Girlvert: A Porno Memoir (13 page)

It was difficult to drag Tyler away from the free dope and new acquaintances. Nothing gave him a better time, other than sex of course. He had a second wind, but the three of us girls were tired and wrecked. It was past four in the morning. Hannah and Carmelita got into a cab for Mandalay Bay. Another cab took Tyler and me to the Luxor. We smelled like tar. Our breath was bad. Our skin was sticky. Tyler wanted a drink, so we got a little table at one of the casino bars. I sat and waited while he went and got our vodka tonics. The ecstasy was wearing off, but I’d done some coke in the cab. My mind was straightening out.

Tyler came back with our cocktails and sat down in front of me. “Ori, you know what I’ve never done, and always wanted to do?” He looked into my eyes, trying to be as charming as ever. It wasn’t effective. Normally, Tyler could make me melt with just a glance of his big, brown eyes and their long, curled-up lashes. Now, his eyes were red, half-open, and had dark grey circles underneath. He looked like hell. There were red spots on his skin, and his big, pouty lips were dry, cracked, and peeling.

“What, Tyler? What have you never done?” I entertained him.

“I just talked to this girl at the bar, and she’s an escort. I want to get her to come up to our room for an hour.”

“An escort? Like a hooker? No, Tyler! Why do you want to do that?” I was appalled.

“To fuck her! Both of us with her. Come on,” his face smiling still. He was not reading me.

“No, Tyler. I wouldn’t touch her. She could have fucked a hundred other people tonight. She could have AIDS, and we wouldn’t even know. This isn’t porn.”

Tyler got serious. He tried to convince me another way. “Ori, this is something that I’ve always wanted to do—ever since I was a kid—and have never done. I want to try it at least once, and I want us to do it together. You should be glad that I want to share everything with you. Most guys just go out and do this shit without telling anyone.”

My face twisted up in rage. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he need a hooker? Wasn’t I enough? We did porn and had sex with friends all the time, and now even with strangers at parties sometimes. This was too much. Was he crazy—or was I? I was too wasted to trust even my own reasoning. What if Tyler was making sense? Maybe there was something wrong with me for being so judgmental about a hooker.

“Listen, Ori. Just this one time I want to know how it feels to get a prostitute in Vegas. Please do this with me. Please tell me you love me and you want me to be happy.” He now had his hands on mine and spoke with intense concentration.

“Fine. I don’t want to hold you back from this important experience. You should do it, then. Go get her. I don’t care. Don’t expect me to touch her, though. That’s all for you.” My consent.

“All right! I knew you’d be into it! I love you, baby, thank you!” Tyler raced off to the bar to negotiate. I sat at the little table next to the slot machines and rolled my eyes. He came back a couple minutes later, alone. For a moment, I gratefully thought it wasn’t going to happen.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s going to come up to our room. I gave her the number. She’ll be there on the hour,” he replied. Tyler stood there for a second before he clasped his hands together and pleaded, “Baby, could you loan me the money, please?”

“What?” I spat out my drink onto the table.

“Baby, I’m sorry. Will you please pull out three hundred dollars from the ATM so I can pay her? She only takes cash, of course. And I’ve already gone over my limit of what I can take out in a day. Please? I will pay you back as soon as possible.”

“Tyler,” I sighed, “if you can’t afford a prostitute, then you shouldn’t get one. Did you ever think of that?” I was calmer than expected after having my boyfriend ask me to pull out cash for a whore.

“Look, I thought we shared money. I would pay for it, but I’ve taken out too much tonight.” His tone took on a new nastiness. “Besides, I would give you money for anything you wanted, no matter what it was. Because I love you. Now, are you going to do the same for me? Do you love me?”

Not this again. The love card—his ace. “Yes, okay. Yes. I love you. I’ll take out the money for you.”

We walked by an ATM on the way to the elevators. I took out three hundred and twenty. Tyler wanted to give the prostitute a tip.

We waited in our room for her to show up. Tyler took his clothes off and started the shower.

“You’re going to take a shower for her?”

“Yeah. I want to be clean. I feel disgusting after being out all night.”

