by Traci Lords
But I didn’t. I was so desperate to make a new life for myself and change the world’s perception of me that I kept moving forward. I morbidly kept thinking, What if the porn world makes good on its threats to kill me…and I die today? I was repulsed by my contribution to the world so far. What would my tombstone say? Here lies a cocksucker? Good God! I felt solely responsible for my own mess and was determined to change my destiny, to redeem myself, to redeem my family. It was an impossibly heavy burden and I wondered if I’d ever get out from under it.
I reported to the set of Not of This Earth completely prepared. I wanted to be liked, and greeted everyone with a pleasant smile, hoping to win some kindness points from the cast and crew. I nailed my lines, got along with my costars, and finished up feeling confident that I’d made a good impression. But as I changed out of my nurse’s outfit I wondered if the “pink elephant” still overshadowed my efforts. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if someone had mentioned porn, but it wouldn’t have gone well—just the word made me feel like ripping someone’s head off.
Midway through the ten-day shoot, I realized method acting was useless in some scenes. I mean, seriously, how could Hedy expect me to use my emotional “well” to pretend my Ray Ban–wearing costar, Arthur Roberts, was a man from outer space as he chased me through Griffith Park?
I decided to throw my acting “technique” out and hoped I wasn’t making an awful mistake. I hadn’t studied comedy but I’d studied the role of Nadine and appreciated the character’s quick humor. As I played the scenes I was surprised and gratified when the crew laughed at all the right places. Huh? I thought. I’m funny? Who knew?
Wynorski was a real screamer on the set. A passionate director, he was clearly frustrated with the short shooting schedule of the movie but his tantrums were never directed at me. I avoided all conflict by mastering the art of disappearing at the right times. And despite his sometimes gruff ways, I liked him. How could I not? He was the man responsible for hiring me.
I was biased.
We worked like dogs throughout the picture, filming twelve to fourteen hours a day and completing the whole project in just ten days, which I was told was unheard of in legitimate films. Then the Roger Corman machine went to work quickly editing and completing the film. They wanted to get it out as soon as possible to benefit from the ongoing publicity around the Traci Lords scandal.
Not of This Earth opened in a theater in Westwood only four months later, and people said Corman and Wynorski had done the impossible, putting an ex–porn star in theaters across mainstream America. The Hollywood Reporter’s review read, “The answer is yes. She can act.” I was ecstatic and thought I was finally on my way to leaving the past behind for good.
Fueled with a newfound confidence, I agreed to promote the film. Corman and Company jumped at the opportunity, setting up several interviews in the days to come and taking full advantage of the press’s desire to speak to me. Having no experience with the press or doing interviews, I trusted all the wrong people, agreeing to speak to Hard Copy and A Current Affair about my past as long as they focused on my present life and the new movie. I spoke candidly about my struggles with drugs, pornography, and the pain of recovery—really deep issues that I had never shared before. And I got knocked flat on my butt.
The Hollywood Reporter review of Not of This Earth.
Courtesy of The Hollywood Reporter
Both programs broadcast footage from the illegal porn films, showing clip after clip of explicit photos with the smallest blockers allowed on prime-time television to cover my private parts. They referred to me as “the porn princess” and claimed I’d starred in more than a hundred porn movies, as if twenty weren’t enough. They even interviewed people from the porn world who either didn’t know me or barely knew me, and they all swore I was some kind of child genius who’d deliberately plotted to destroy them.
How could I have been so stupid? God, it hurt. And the worst part was my mother knew about the new movie and the TV interviews, and I was sure she’d seen it all. Once again I’d screwed up, shaming myself and my family in the process.
I was a wreck, and it nearly drove me back to drugs and out of the film business for good.
28
Not of This Earth
Not of This Earth opened and closed within days. The film’s failure coupled with the brutal press experience of the previous week pushed me further into a dark hole. I had gotten drunk way too many times that week, and I knew my drug abstinence was seriously at risk. I hadn’t yet given in to the overwhelming urge to score, but I was itching. The little part of me that had dared to dream I could be something other than a porn girl was crushed. I had no hit movie, no mainstream success, and nothing to look forward to.
Depressed and feeling sorry for myself, I stayed in bed for days. I thought about how hard it had been watching myself as Nadine Storey at the cast and crew screening I’d gone to weeks before with Scott. I was so critical about my work I wanted to redo the entire movie, sure I’d be even better if I got another chance. Maybe the Hollywood Reporter was wrong about me and I really sucked. Had my lousy acting ruined the film’s success? Or did it have nothing to do with me and it was just a B movie destined for a video release from the start? I didn’t know. But I knew I didn’t like the girl staring back at me on Hard Copy, and I didn’t understand why anyone else would either.
As the months went by I returned to my old regimen of running on the beach and weekly chats with my therapist. Slowly, I started to shake off the depression and constant urge for a drug-induced peace. I was living to fight another day, and once again, the time had come to do just that.
Though Not of This Earth had failed at the box office, it made a killing in video. Based on that success, Corman offered me another film on the condition that I appear nude again. But this time, although I wanted the work, I wasn’t willing to sell my body to get it. I remembered how embarrassed I’d been sitting in the screening room between Scott and Wynorski when my nude scenes first came on. I’d cringed, fully aware of how gratuitous those scenes were, and promised myself I wouldn’t allow that to happen again.
