LUDIC LOG

I had dreams, sure. Everybody in this shitty ruin of a city came here with dreams; the same dreams, as it happens. No one comes to LA for the weather, no matter what they tell you. Sunshine can't get through the smog and the ocean breezes all smell like gasoline. Anyone who tells you they live here for any reason other than the dream is selling real estate. My story may be sad enough for your little movie, but it's no different than any other girl's...hah. Girls. Look at me through your fancy PBS camera and tell me I look like a girl. I was once, though, and with the same dream as every girl who comes to California: to make it big in porn.

When I was growing up in Iowa, I used to go with my dad up to Des Moines on weekends. It was a long drive, but it was worth it; sitting next to him, his free hand resting strong and masculine on my tiny shoulder, watching legends come alive on that big old silver screen at the Fuck Hut on Fourth Street. Seka, Marilyn Chambers, all those women I came to idolize, larger than life and weaving real magic before my very eyes. The whole place seemed to be filled with life. I wanted to be part of it; I wanted to be the magician, the goddess, the beautiful image who made everyone feel warm and happy and alive. From the time I could think, I did what I thought it would take to make it in the world of adult entertainment: I kept myself "pure" (what a joke), making sure I only dated guys who loved me for my body; I developed a heroin habit almost before I could walk; and I got breast implants when I was 16, even though I was already a D cup. I did everything you were supposed to do, from trading sex for homework to getting a really bad dyejob to refusing to ever take acting lessons. I was ready.

I got to LA in 1997. I looked at some of the other girls who had made it -- international superstars like Kirsty Waay, Inari Vachs and Kobe Tai -- and thought "why not me"? After all, I was good-looking, imbalanced and willing to do anything. And it's not like I didn't pay my dues: no job was too small. I put in my time as a fluffer, a glory-holer and a stunt asshole. I wasn't about to let stupid pride get in the way of going all the way to the top: I wanted more than skin flicks. I wanted film loops, stripping, prostitution, the whole glorious ball of wax. Why not? Someone has to be a superstar, and I figured I'm as cut out to be a legend as anybody. I even practiced signing my autograph on my sister's cleavage for when I won my first AVN award, that's how fucking naive I was.

Well, it didn't take long for this hellhole to show me its true face. Competition for fluffers was intense; once I turned 24 there was no work for me stroking guy's dicks while the cameramen changed lenses anymore. And the lead roles weren't coming. Times were changing, they said; audiences are tired of bukkake. When I turned 25, the producers stopped being polite: I was too pretty, they said. I still looked like I was 24. My face didn't have the properly haggard quality. You couldn't see the needle tracks in my arms. My tit job was too expertly done. Forget my dreams of having 62 total strangers cum all over me in the space of an hour: I was lucky to be getting lead roles in Showtime erotic thrillers. It was just after my 26th birthday that my whole world fell apart.

Some shitbag talent scout -- you know the type, the sheeny little weasels who haunt coffee bars and nightclubs where down-on-their-luck whores like me hang out -- approaches me. He says he's got a "special project" for a "pretty girl" like me, a chance to "showcase my true talents". Well, the stunt butt work wasn't keeping my landlord happy, so I took him up on it. I don't think I have to tell you the creep worked for Sony Pictures. His little "project" turned out to be one of those sordid, degrading summer blockbusters. But what choice did I have? I did it. I'm not goddamn proud of it but I did it. The next thing you know I'm really "in demand", if you know what I mean. I end up doing all kinds of these "mainstream" movies. I'm playing ridiculous parts like Joan of Arc, Christabel Pankhurst, Marilyn Monroe. My name starts getting mentioned in the same breath with jumped-up ex-tarts like Jodie Foster and Julianne Moore. I not only had to give up heroin, but my worthless manager had me give up red meat. I can hardly get up in the morning without doing yoga anymore. I can't remember the last time Al Goldstein wrote about me, but that smarmy fuck Jonathan Rosenbaum is, like, obsessed with me. My AVN award gets farther and farther away every day. Christ, my last movie didn't even have a nude scene in it. And I haven't even begun to hit rock bottom: I just did a "critically acclaimed" art film and and off-Broadway play, and if things get any worse I can see myself directing. I really can.

It's fucking sad, yeah. What my life has become. I once got slapped in the mouth by Rob Black; now I'm sitting here waiting for a call from Martin Scorsese. Oh, God. Turn the camera off.