“It doesn’t matter what you smell like to her. She’s probably nasty. She has to fuck you anyway.”

“Ori! Why are you being so mean? She’s not nasty. I just want to take a shower. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Tyler shut the bathroom door.

It was five in the morning and the sun was faintly coming in under the curtains. I chain-smoked and pulled out the contents of the mini bar. I lined up the little bottles of Absolut, Jack Daniel’s, Captain Morgan, Beefeater, and Chivas. I would need them all for what I was about to endure. Of course I was going to make a big deal out of him getting ready for this hooker. Tyler never showered before going to bed with me.

Knock knock
. Tyler opened the door to our hotel room. A blonde walked in. She was about five foot four with heels on. Her hair was bleached and long, but her black roots were long too. She wasn’t a ball of personality. She was thick in the thighs but had fit calves and ankles. She was built like a waitress. Her boobs were big and sagging a little. These tits definitely nursed something in the recent past. Her tummy had stretch marks from pregnancy, but mostly her skin was tight, pale and milky. Nothing was wrong with her face. I searched for a missing tooth or a lazy eye, something, somewhere, but I had to admit she was attractive.

The woman was dead inside, strictly business. Tyler gave her the three hundred and offered her some of my cocaine and alcohol, but she declined. She was on duty. This was not a fantasy for her, just a job. The graveyard shift. I didn’t catch her name because there wasn’t a formal introduction. Her clothes had come off within the first two minutes. Tyler laid on his back and she took off her skirt and top to reveal her white flesh and black lingerie. A bra and panties from Victoria’s Secret.

The hooker didn’t suck Tyler’s dick. He asked her to, and she replied that she didn’t do that. I looked at Tyler and repeated her.

“She doesn’t do that. She won’t even suck your dick. Nice three hundred dollars, Tyler.” I was pounding the bottles of booze and smoking cigarette upon cigarette. I sat cross-legged at a table across the room from the bed. I was still dressed in my nightclub wear. My makeup was still on, and I felt like I looked way hotter than the hooker. I cackled at them and heckled. Tyler and his whore, a one hour comedy special!

The prostitute didn’t give a shit about me or what I said. Her mind was somewhere else. Her panties came off and Tyler felt her legs up and down. Her legs were bruised. She rolled a condom onto Tyler’s cock. His cock was hard. He was actually turned on by this.

“She isn’t even looking at you. She’s looking at the wall. Wow. You must be pretty excited,” I called out. I took a long drag of my cigarette. I blew it straight in their direction, with force. The sun was now up over the desert floor and shining brightly outside. I could see how thick with smoke the air inside the room was. It was foul.

The prostitute barely moved and was silent. She just rocked her hips halfheartedly with his cock stuck inside. No moans, no flailing arms, no gripping fingers. He wasn’t allowed to choke her or spit on her. “Is this the experience you’ve always wanted, Tyler?” I taunted.

Tyler ignored me. He had to focus or he would lose his hard-on and not be able to finish. He had to get his money’s—my money’s—worth. He nudged her off of him and put her in doggy position. His hands grabbed her ass and he slapped it.

She let out a sound for that. It wasn’t encouragement. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Do not do that again.”

Tyler started pounding the woman and making noises like he was really into it. I knew he was full of shit. “You’re faking it. Aren’t you? That can’t be any good. This is so fucking stupid! And a waste of money, isn’t it?”

I was getting to him now. Tyler couldn’t block out my voice anymore. He looked at me with frustration as he tried his best. Tyler pulled his latex penis out of the hooker’s vagina. He got her on her back again and went in missionary. “Come here,” he said.

“Are you talking to me? I told you I wouldn’t touch her. No, you can do it all on your own.” I was drunk and defiant.

“Ori, come here!” He needed me to help him stay turned on. The hooker was a bust. She just lay there, dead. I would have to bail him out of this lame idea, same as I paid for it. Without a remark, I went over to the bed. I took off my top and started kissing him as he fucked her. My hands were all over him in a drunken fervor, like he was the antidote to my poisoning. Tyler came to life and nailed the lazy bitch hard and fast. He was going fast enough to come. I knew his body like it was my own. When I sensed his climax, I dropped my face down to where her twat was. I didn’t touch her. I could see her head was turned toward the window, gazing emptily out toward nothing.

