Traci Lords Page 6

  I had scheduled the procedure for the following week, feeling that I could always change my mind and wanting to find a way to keep the baby but scared to death of what would become of us. As the day crept closer I had serious doubts about what I was going to do. Was it wrong? Could this fetus feel pain? Thoughts like these tested my sanity: I had never hurt a fly—what was I doing? I had to find another way. I called a hotline for unwed mothers, but after an hour of religious mumbo jumbo, I hung up. They were selling guilt and I’d had enough of that.

  It’s hard to put into words the conflict I felt on the day of the procedure. I met Roger in the morning and as he drove me to the clinic I felt my stomach turn inside out. I was beside myself and asked him several times if he thought I was doing the right thing. His words were soft and reassuring as he reminded me that if I didn’t have the abortion I would end up a penniless fifteen-year-old single mother, a thought that horrified me.

  As I was prepped for the procedure, I was quiet and sweating profusely. I felt the needle enter my arm and watched the faces of masked strangers around me as the fire from the syringe ran down my arm. I started to protest, a million thoughts racing through my head, until everything went dark.

  I woke up feeling dead, sobbing on a single bed in the recovery room. I wondered if Dean could feel my pain, wherever he was. Did he know how much I hurt? I thought of Ricky and how he made me lie there while he took what was only mine to give. I thought of my father who wanted so badly to punish my mother that he hadn’t sent us a dime in support since we left. I thought of Hollywood Boulevard with all those stars on the sidewalk, those people so admired and loved. Why couldn’t I be one of them?

  I had promised to baby-sit for Lynn that evening. She’d said it was important and too late to cancel. But watching her children sleep peacefully in their beds, I lost what little composure I had left. Lynn came home and found me crying uncontrollably in her bathroom. I told her my whole story, how trapped I felt, and that I was convinced all this was happening because I was a weak kid and I didn’t want to be me anymore.

  She held me while I lost my mind and calmed me with reason, saying it would all pass. She offered to help solve my job problems by getting me a fake ID and giving me a reference. I just had to promise to say I’d stolen the birth certificate if I was ever caught. I remember thinking that was silly. I mean, who would care if a fifteen-year-old tended bar or waited tables or something?

  I ditched classes the next day and walked into the Department of Motor Vehicles in Torrance with the borrowed birth certificate, had my photo and prints taken, and walked out a different person. I was now twenty-two-year-old Kristie Elizabeth Nussman. It was no different to me than when my sister and I switched identities in school, except this time I was leaving Nora Kuzma behind for good. She was the one who had been raped, used, and abused—and I didn’t want to be her anymore. And as for the consequences of my actions, why would I ever even think of them? I was an angry fifteen-year-old acting blindly from a place of rage and desperation, so I never once contemplated the price I would ultimately pay for giving false information to the DMV.

  It was payback time now and as I strode across the street from history class toward the Varsity deli I spied my target: Dean. He was laughing with a group of guys from the football team—the very same ones who’d recently started calling me “Nora Whora.” I was further insulted to hear from friends that my boyfriend had been openly bragging about what a sweet piece of ass I was. I walked full speed ahead looking to blow that mother outta the water. I’d put on the shortest skirt I owned and a borrowed pair of heels from Lynn. As I clicked my way across the street, I felt the power of those shoes.

  Smiling, I made a point of looking those boys right in the eye as I walked toward Dean. They all smiled back. Saying I had really good news for him, I flirtatiously asked if he had a minute. We walked down the street, and when we were out of listening distance, I turned on him. I told him that if he didn’t give me money for an abortion, I was going to tell his parents about how we had sex in the bathroom and that I got pregnant.

  He turned white and agreed to everything. I told him he had twenty-four hours, turned my back on him, just as he’d done to me, and walked away. It was his turn to pay up. The next day I coldly accepted his two hundred dollars. It didn’t satisfy my anger toward him, but at least I knew he’d suffered in some small way.

