Traci Lords: Underneath It All

by Traci Lords

  A dozen cases popped up out of nowhere, mainly involving distributors selling my underage movies after it was publicly announced they were illegal. Certain individuals were actually advertising them as kiddie porn and selling them at hugely inflated amounts to federal agents involved in sting operations all over the country. Then these same distributors gave interviews claiming they were victims of the lies of the teenager who said she was of legal age, swearing they were family men who would never use minors in their movies. This went on for months. I wasn’t interested in protecting the people who had exploited me. But I wasn’t going to be victimized by a politically motivated administration either. I felt raped by all of them as well as a hostage to everything that was going on, and that’s when I met Leslie.

  When I walked into her office on Wilshire Boulevard, I was a nervous wreck and out of cigarettes. She was sitting behind a huge desk overflowing with stacks of folders. All I could see was a mound of curly white-blond hair sticking out over the papers and books. Smoke drifted over the desk and circled me, and her big blue eyes suddenly peered over the mountain of work and sized me up.

  “Come on in here, close the door,” her raspy voice demanded. “You,” she said to Scott, “wait outside.” I felt like I was in the principal’s office. Shaking, I did what she told me and sat down in a big brown chair. “Can I have a cigarette?” I asked her in a small, tentative voice. “Yeah,” she said, leaning forward with the pack. “You can even have one if you ask in a big girl’s voice.”

  I swallowed hard, fighting the tears that had been building all day. I sure didn’t feel like a big girl.

  Then she looked at me, really looked at me, and what was left of my tough-girl façade crumbled. The cat was out of the bag. Tears welled up in my eyes as she handed me the whole pack of smokes. This woman was a fireball. She was a hard-ass and I don’t believe she feared anything. But she also had a heart, and it was her kindness that ultimately undid me. For the first time since I’d been abducted by the feds, I felt like someone really got the magnitude of what I’d been through. No matter how much life experience I had, she realized I was still an eighteen-year-old girl, and she was the only person who seemed to truly get how fragile I was.

  Years later, she told me that when I had walked into her office she immediately understood how it had all happened. She said the first thing she thought was “My God, what a beautiful young girl—those assholes.”

  Leslie got on the phone right away, barking at the various prosecutors to call off the hounds. They didn’t need me to testify in their cases, she said. It was a dog-and-pony show. She demanded that they use my mother instead of me if they truly needed my identification in those movies, and when the prosecutors weren’t satisfied and said they needed me, Leslie shot back that they needed a cold shower. Launching into them, she said she couldn’t believe it took so many agents to bring in one little girl. She slammed them for not allowing me to get dressed before taking me downtown, and then warned them she was an excellent public speaker and not at all media shy.

  I sat there taking it all in. It hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment how inappropriately those agents had handled everything. This woman I didn’t even know was defending me, protecting me, and I was so used to getting the short end of the stick that I didn’t know how to respond. But I can say it touched me to my core. I was indebted to Leslie Abramson for what she did, and I always will be. It was because of her that I had a chance.

  The months went by and I crawled into a protective shell, isolating myself from the judgments of the outside world. I spent most of my time in therapy, trying to figure out what had happened to me. More than once, I felt like I was losing the battle to recover from my past, and years later I realized my feelings were totally justified. What had happened to me is not something a person can recover from. You can only make peace with your past and move on. And man, that takes a lot of time.

  I must have cried a thousand tears, wishing I could take it all back. It tortured me morning, noon, and night—craving and resisting the solace one lousy gram of coke would surely bring me. Life was hard, but time went on. I started running on the beach and painting vivid pictures in my living room when I couldn’t sleep. Unknowingly, I was learning how to cope in life without the crutches of sex and drugs to hold me up.

  The trials and subpoenas continued. Every day was another battle and it became clear to me that I couldn’t survive much longer without a bigger army.

  It was time to call my mother.

  The first thing I said to my mother was “I’m so sorry.” I told her I wanted the madness to stop and I wanted my life back. It was an intense reunion. I wasn’t ready to discuss Roger or porn or any of it, and she didn’t push me to. But for everything I didn’t say, I know she saw it plainly on my face. I told her about the trials and subpoenas and how crazy it all was. And she told me I was going to be okay. But I wasn’t so sure. I knew I couldn’t be okay with prosecutors torturing me on a daily basis, and my mother volunteered to testify in my place.

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “I’m here for you.” My mother’s willingness to testify in my place gave me room to heal and proved to me that I really did matter to her. After all the battles we’d fought against each other, we were finally on the same side.

  24

  Dynamite

  Six months later, my time in therapy began to pay off. I was on the road to recovery. At least I now was beginning to understand why I’d behaved as I had. I was making progress. Each day brought a new set of challenges as the indictments and trials raged on, and I dealt with them moment by moment. The intrusion they caused in my life was like salt in an open wound. I felt the sting, paying dearly for the choices I’d made. But I’d had enough.

  As the days passed, I was taking my life back, unwilling to continue to live in limbo. I had things to do. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up, but decided to try acting—for real. After all, hadn’t I been acting my whole life? I made my move. I auditioned and was thrilled to be accepted into the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute. Orientation was set for the next day. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve—so excited I couldn’t sleep.