Tyler laid a couple more strokes into the warm corpse and pulled out.

“Aaahh, aaahh! Yeeeaaahhhhsssss! Yeeeeesssss!” he shouted. He snapped off the condom and sprayed cum all over my face and into my waiting, open mouth. It was a hard orgasm because of all the drugs he’d ingested over the course of the night.

The prostitute rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. She picked up her panties and shirt. The bra never even came all the way off. “Well, thank you guys. I hope you have a good stay. If you need me again, I’ll be at the bar tomorrow night. Take care.” It was the most she’d said.

Tyler gave her the extra twenty dollars. There was nothing left for us to do or say. That was it.

From 7:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., Tyler and I slept. Our bodies needed to recover from all of the abuse. We checked out late from the Luxor and drove the rented Mustang convertible over to Mandalay Bay. All of our friends were lounging by the pool, sipping cocktails. It was a late summer afternoon in Las Vegas. Tanned and sexed-out men and women swaggered everywhere. A busy weekend for partying.

Nelson wanted to drive home to LA It was impossible for him to think of anything but the porno business and making money. He had a new agency to get off the ground and it consumed him. Hannah’s fun and contentment was a happy accident when it came to Nelson and his pursuit of making money. They did what he said, and she always went along. She didn’t argue with her boyfriend like I did with mine. I thought they were some kind of perfect couple. I didn’t wish to be in their shoes, but they did seem to have a system that worked. He cared for her in his own way, I guess, and she loved him. That met the limits of my comprehension of complex relationships during the time I was with Tyler. At the time, I thought that all relationships consisted of obsession. Like mine.

Cait and Jeff left with Nelson and Hannah. Carmelita rode home with us. We invited her to come over to our apartment and go out later that night back in LA. Though she was from Brazil, she lived in London. From what she told us about her childhood, the poor girl had it rough. She was an orphan raised by a cruel aunt who beat her. At sixteen, after a bad motorcycle accident, she forged immigration documents and made her way to the United Kingdom. She got a job at a McDonald’s cleaning floors. When she learned English, she was promoted to assistant manager. Then she started stripping, got fired from McDonald’s, and began to seek out porn.

She hired Nelson to be her agent and she stayed with him and Hannah while doing porn scenes in LA Tyler and I listened to Carmelita tell her life story as we inched along the road. The traffic was beyond terrible.

I sat behind the wheel and cursed. “I can’t believe how bad this is. It’s Monday night. The highway should be empty!”

Carmelita had been in the passenger seat, but as the traffic got worse she moved to the backseat with Tyler. They got quiet. Then I heard kissing sounds and a female moan. I looked in the rearview mirror. They were making out. Tyler’s hands were on her tits. I heard a belt being unbuckled.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d had it. They kept going at it, and I just gripped the wheel. The car was going nowhere. My boyfriend fucked this new friend of ours. We were hundreds of miles from home. Tears rolled down my cheeks, but I said nothing. What could I say at that point? It was absurd.

It took us over seven hours to drive from Las Vegas to Hollywood. There was so much traffic because it was Labor Day Weekend. I had no idea. Nationally observed holidays had come to mean nothing to me. I rarely checked the mailbox. I hardly ever got up before three in the afternoon—and after this misadventure, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to get up again.

Tyler and Carmelita fucked and she sucked his dick for four of those seven hours. They cuddled in the interims when his cock needed a rest. But she kept her hand on it, stroking it the entire time. Halfway home, I began to hate her. At first I was only mad at Tyler, but couldn’t remain so for long. He was my boyfriend. So I shifted my rage to her. She took advantage of a tempestuous relationship under odd circumstances. I dried my tears and toughed it out, letting her get fucked by the man I loved and lived with.

At last, we arrived at Nelson’s place. I popped the trunk and gave Carmelita a firm hug. Tyler kissed her goodnight, deeply with tongue, and we left her outside on the curb.