  When my ID arrived several weeks later, I lined up a few interviews. One was for a hostess job at the Red Onion and the other had something to do with modeling. I’d been told on the phone that I only needed to be eighteen and it didn’t matter if I had a portfolio or not. They were in the business of breaking new talent.

  Roger was my chauffeur for the day and I excitedly showed him all the ads I’d answered. He seemed impressed with my plans, so I continued to rattle on about my conversation with Mr. North, the modeling agent. Roger wanted to know what kind of modeling it was. I told him it was called “figure modeling,” and that I’d have to model bathing suits and stuff like that. He looked at me strangely, then just smiled, never informing me that I had naively answered an ad for nude models. Looking back on that day, I realize he knew exactly what was going on.

  We pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant where my first interview was scheduled. I checked my hair and hopped out of the car, excited by the prospect of employment. The interviewer at the Red Onion was a really young guy and I saw him checking out my cleavage. I was sure I’d get the job.

  Instead, I got asked out.

  That afternoon we headed to Hollywood for the modeling interview and my spirits were down. I was scared no one was going to like me. What if I wasn’t pretty enough? Roger had taken me shopping for a new outfit and made a big deal of telling me how beautiful I looked. But I wasn’t convinced. I was really nervous so we stopped for a cocktail. He held my hand, made me laugh, told me how special I was, that I just needed to believe in myself, and that he’d be there every step of the way. He told me it didn’t matter that he and my mom had split, he was still my stepdad and he loved me.

  And in that moment I loved him too.

  As we walked down the corridor, a girl with the biggest hair I’d ever seen walked by, making me feel even more self-conscious about my flat, flipped Farrah Fawcett hairdo. Roger seemed to sense my insecurity and squeezed my shoulder in support as he led me toward the office. I could hear a man with a Southern accent talking on a phone. “She gets paid double for a DP and she chooses the guys.” A DP? I’d learned in film study that meant a director of photography, but I wondered why she needed more guys.

  Nearly a year later, on the set of a porn movie, I was horrified to find out a DP was not a director of photography in the porn world. It was slang for a double penetration scene. This particular sex act involved one woman and two men. Both men entered her at the same time, one vaginally and the other anally. Did people really do that?! Didn’t it hurt? I’d never do that, I vowed.

  High school girls just didn’t have anal sex.

  We stood in the doorway waiting for the man to finish his phone call. I was transfixed by the row of eleven-by-fourteen-inch glossy photographs lining the walls on both sides of his desk. He was small, thin, and weaselly, with a skinny mustache. His hair looked greasy and was slicked straight back. Standing up, he flashed a big smile for me, and I couldn’t help but stare at the silver tooth peeking out of the corner of his mouth. I looked at his feet to find a gleaming pair of cowboy boots staring back at me. He caught me checking him out and laughed, offering us a seat. He commented on how hot it was in the Valley and how much he looked forward to moving into his new office in Beverly Hills. Excusing himself briefly, he came back with a bottle of champagne. He poured us a glass, raised his, looked right at me, and said, “Forgive my manners, miss. My name is Tim North and I’m gonna make you a star. Sir, your daughter is a looker.”

  I was flushed with excitement. He was going to make a call right then and there and get some pictures of me tak
en. He pointed to a sign on the wall that explained the fees, saying he’d always try to get me as much money as possible but all he’d ever take was a flat fee of forty dollars—period.

  I went to the bathroom to catch my breath. I felt drunk and high on life. On my way back, I heard them talking about taking Polaroids and saw Mr. North hand Roger what looked like a lot of money. Roger saw me watching and said we were all set. He had the address of the photo shoot and Jim advanced us some cash for expenses. All we had to do now was take some topless photos of me in the back room. What?!!! You mean now?

  Right now? I lost my breath, panicking at the thought of being photographed nude.

  Roger laughed and handed me a fashion magazine with beautiful black-and-white nude photographs in it.

  I felt my cheeks go hot, blushing a deep red at the sight of nudes. “It’s fashion, Kristie,” Tim North said.