  I woke up the next morning and scrambled out of bed, eager to begin the day. I was excited but nervous and had no idea what to expect. Would the acting class have many students? Would they know who I was? Was it a dream to think anyone would take me seriously? Was I about to make a complete fool of myself? Come on, girl, you can do this. I dressed quickly, heading out the front door before I lost my nerve.

  Cranking the radio, I peeled out of the driveway feeling like my luck was about to change. It was good to be alive. Two stop signs later, I spotted an undercover cruiser in my rearview mirror and was instantly brought back to reality. This was harassment. I’d already been served three times that month. They knew who my lawyer was. When were they going to leave me alone? I had to be in Hollywood in half an hour and I had no time or patience left for these games.

  I sped onto the 405 freeway feeling like an outlaw, feds in pursuit. I’d just pretend I hadn’t seen them. I thought I’d ditched them when I was stopped at the Santa Monica Boulevard off-ramp. The indignant agent slapped the subpoena on my windshield and said, “Consider yourself served, you little brat.”

  Adrenaline pumping, I arrived at school with no time to spare. I signed in and finally found teacher Hedy Sontag’s classroom on the second floor. As I approached I could hear voices. Class had begun without me. I entered the room aware of a dozen eyes following me to the only empty chair. Being out in public was intimidating. Were the students staring because I was late or had they seen me on the news? Paranoid, I studied the crevices in the floor, wishing I could slip between them.

  Hedy sat in the corner watching us. Rising from her chair, she said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You are here to learn to access the ‘well’ that life has provided you in your work as actors.” I was intrigued: the �
��well”? At the time, I didn’t know that method acting was based on emotional recall. The “well” Hedy spoke of was one’s own personal experiences. I had stumbled upon another form of therapy. The three months I spent at the Strasberg Institute gave me insight into myself as an actor and as a person. My confidence was growing.

  One afternoon, I was asked to read a monologue from a play, set in the 1950s, about a girl who refuses to join her schoolmates in a bomb shelter. The girl runs across the playground convinced that the world is about to end. Pleading to the sky, she asks God why she can’t live longer. She confides in him that she wants to make love at least once before she dies. She continues on, talking about how she needs to know what it’s like to have her legs parted and a man enter her. I finished the reading to stunned silence and then applause. Afterward, I was congratulated by my classmates who, one after another, commented on how brave my performance was. My teacher had pushed me toward the subject I most feared: sex.

  25

  A Few Wise Guys

  Three months later, on the last day of school, Hedy told us we had to do three things to succeed as actors: find an agent who believed in us, give incredible auditions, and never give up. The following morning I placed an ad in the Hollywood Reporter seeking representation. Scott had agreed to field any calls that came in but only under the condition that he use an alias to protect his reputation. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was the one who directed me in those movies and now he was embarrassed to be associated with me?! Although I was hurt, I could understand his desire to leave our sleazy past behind.

  The ad I placed attracted the eye of William Morris agent Fred Westheimer. He said, “If she looks anything like her picture, I want to meet her.” I drove to Beverly Hills the next day.

  My high heels clicked along the marble corridor as I was escorted to Mr. Westheimer’s office. He was a well-dressed man with a dry sense of humor. Several people popped by to see if we needed anything and I was impressed at how important he was. I waited for him to ask about my porn days, but he didn’t—and I didn’t volunteer a word. Instead we chatted about the Strasberg school. I told him how serious I was about my acting career. He promised he’d give serious thought to representing me.

  I called Fred the next afternoon. He said he had good news and bad news. The bad news was that the agency refused to represent me. He didn’t say exactly why, but he didn’t have to. I already knew. The stigma attached to being in porn movies was a big problem. I had no idea how insurmountable it was really going to be.

  My first headshot.

  Michelle Laurita. Copyright Divine Entertainment

  My spirits began to sink.

  “Traci…hello…are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, depressed and ready to hang up.

  He gave me a pep talk for a few minutes and said he’d be willing to send me out on a few auditions. But it would have to be between us, on the hush-hush. I’d heard that one before, and immediately wondered what the catch was.

  Westheimer was a man of his word. He sent me on an audition the next day. Arriving at a silver-and-black high-rise, on Hollywood Boulevard, I waited anxiously to meet the folks at Stephen Cannell Productions. I was auditioning for the role of a call girl on the TV show Wiseguy. It was a role I knew something about. I booked the job! I was overcome with gratitude, promising God I’d never do anything bad again in my life. I was being given a second chance and I wasn’t going to blow it this time. I left for Canada the following week.

  26

  Lucky Star

  I was poured into a stunning black lace couture dress and my hair was teased up high. Walking down the hallway in my heavy mink coat, I felt like a million bucks as I rang the doorbell, cooing “I’m Monique, Herb” to the man who answered. He reached for me and the director’s booming voice broke the moment. “Cut. Print. Moving on. Great, Traci!” bellowed the director, taking me by the hand. “Next scene we’re in the bedroom. It’s postcoital. Camera pans your back as you get out of bed, we follow you down the hallway, and then we all go home. Got it? Good. Get changed.”