Chapter Nineteen

Liabilities

D
esiree
came to LA for another visit. She needed to get away from home and be cheerful. Her life had become very sad in Houston. She was still seventeen and not going to high school. Her crystal meth use had finally gotten out of control. Little Desiree had become the hardened veteran neighborhood meth dealer, selling to friends and strangers all over her suburban Texas town. Her mother kept wondering why the heavy-duty rolls of tin foil would disappear out of her pantry.

Though still seventeen, Desiree had aged since the last time we saw her. Maybe it only seemed so because she’d kicked meth. She put on about fifteen pounds. She looked good. Seventeen years old, and sexy. The extra pounds filled her chest and hips out, and her skin was amazing. There wasn’t a trace of the old cracked-out Desiree. We took her home to our apartment and began drinking and doing lines of coke with her. Coke was okay to do with her. It was crystal meth she had a problem with.

Since our place was so small and we did not have a couch, Desiree slept in our bed with us. It wasn’t awkward. Sharing the bathroom was much worse.

One night, Tyler introduced Desiree to our neighbor, Oliver. He lived on the other side of our bathroom wall. Being our neighbor required a lot of tolerance. We stayed up all night and stomped in and out of the front door at odd hours. Both of us threw things at the walls and on the floor during arguments. Tyler borrowed Oliver’s dishes because we’d given up on cleaning ours. I don’t think we ever returned them on our own accord. We had loud friends who’d come over to do drugs and have sex with me. We indiscreetly/openly talked about porno. But Oliver liked it. He was charmed by us. Who wouldn’t have found us interesting? When Oliver first moved into our building, Tyler made introductions on his own reconnaissance. I never could tell if Tyler was just planning a threesome or a regular friendship.

I didn’t get excited over new relationships like Tyler did. My life was already full of people and things I could hardly handle. We had lots of friends and all of them were crazy. Oliver was a quiet sort of wall-flowery type. Nothing about him was strikingly attractive, and still nothing stood out as particularly ugly. There are a million men like Oliver in Los Angeles trying to do the same thing—direct movies.

Tyler and Oliver got to be pretty good friends. I barely noticed him most of the time. He began to do coke with us, and with Ernesto from downstairs. Our apartment building became quite the place to party. Oliver met Desiree during one such party. When it came time to crash, Desiree didn’t want to sleep with Tyler and me again. We hadn’t done any ecstasy, so we weren’t feeling the need for the innocent, and, of course, non-sexual, fuzzy, family-time cuddling that it often fueled. I tried to accommodate her by letting her know that Tyler and I would sleep on the floor. She was our guest. I wanted her to be comfortable in our home. But she didn’t want to sleep in our bed alone, either. She wanted to sleep on Oliver’s couch, in his living room.

Tyler didn’t think it was weird at all for Desiree to stay with the much older Oliver. “It’s fine. Oliver’s all right. He’s our friend, and his place is bigger. He offered, and she wants to. She can make up her own mind.”

Tyler knows best, I thought. He’s the big brother, not me. It gave us a chance to do more lines without her and have sex that night.

The next morning, we woke up early to Desiree coming in through the front door. She didn’t say much. She just grabbed a couple of things out of her bags and went in the bathroom to shower. I pulled on a pair of purple sweatpants and did some lines to wake up. I didn’t have to convince Tyler to get out of bed because his nicotine addiction did that for him. Just like I had to have my morning lines of cocaine, Tyler needed a cigarette as soon as he opened his eyes. He was so hooked on tobacco that it would wake him up at five or six in the morning, even if we’d just gone to bed at three or four. I smoked, too, but he did it too much.

That night, we took Desiree to a Halloween costume party at Bent Brent’s house, whose ass and feet I licked for one of Pro Trusion’s scenes. I’d done many more scenes with him since. Desiree wanted to dress up in one of my stripper outfits. I wasn’t sure about it, but Tyler said it was okay.

All of the other guests at the party were from porn. Mostly performers. Lots of guys were ogling Desiree. It’s hard to blame them. She was dressed like a prostitute, and in my clothes. She was wearing a tiny plaid skirt with a black bra and white cropped top. Only a pair of G-string panties covered her ass and snatch. Fishnet thigh-high stockings went with a pair of clear heels to complete the look. I didn’t want her to feel out of place, so I wore an equally slutty outfit to match.

