with a guy I wanted to punch out. Did he know that he just ruined everything for me? Had he done it on purpose? What did he want from me? Was he really a legit filmmaker like my agent said? I was no longer the gullible girl from Ohio and something told me the whole thing stank. The least he can do is feed me, I decided, setting out in search of something to wear to dinner.
Later that night, I headed for the restaurant. I’d been told Mirabelle’s was a fancy French place and I hoped the short black dress I’d bought was a winner. I strutted across Sunset Boulevard amid a sea of catcalls, which made me question my choice of wardrobe. The dress was on sale for $19.95. Did I look cheap? Insulted by the propositions of two different men, I quickened my pace.
Minutes later, I entered the softly lit restaurant and was shown to Mr. Bell’s table. I was flustered by the walk there and still pissed Bell had complicated my life. But I was determined not to let it show. As I took a seat, the waiter offered me a drink and I looked around the room to notice what the other women in the restaurant were having. They were all enjoying light-colored beverages in slim glasses. I wanted to be as sophisticated as they were, so I said in my most adult voice, “I’d like a glass of Tott’s, please,” having no idea it was the cheapest champagne one could buy.
Scott laughed, saying what a kidder I was, and promptly ordered me a glass of Pinot Noir. He condescendingly told me Tott’s was “low rent.” Embarrassed, I was about to tell him where to stick it when the waiter returned to card me. Scott smiled, but I could tell by the deepening redness on his forehead
that he was mortified. I was clumsily searching my purse for the Kristie ID when the contents fell on the table.
“Oops,” I giggled, returning my switchblade to my bag. “Girl’s gotta be careful.” I innocently smiled to the stuffy waiter. Bell was speechless. I presented my ID, swallowed my drink, and walked out the front door. Fuck it. I was done.
Bell came after me, apologizing for his bad manners. I stood fuming in front of the restaurant and aware of the attention we were drawing.
“Please, have some dinner with me. I’m really sorry, Kristie. I have a business proposition that is going to make you a very wealthy woman. Just hear me out.”
One lobster and a bottle of wine later, I listened as Bell made his pitch. He said that he had an investor who would bankroll a film production company. It would be called TLC, the Traci Lords Company. It would produce three X-rated films starring me. I would be required to perform three sex scenes per film. He would write and direct.
Embarrassed he was talking so casually about this in public, I kept checking for eavesdroppers. How had the day gone so wrong? Stupid Sonny wrecked my Vette, I lost my agent, and now this guy was trying to get me back into porn. I couldn’t take any more. I told Bell I wasn’t interested. Thanking him for dinner, I left abruptly.
Tears drenched my face as I walked home feeling sorry for myself. Life sucked, and I was sure I was at the end of the road. I’d only gotten a few blocks when a horn blared at me. Startled, I shot the Benz driver a nasty look only to realize it was Bell. Quickly, I wiped my eyes, not wanting him to know he’d upset me.
“What?” I snapped.
“Kristie,” he said, “get in. Let me give you a ride.” I hesitated for a moment and then wearily climbed in. He was a jerk, not a killer, and I was dead tired.
18
Checkout Time
It was four in the morning and I hadn’t slept a wink. I was simply lying in my motel room in the heart of Hollywood, listening to the cars of the rich and famous drive by. I couldn’t bear returning home to Sonny, so there I stayed, stone sober and feeling everything.
I kicked the covers off and walked to the window, watching the hookers work the street as night turned to day. Was I really any different from them? “Everyone has a price and anything can be bought.” Bell’s words nagged at me as I replayed the evening’s events.
Only hours earlier, I’d sat comfortably in Scott’s car. I’d never been in a fancy automobile before and I now understood what people meant when they asked for a “new car smell” at the car wash. I’d barely said a word on the drive to my motel. But it didn’t matter; he was happy to do all the talking. Scott Bell was the kind of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He was a fast talker who bragged about everything from the fabulous vacations he’d taken to the numerous cable movies he’d produced, none of which I cared much about.
Then he revealed his softer side. He was a father, and when he spoke of his three-year-old son, his whole demeanor changed. The arrogant L.A. hotshot producer was replaced by a caring family man. He was proud of his little boy and spoke sadly about his recent divorce. I was moved by the genuine love he expressed for his child and was touched by his gentleness. Maybe I was wrong about this guy. Man, was I ever going to be able to tell the good guys from the bad?
He asked me why I was staying at a motel and I told him that I was ending a relationship, careful not to reveal too much about myself. He was thirty-six years old and I felt very sixteen around him. “We’d make a great team, Kristie,” he said, warmly reaching for my hand. “Let me help you.” I got out of his car promising him I’d think about it. And I spent the whole night doing just that.
As I watched a girl climb in a car, it seemed Bell was right. Everyone does have a price and anything can be bought. I needed what he offered, but I wasn’t sure I could do what he asked. Staring at the streetwalkers outside, I wondered which fate would be worse: dying on the streets or dying in front of a camera? I closed my eyes and tried to imagine having sex on film again, but the thought was too disturbing. I got dressed and headed up Sunset Strip looking for an escape. I scored some downers and bought a sixer, and then went back to my room, drinking until my eyes were heavy and my thoughts were swimming in Budweiser. I woke to the maid pounding on the door. It was checkout time.