Keeping that promise, I turned down Corman’s offer. This time I was going to try things differently. I didn’t want B movie–queen stardom. I wanted something more. I wanted to be a serious actress.
Hoping I wasn’t cutting off my nose to spite my face, I looked to Scott for reassurance, but he only made me feel more uncertain than ever. Amused by my concerns, he crassly reminded me that “everyone had already seen my tits anyway.” I chose to disregard his advice to “go for it,” opting instead to hold my ground and wait.
During the weeks that followed, print interviews for Not of This Earth in publications like Rolling Stone and the Los Angeles Times trickled out. It was the same rehashed sex-scandal story again and again. I knew I should ignore it, but it was hard not to be affected by the cruelty. I was tired of being called a “porn queen.” If I’d known then how much longer that title would haunt me, I probably would have just given up. Instead, I marched along blindly—although cautiously—into new territory.
As the media continued to milk the kiddie porn indictments around the country, I tried to find new opportunities for work and healing. I explored the possibility of working with an organization called Children of the Night, which provided a safe haven for runaways and abused children. The founder of the shelter was a woman named Dr. Lois Lee and we made plans to do a series of public-service announcements together.
I was proud to be Children of the Night’s spokesperson and hoped my experience would somehow give me the credentials to reach other lost kids. What I didn’t realize was that the kids would be helping me as well. Through them I saw firsthand that I wasn’t the only child who felt disposable, used, and guilty of things she had no control over. It made me even more angry at the world.
But this time, it was an active anger, one that fueled my desire to take a stand. One day, I promised myself, I wou
ld reach even more of these kids.
For the next few months I existed in a transitional prison. Tabloid photographers were still staking out my apartment, so I closed every blind, locked every window, and was glad I lived on the second floor.
Peering through cracks in the blind one day, I searched the trees closest to my balcony for men with cameras. I had a full day’s schedule and couldn’t wait any longer, so I made a mad dash to my Camaro in the garage. Reaching the car door, I was almost home free when they appeared out of nowhere.
“Come on, guys,” I pleaded, “give me a break.” I struggled with my keys, modeling portfolio, and the morning’s coffee, my patience wearing thin.
“The movie closed ages ago!” I yelled. “I’m old news.”
Ignoring my misery, they snapped away. There must have been four or five of them pushing at one another to get to me. In addition to the tabloid guys there were the autograph hunters. Those vultures were the worst. Pissed that I refused to sign nude photos, they thrust explicit penetration shots in my face in retaliation. “How about this one,” one said, presenting a photo of my young face with a penis stuck in my mouth. The guy just laughed.
I wanted to rip his eyes out.
I roared away in my car, cursing at people as I made my way through traffic. Was this shit ever going to end? I had a meeting with a modeling agent in Beverly Hills and was so shaken by the raunchy crowd that I just prayed he was going to be kind.
The owner of the modeling agency was Dennis Vaughn, and the head booker was a guy named Craig. Although my five-foot-seven-inch frame is considered short in the modeling world, Dennis signed me anyway, conceding to Craig’s argument that I could still do beauty and swimsuit catalogues. I signed an exclusive agreement with the Vaughn Agency that day, giving them all rights to my modeling services for a period of one year. As we were wrapping up, Dennis suggested I use my real name, Nora, to avoid any problems.
Tired of being persecuted for the name Traci Lords, I agreed. I decided I deserved a break.
That afternoon I was sent on a casting call for Frederick’s of Hollywood, and I signed in as Nora. When Delores, the casting director, called my name, I just sat there not realizing at first that she was talking to me. The clients were three older women dressed very conservatively in navy blue suits and low-heeled shoes. Whispering to the casting lady, they looked me up and down. I rolled my eyes and expected the worst, my foul mood beginning to take over. I only had two photos in my portfolio, and the waiting room was packed with models, knockouts of every shape and size. I didn’t think I had a chance in hell. I wish they’d hurry up and throw me out so I could go find a new place to live.
Approaching me sheepishly, Delores asked if I would mind trying on a bra-and-panty set for the clients. I had no body shots in my portfolio and the clients needed to be sure I had a good figure. I couldn’t believe it. I had managed to meet the only people in the world who hadn’t seen me naked! Greatly amused, I modeled my undies for them.
They were pleased I had natural breasts, apparently an increasingly rare commodity in Hollywood. I got that job, as well as several other bookings as a bra model for them, and over the next few months I was photographed from the nape of my neck to the middle of my stomach, a headless torso for hire. I felt like a complete jackass, but the job was harmless and the much needed income and very much appreciated anonymity were welcome. But it almost came to an end when I made an even bigger splash as Vaughn’s new girl by modeling two swimsuit covers for Muscle & Fitness.
Twenty-year-old “Nora” for Vaughn.