  It was the final day of shooting on Wiseguy. Everything was moving at lightning speed. There was no time for butterflies as I hung on the director’s every word. I was a sponge, amazed at how much there was still to learn about acting. I was so green! In the past few days I’d learned the basics. I now knew that the colored piece of tape on the floor was called “a mark,” which was the target I had to land on before delivering my lines. It was trickier than I’d first thought because I had to do it without looking down! Later in my career, I became a master mark hitter, but in those days I was lucky to land a foot away. Fortunately, the cameraman took pity on me by placing a “sandbag” on the floor that was impossible to miss.

  All in all, the five days I spent on location went off without a hitch. I had no problem memorizing dialogue and nailed my lines in a few takes. I was proud of myself, certain I hadn’t embarrassed Westheimer. As I said my good-byes to the cast and crew I was pleased to receive a dinner invitation from the show’s heartthrob, Ken Wahl. The attraction between us was intense and I happily accepted.

  Ken was tall, dark, and brooding with a mischievous smile. He took me to dinner that night at a down-home Italian joint near my hotel. It had a low-key vibe and sensational food. He was a star with simple tastes, which impressed me. He was kind to people and bantered easily with the staff as he leaned back in his chair. The white T-shirt, faded jeans, and ancient motorcycle jacket he wore completed the package. He was one sexy man. I’d only had two boyfriends in my nineteen years and this man was very different from them. His contagious laughter put me at ease and the conversation flowed. As the evening passed, I found myself not wanting it to end.

  Headshot, 1994.

  Cynthia Levine. Copyright Divine Entertainment

  27

  Top Billing

  I sat staring out the window, cloud gazing on the way back to Los Angeles, the night’s events fresh in my mind. I wondered if this was the part where I was supposed to feel guilty. I had slept with my leading man. But I was grown-up and hadn’t acted irresponsibly, I reassured myself. I was a healthy nineteen-year-old woman and it was about damn time! Ken was the first civilian I’d made love to post-porn. And it was a bit of a head trip. I wondered if his attraction was fueled by that taboo part of my history. Was I the girl every guy wanted to screw but would never take home to his mother? And did that matter? Yes, I realized, it did. As the descent into Los Angeles began, I knew my views on sex had changed. While I had no regrets about the one-nighter with Ken, I realized then that I wanted something more than sex. I wanted a loving relationship.

  When I stepped off the plane, Scott greeted me with flowers. He’d missed me, he said, and I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it possible to cheat on a relationship that was all but over? I was confused as I hugged Scott back. I wasn’t in love with this man, but I kept him around anyway. Why? Was he my daddy figure? Was it the history we shared? I wasn’t sure. But I knew I had a lot to talk about in my next therapy session.

  On the ride home, Scott must have felt the distance. Annoyed, he snapped, “I asked you a question.” “Sorry, I’m feeling spaced-out from the trip,” I fibbed. “What was your question?” He repeated himself, the irritation obvious in his voice. He wanted to know all about the filming. He’s jealous, I realized—jealous I’m doing what he’s always wanted to do. With one episode of a television show under my belt, I was already more legit than he was. Was my thirty-six-year-old lover showing his true colors? Or was I just finally seeing them?

  I met Jim Wynorski the following Monday at Roger Corman’s office in Brentwood, California. Corman was producing a remake of the Beverly Garland classic Not of This Earth and Wynorski was set to direct it. They were searching for a leading lady to play the part of Nadine Storey, the film’s sarcastic, quick-witted sexy nurse, and I was up for the part.

  When I arrived I was given three scenes to read and, much
to my surprise and delight, I realized I had a near photographic memory. Memorizing the lines was easy, calming my nerves was another matter. I was intimidated by the boisterous Wynorski, a horror film legend at Corman’s.

  I hoped “audition” was not just an excuse to meet me.

  Over the past few months, I’d found that horny men from all walks of life wanted to meet the notorious teenager in the news, so I had become suspicious of everyone. Just the thought of Wynorski having ulterior motives annoyed me enough to want to win. I didn’t know it at the time but my paranoia was actually an asset. Seeing myself as the underdog, I overcompensated. I was twice as prepared as everyone else and I believe that hunger—that brutal determination and take-no-prisoners attitude—is what helped me succeed. I was absolutely relentless in my pursuit of a legit acting career.

  I won the role of Nadine Storey and was set to begin work the following week on Roger Corman’s soundstage in Venice.

  Since I had no agent at the time, Scott negotiated a fee of double minimum for me, about three grand a week, and two topless scenes in the movie. While I was uncomfortable with the nudity, I thought they’d laugh if I protested. (I was two for two now: two auditions, two jobs!) But life was far from smooth. I was dealing with the pressures of a new acting career, the continuing harassment of the federal government, and the emotional roller coaster of therapy. I felt like everyone was watching to see if I would fail, and at times I believed I might. The more “real” my new life became, the more doubts I had about being in the public eye again. What if I messed up? What if I started using drugs again?

  Sometimes, I just wanted to hide under a rock.