19
Paris
I returned home to Lawndale that afternoon and found an eviction notice stuck to our front door. Fuck! Sonny was naked and sobbing in the living room. Unaware of my arrival, he was snorting a line of cocaine and watching Jimmy Swaggart on television. I took in this bizarre scene and quietly backed out of the room.
Heart pounding, I made my way through our trashed house to the bedroom, unable to get the image of his snotty face out of my head. He was a disgusting animal and I was repulsed. Anyplace is better than this, I thought. I had to get out of there.
Throwing a few things into a bag, I planned to make a quick getaway out the back door, but Sonny cornered me in the bedroom. Fuck! He slapped me in the mouth and ripped a dress out of my hands, then grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the room. Tasting blood in my mouth, I slowly crept along the floor to the switchblade in my purse, praying I wouldn’t have to use it.
Hurling himself at me again, he collapsed at my feet in sobs, begging me to forgive him. Frightened and confused, I stroked his damp hair and told him everything was going to be all right. He was so fucked up. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him, no matter how badly he’d abused me.
An hour later he passed out in his own vomit. I called 911 and left him for good.
Later that night I called Scott from a dingy bar in Hermosa Beach. Crying hysterically, I told him I’d do whatever he asked me to do, pleading with him to just come get me. I felt like I was making a deal with the devil that night. But at the time it seemed like the only thing I could do.
Once again my life became a constant blur of sex and drugs as Scott quickly took on the role of business partner, boyfriend, and pimp to the porn industry. Over the next twelve months he produced and directed me in two porn films. He even leased me an apartment in Redondo Beach.
In May of 1986 he took me to Paris.
I wanted to admire that beautiful city, but it was almost impossible to appreciate. We were there to film a French porn movie and I was achingly sad, more depressed than I had ever been in my life. I just couldn’t fathom Scott’s willingness to direct me in explicit-sex movies if he really loved me. It was obvious I was suffering. My drug intake was at an all-time high, my weight had dropped to ninety-four pounds, and my five-foot-seven-inch frame looked more frail than ever. I was rotting in my own self-imposed prison. And no one around me seemed to notice or care.
As publicity for the French film, I was scheduled to be the main attraction at a Parisian club that night. I was lowered from the ceiling in a giant gold birdcage while a sea of faces stared up at me. Wearing diamond-studded shorts and white cowboy boots, I kicked my legs to soar even higher on the swing as I descended in my fancy cell, quietly humming “Happy Birthday” to myself on the way down. Below me, I could see the club owner doing shots at the bar with Scott. I wanted another drink myself.
The fans were now face-to-face with me, but the bars on my cell kept me safely out of reach. My breasts were covered in glitter and they shimmered in the flickering lights as strangers reached for them and bulbs flashed mercilessly in my face. Voices called to me in French and the motion of the swing was starting to make me queasy when I was finally pulled upward toward the heavens.
The evening’s work finished, I sat alone in the darkness of my dressing room, downing another shot of tequila in tribute to my very special, very secret day.
It was 12:01 on May 7, 1986. I was eighteen years old.
The following morning we started filming Traci, I Love You. Scott banged on my dressing room door and summoned me to work. I unlocked the door and downed a glass of vodka as my love led me onto the set. My eyes met his as I unbuttoned the stranger’s
pants, and his smiling face dug deep into my heart as he watched from behind the camera and motioned for me to continue.
Nothing made sense anymore, everything was twisted and surreal. Millions of fans would later mistake my guttural moans for pleasure.
20
King Harbor
Days after I returned from Paris, I woke up sprawled out in a pile of sweat-drenched clothing, the sun’s glare punching me in the face. I had a serious case of jet lag and it took me a few minutes to figure out who I was, where I was, and what I needed to do that day to survive.
I vaguely remembered having sex with some guy but couldn’t quite put it together. My answering machine had screamed at me most of the night—or was it the day? I was supposed to be somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where. I felt thick. My head was pounding and I needed water but couldn’t bring myself to move. So I just lay there, sprawled out on the cream-colored carpet of my 2,400-square-foot apartment overlooking King Harbor in Redondo Beach.
It was a gorgeous apartment, the kind you get when you “make it.” But anyone could tell something was a bit off. The living room was completely empty except for the antique mirror my mother had given me years earlier, now lying in the middle of the room with remnants of the previous night’s coke binge on it. A bottle of spilled red wine stained the otherwise immaculate carpet, and bits and pieces of discarded clothing littered the room. I’d been on a bender for two days, and now I guess I finally had come home.
It must have been the cop who’d dropped me off. I had a thing for cops. Actually, there was one in particular whom I liked. His name was Chris and he was my favorite. He’d usually catch me coming out of the Poop Deck and save me from a DUI.
I’d returned from Paris to an empty apartment and a serious case of suicidal thoughts. Maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was that I suspected Scott was lying about being divorced from his wife, maybe it was birthday blues, or maybe it all just finally got to me. I was at the end of my rope and losing what little grip I had left.