The collection of Traci Lords
The first cover hit the stands with me as Nora Kuzma and my anonymity was secure. But a few days later the Los Angeles Times ran an article about how the face and body of the model looked strangely similar to Traci Lords. The owner of the magazine was a clean-cut ex-bodybuilder named Joe Weider, and he issued a statement saying that he didn’t know anything about his model being a former porn star. I was hired strictly for my physique. He even ran a second cover later on in spite of the fuss—or was it because of it? I was next hired to model for L’eggs pantyhose, which was a huge commercial job; however, the client canceled my booking at the last minute. They refused to say why, but off the record I was told they found me “morally unsuitable.”
They felt I’d misrepresented myself by using my birth name.
My modeling agent told me not to take it personally. But how could I not? It was personal. I knew I’d made a mistake as a young girl, but did that mean I’d have to continue to pay for it forever? Hadn’t I suffered enough? I wasn’t doing porn anymore. I wasn’t doing drugs. I was really trying to change my life! Couldn’t anyone see how hard I was working? Didn’t that count?
I felt like I just couldn’t win. What do you do when your past is your present? How do you leave it behind?
I chose to stop running from it. Instead, I owned it, legally changing my name to Traci Elizabeth Lords.
That’s who I was, and that’s who I was going to be.
29
Pencil-Thin Mustaches
Months later, on a warm November morning in 1988, I moved into a spacious suburban home in Woodland Hills with Scott. The prying eyes of the media had finally driven me from my Marina Del Rey oasis, and while I missed the clarity I got from long runs on the beach, it was a fair trade for the sanity I found in my new neighborhood.
Being tucked away in the gated, pretty Valley home with a swimming pool and rooms full of rented furniture was a blissful departure from the daily harassments I’d grown accustomed to dealing with. I woke to birds singing and children playing catch in the street. I finally began to relax. Everything seemed to slow down in that southern California version of Mayberry and I felt enormously relieved to be there. I’d made it out of the fast lane and now I could slow down and safely reevaluate my options.
Though Scott and I were getting along, I was concerned about living with him. He was the person I trusted more than anyone else, but I had made the move more out of financial necessity than any growing love I had for this man. It wasn’t that I didn’t care for him, because I did. But his elitist attitude and condescending air continually left me feeling inadequate and stifled. He hated when I “acted my age” and scolded me for my immaturity. I was a twenty-year-old woman and I’d been given a new lease on life. How could I not be giddy?
My last two years in therapy were helping me cope with a lot of these feelings. My emotional need for Scott was diminishing and I think that scared him. The anger that had served me so well in life was growing into a pure hunger for life—a new and positive one. But it was a life that most likely wouldn’t include him, and maybe on some level he knew that.
Setting my goals high, I enrolled in another acting class with a teacher named Vincent Chase and started looking around for a theatrical agent. I studied comedy and shared coffee with my classmates, opening myself up to judgment but also friendship. It was a major emotional gamble—and it paid off. The other actors were supportive and most had their own stories to tell. I wasn’t the only one who had struggled with drugs and I found that prostitution came in many forms. I was still sensitive about my past, so I never spoke about it with anyone (especially after the Hard Copy nightmare), but it wasn’t a fresh wound any longer.
I wasn’t bleeding as much.
In the following weeks, I booked modeling jobs for swimsuit ads and continued to model for Frederick’s of Hollywood, earning enough money to pay my portion of the rent and finance my schooling. During this period, my relationship with my family was also starting to grow, although slowly. So much had happened in all of our lives that being together was difficult. I wasn’t the only Kuzma sister who had issues with our parents. My three beautiful, strong, but emotionally battered sisters had suffered as well. They might not have ended up on the streets, but they wrestled with their own demons while growing up and acted out in their own ways. Somehow, though, we all seemed to be landing on our feet.
Scott spent most weekends with his son at his ex’s place somewhere on the other side of the Valley. Over time, these overnight and weekend visits became more and more frequent. I was pretty sure he was sleeping with his ex, but since I had little interest in sleeping with him myself, it didn’t really matter. I was more concerned about his trustworthiness. He was starting to look like a real fair-weather friend. He’d shown his true colors during the aftermath of the porn scandal. He didn’t have my back. It seemed like he was just out for himself.
The question wasn’t if I would leave him—it was when. But how would I untangle myself from a man I’d been with since I was seventeen years old? We had a lot of history together—mainly traumatic, but still history. What is it about stepping away from something familiar that’s so difficult? I’d done it in every other way, with porn, drugs, and physically abusive men.
Why couldn’t I do it with him?
As November flew by I welcomed December and the festive mood the Christmas season put me in. I spent the next few weeks running around on go-sees for my modeling agency and sending out eight-by-tens trying to get a theatrical agent. At the Samuel French Bookstore on Sunset Boulevard, I bought a book that listed all the agents in Los Angeles, and decided the best way to get one was to do a mass mailing.
I only made it through “h” before I ran out of pictures, résumés, and stamps, so I sent out fifty-five requests for representation.
I got four responses the following week.
After meeting with Don Gerler, I decided he was the best choice. He was a pleasant man in his late fifties who had a simple office in a strip mall off Ventura Boulevard. He had a kind face and fatherly way about him, and I liked him right away. He seemed to understand my passionate plea for clothed roles, so I left his office excited by all the prospects the new year might bring.