  “If you’re really serious about modeling you’re going to have to get used to doing nudity.” I looked at Roger skeptically, but he just smiled back and nodded in agreement with North.

  Was I being immature about this? Is this the way the modeling world worked? Was I blowing my chance to be one of those high-society ladies I used to see lunching on the university lawn near Granny’s hill? I thought of the days as a seven-year-old when I had jealously hurled crab apples toward the people laughing on the grass. How much I wanted to be one of them.

  I could still hear my mother whispering about “social class.” I was tired of not belonging anywhere, of being a social outcast.

  Maybe this could be the beginning of something new…

  Los Angeles, 1983.

  The collection of Traci Lords

  Mr. North interrupted my childhood memories, snapping at me impatiently, “Now, I’m a very busy man so if you could please go change I’d appreciate it. Oh, and leave your heels on honey, okay? How about another glass of champagne? Want a line?”

  Roger and I disappeared into the back room and I started sweating. I wasn’t sure about this, but Roger calmed me down. He said he understood that it was scary, that it was natural for me to feel nervous and not to worry—he was there and nothing bad was going to happen.

  North showed up in the hallway with the Polaroid camera. I was still dressed. He looked frustrated. He said he understood it was my first time, but I needed to relax. He told me Marilyn Monroe had started out as a nude model for Playboy and then went on to become a huge star.

  I said I needed a minute.

  When they left, I snorted a line of white powder North called “coke” from a mirror he’d left in the little dressing area. I’d never snorted coke before and it gave me a weird, jittery burst of energy. Suddenly I felt charged, brave from the drug and champagne.

  Shyly, I stepped out of my pale pink dress.

  I was naked in white panties and high heels when Roger and North walked back in. They both looked approvingly at my breasts.

  Roger stood in a corner as Tim positioned me against a wall. “Arch your back and place your hand on your rear end,” he said. “Close your eyes halfway and make a kiss with your mouth.” He took half a dozen photos and then I got dressed. On our way out he asked for my ID, saying he needed a copy for his records.

  Roger was in high spirits afterward. He was proud at how grown-up I was becoming and wanted to drive me to my first photo shoot—at some magazine called Velvet.

  I asked if it was for a clothing store.

  He said, “Sort of.”

  The jittery coke feeling was wearing off and I wiggled uncomfortably in my seat, replaying the afternoon’s strange events. My memory felt fuzzy, though—maybe from the champagne. I remembered getting the Polaroids taken and watching North’s beady eyes peering at me. All of it felt strangely…exciting. Maybe that’s because I was being photographed topless? Or was it the way North—and especially Roger—had stared at my breasts? Was it sexual?

  I flashed on my father’s face again. It had been so long since I’d seen or heard from him. Did he even love me anymore? I pictured myself naked and spread-eagled in one of his girlie magazines. Would he love me then? Would everyone love me? My body seemed to be the only thing men wanted from me anyway. I fell asleep on the way home.

  10

  Angel Is the Centerfold

  I woke up the next day panicked. I was late for school again and I’d already used up all my absences. I had been warned about truancy twice this quarter.

  The night before, Roger had insisted I stay over and offered me his bed. He took the couch. When I awoke, my head was throbbing from the champagne. It was quiet. Roger must have gone off to work. Pulling on my clothes, I realized it was Saturday and let loose a huge sigh of relief.

  The previous day’s events played through my head.

  I felt sick to my stomach thinking my mother would find out I posed naked for Polaroids, but then I found a note from Roger. He said I should go home, change into something cute, and be back by noon if I wanted him to drive me to work.

  Work?

  Oh yeah…I was a model! All my doubts about Mom finding the pictures of me went out the window. They were silly, I reasoned. She doesn’t even notice when I’m home. How could she find out about this?

  No one was home when I got there.