Desiree wasn’t ready to wear those clothes. I never should have let her. She was so uncomfortable when we arrived at the party. At our apartment getting ready it was all fun and games. Playing dress-up, imagining getting lots of attention. But when it was real and the guys were staring, she didn’t like it. She was still a little girl. Everywhere she turned, there were real strippers and prostitutes partying for keeps. Groups of guys talked about how hard they fucked these chicks and about wood problems. Tyler and I let them know Desiree was only seventeen. All of the porno guys flirted with her, asking her when she’d turn eighteen.

Everyone thought Tyler and I brought his little sister in order to turn her out. You know, get her started early in the business. To them, she was better than barely legal. She wasn’t legal at all.

Some of the partiers were having sex in the bathroom and taping it. Two girls were grinding on each other in the living room. They began making out while sitting on some guy’s lap. A crowd formed around them. Desiree started freaking out. She didn’t want any of these strangers to think she was like the rest of the girls at the party.

“She was the one who dressed me like this!” Desiree declared to a room full of people, finger pointing at me, then demanded to go home and put on some clothes. I let her blame me for the way she was dressed. It didn’t matter to me what these other people thought.

I didn’t know how to be a big sister to Desiree. In my family, I was the little sister. Tyler allowed her freedom, with little protection. He let her cut loose, but didn’t seem to want to safeguard her or feel the need to beat her boyfriend’s ass when she was knocked up earlier that year, things like that. I don’t know exactly what it was, but they had an odd relationship. Tyler once told me that an older girl had sex with him in a shower when he was ten. He didn’t consider it molestation because he enjoyed it. Knowing that made me love him more—in some ways, I’d always searched for a lost soul who would need me to resurrect him from a complicated history. Desiree had some of that in her, too. They had the sweet-natured but reckless characteristics of damaged children who had grown up a little too fast and never enough.

Tyler surprised me by buying us tickets for a trip to Europe, just the two of us. Never in my most farfetched dreams did I think I would be able to go to Europe on my own! At twenty-one years old, I’d pay for the entire trip except for airfare. Tyler purchased the tickets on a whim at a travel agency in West Hollywood. This one extravagant and impulsive buy would be one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. Tyler’s irresponsibility worked in his favor half of the time.

In some ways, it’s hard for me to initiate risky decisions. With Tyler, I was the one who played it safe. I got upset if a bill was mailed in late. Tyler would tell me it didn’t matter. I hated eating fattening food. Tyler told me to enjoy the taste, rather than worry about the calories. I shopped at Macy’s and Tyler preferred more expensive boutiques on Melrose. His grandmother always told him he had “champagne taste on a beer budget.”

I grew up poor. My parents never had any money, and they were irresponsible with what little they had. It was a revelation not to have to worry about how much something cost. I had the money to buy whatever I wanted. If I wanted a thousand dollar watch, I could buy it. But I didn’t. What money we didn’t spend on going out and buying coke (granted, a lot), I saved. I had saved almost ten thousand dollars in just a few months. It was too easy. We didn’t have to spare ourselves any luxury and could still have money in the bank.

It was unreal how quickly my scenes added up. Every porno movie I appeared in paid me over a thousand dollars. When we left for Europe in November, only three-quarters of a year into the business, I’d already done so many scenes that I’d lost count.

I was ecstatic about the prospects of a European trip. My life’s sort of in the toilet, I thought, and Europe is going to cure it. I was in love and that was the only thing I was consistently proud of at that time, no matter how tumultuous the relationship was. Waves of guilt would unexpectedly crash and gnaw down on my soul, refusing to let me feel good about myself; often, porno felt like a moral death sentence. I was always lying about it. There were too many days when I felt like I was wasting my life because I was caught up in a world of sex, drugs, love, and experience for experience’s sake. I was killing my brain and abusing my body. Going to Europe would educate me, and, I hoped, inspire me to do something different with my life in the future. All roads do not lead to porn. The trip would be an accomplishment that I would be entirely proud of without mixed feelings.