  I showered, put on some tight shorts and a tank top, and was on my way. Roger was waiting when I got back with a stack of magazines he’d bought, like Vogue, Teen, Playboy, and some foreign nude ones. We hit the drive-thru on the way to the Valley, and I snacked on a Big Mac and chocolate shake, flipping through the magazines and rambling on about the models I saw. He told me I needed to memorize all the different poses, be cooperative with the photographer, and most of all act like a professional. What did that mean?

  We arrived at the studio fifteen minutes early. The photographer was arranging the set and I was introduced to a man wearing more makeup than I ever had. He said his name was Coco. He’d be doing my makeup and showed me where I could change.

  Coco mixed me a vodka cranberry and had one himself while Roger talked to the photographer in the other room.

  “You have the most flawless skin I’ve ever seen,” he said. “What’s your secret?”

  “I’m an Ivory soap girl.”

  He laughed and said it ran in the business, referring to Marilyn Chambers. I had no idea what he was talking about but pretended it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. I only got the joke years later, when I crossed paths with the queen of porn herself. Apparently Miss Chambers, star of the X-rated film Behind the Green Door, originally gained fame as the Ivory Snow detergent girl.

  When Coco finished painting me I changed into a blue pleated skirt and a tight sweater. My teased hair made me look at least five feet ten and I couldn’t believe the image in the mirror staring back at me. My lips were painted huge and so glossy they looked like they were going to drip. I wasn’t sure if I looked pretty or not, but the photographer seemed pleased. A pair of white bobby socks and really high heels completed the outfit. The photographer showed me where to go and I climbed up on a white bed filled with big pillows and pink bows, realizing then that this shoot couldn’t possibly be for a clothing store. But Roger was there, I told myself, and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. And I had to start somewhere.

  The photographer talked me through a dozen poses and I had three more vodkas in between film changes. My eyes were watering so much from the liquid eyeliner and the false eyelashes that we had to keep taking breaks, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this would be considered unprofessional. But the vodka eventually washed away my worries—and schoolgirl innocence.

  I was the center of attention for the first time in my life. I remember feeling important, even powerful. My sexuality had robbed me of so much, and now it suddenly gave me something that had eluded me in every aspect of life—control. I got off on the power my body held over that entire roomful of adults.

  As I lay on the bed, the photographer showed me where he wanted my rear end.
Then he asked me to really arch my back as I bent forward. Cupping my naked breasts, I slid my panties off, closed my eyes, and made the kissy face Tim North had taught me.

  I spread my legs and caressed my breasts. Through a dreamy fog, I spotted Roger sitting in the corner of the studio, his hand buried beneath his coat, watching me. What was he doing? He caught me staring and immediately stopped. Was he masturbating? Disgusted by the thought of my honorary “stepfather” doing such a thing, I avoided his gaze, and when we finished the shoot minutes later, I dismissed the incident as a vodka-induced hallucination.

  I dressed quickly and, with the vodka buzz finally wearing off, felt unsettled by the afternoon’s events. I’d been turned on by the attention I’d received, and now it confused me. I became flooded with shame as I got dressed.

  I had to get out of there.

  Roger collected the two hundred and fifty dollars cash I was owed for the shoot. Apparently, the girls were paid at the end of the shoot in cold hard cash. I quickly lit the first of the series of cigarettes I would chain-smoke that night.

  Quiet on the way home, I listened to Roger cheerfully jabber on about how gorgeous I looked while I was modeling. I wondered what would happen if I said something about what I thought I saw him doing. Would he get mad? Would he tell my mom I was a nude model? Would I be in trouble?

  11

  I, Traci Lords

  I was fifteen years old when I was hired to model for Penthouse magazine. I was told I needed a “sexy” stage name so I chose Traci, one of the “popular” names I’d longed for growing up. During a rerun of the series Hawaii Five-O later that evening, I took actor Jack Lord’s surname. In my mind, his Steve McGarrett was the perfect fantasy father. I added an “s” to Lord because there were three of us: Nora (my birth name), Kristie (my fake ID name), and now Traci (the girl everyone wanted).