The night before our trip, I was thinking of ways to get back at my mother—whom I prefer to call Cheryl—for being vile. She’d called me a few days before we were to leave, while Desiree was still in town. Cheryl knew about our planned Euro trip, but she probably didn’t remember. Her brain is seriously deteriorated from doing drugs her entire life. She phoned while I was in line at In-N-Out Burger. Desiree had started her period in my car. She had bled right through her sweatpants, so she waited in the car with Tyler. I was trying to order all of our cheeseburgers correctly. Tyler wanted “no tomato, yes grilled onions, no special sauce, just ketchup only.” He would throw a fit if it wasn’t just so. Desiree’s was simple: no onions.

I answered my cell phone and held it with my shoulder as I fished around in my purse for cash.

“So, do you have anything to tell me?” Cheryl’s voice was angry. I could tell by her rhetorical tone that she knew the answer to her own question.

“What? What are you talking about?” I was handing the money over to the cashier and felt rude. I was rolling my eyes. I was annoyed at the bitchiness in my mother’s voice.

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself, young lady?” The voice got angrier. My mother hadn’t been mad at me since I was in high school. There wasn’t any reason for her to be. I’d been on my own since I turned eighteen. Nothing I did was any of her business. How dare she utter a demeaning phrase like “young lady?”

“Excuse me? What are you getting at? What’s your problem?” I had no respect for her. I responded with the same volume of nastiness. Cheryl had put me through misery all of my life. It angered and saddened me when she tried to play “mother” with me now. She hadn’t earned it.

“Well, I just saw my daughter on the internet…with a mouth full of cock!” She said it with such mean, matter-of-fact evenness.

I was disgusted and embarrassed. I could tell that her sole intention was to hurt, humiliate, and expose me. I was ashamed of her. Somehow, to hear her speak “a mouth full of cock” was cruder than me even having one. A mother isn’t supposed to say things like that. I wanted to vomit into the phone. Instead of fuck you, I venomously said, “So!”

“I think you better start explaining!” She was feeling powerful, and that wounded me deeply. She was trying to corner me.

“So what, do you hate me now?” I asked her. I knew she didn’t, but I had to ask.

“No,” she responded flatly.

“Okay,” I said back, in the same voice as hers. We sound very much alike.

“No. Not okay. I’m so mad at you! You’re all over the internet. You fucking little whore. Your mouth’s full of cock. I’m ashamed of you, to be your mother! You fucking little bitch!” Then she hung up on me. I didn’t get a chance to rightfully respond.

When someone finally handed me the bag of fast food, I was weak in the legs, in shock. I shoved the phone back into my purse and walked out of In-N-Out. My hands were shaking. We’d only done one line apiece that morning, just to wake up. The tears came a few minutes later. I always knew that at some point I would have to talk about
it
with my family. Cheryl just had no right to be so vicious about it—she was probably with her grotesque boyfriend looking at porn when she’d found out.

I’ve never been scared of letting my mom down. Whether or not she’s proud of me makes no difference. Cheryl is a drug addict and a manipulator. It’s impossible to trust her. Just when it seems as though she cares, she’s got some ulterior motive to benefit herself. I’ve often promised myself that I would not talk to her anymore. Cheryl would have to wait.

On Desiree’s last night in LA, Tyler and I planned to take her out to dinner at Water Grill, one of the best restaurants in the entire city. Tyler made a special point to dine at all of the finest places. His culinary education in Barcelona made him an expert of exquisite cuisine. He taught me about food and opened my palate to a world of niceties I never knew existed. Being a bulimic since a young age, I’d thought of food as my enemy. I have Tyler to thank for changing that, even though I still have a serious eating disorder. I remember the first time I ever stuck my hand into my mouth and reached down my throat and puked up food on purpose. It was Thanksgiving Day, 1994. It stands out to me as much as the first time I had sex (May 27th, 1995). I was thirteen years old. Bulimia and sex started at roughly the same age. I threw up every meal, every day. It gave me pleasure, actually, even though I know it’s not healthy behavior. I loved it—it was exhilarating, I could feel a rush in my entire body, a rush of fluids out of the stomach, mouth, eyes, and nose all at once. I found it more orgasmic than sex, until I finally had orgasms at age nineteen.