Memoirs of a Cipher | Africa | Art | Music | Poetry | True Stories

She stopped briefly to let her eyes get accustomed to the dimness as she stepped through the kitchen door.  The area closest to the kitchen was cramped and clouded with heavy smoke that hung in the air like a spectral figure.  The initial scent of clove infused Indonesian cigarettes was both pleasant and sensuous.  Though no longer a smoker, she recalled the cache that Djarums gave her, and she particularly liked the slight after taste of cinnamon on her tongue when an errant piece of loose tobacco escaped the hand rolled cigarettes.

Partial to hand rolled cigarettes, after six years of smoking, it took her less than a fortnight to quit. Mentally, she was disgusted with the habit, and to conquer the physical addiction, she began to smoke the noxiously odoriferous Sheri Bidi cigarettes. Whereas, Djarums pulled you in with their initial promise of sweet spice and incense, Sheri Bidi’s were intensely masculine, foreign and hard on the lungs. After about ten days of smoking this brand, she quit and never smoked again.

As with any smell, pleasant or otherwise, with saturation, Djarum smoke devolved into sickly sweet cloying stench that seemed to permeate every inch of atmosphere within proximity.  One of the drawbacks of working in this environment is each night she is faced with the quandary of what to do with her hair.  Most nights she wore a long, auburn or dark brown wig, as much to alter her appearance, as to protect her hair.  Long hair was generally a money maker, and even a Goth girl with Morticia locks, fared reasonably well, provided she was the only one.

From time to time she would want to wear her hair out, particularly if she had a fresh weave; but the cost to maintain it made that a generally unacceptable option. One of the benefits of wearing wigs was the anonymity it provided, and she could changed her looks, which was essential to making money in an environment where men come in search of novelty not predictability.  She had learned early on that a performer more committed to her looks than business, invariably paid for that vanity with a dwindling bank balance.

Her New York agent, Carl, Madrin and Stimmet, Inc. or CMS for short, referred her to the stylist whom she paid to have flown down to Miami every few weeks to redo her hair.  CMS despite its lofty moniker was a one man shop based in SoHo.  Jerod, the CEO and proprietor was a brutally honest, gay male, who, when she arrived to be interviewed, told her she looked like a “hot mess” that had crawled out of some miasmic swamp of want-to-be America.  Implicit in the insult was that anything outside of New York City was subject to this rubric.

Although bedridden with a debilitating illness, which she later discovered was full blown AIDS; he was a phenomenal marketer, and once her transformation into a commercially marketable product was complete, Jerod continuously booked her for shoots, commercials, and videos. He had the uncanny ability to anticipate market trends, and in some cases set the market with the models he molded then represented.

She weighed roughly 125 lbs, almost all muscle, but which, at 5’7” was veritably obese by industry standards.  To top it off, she was curvaceous and had a pert derriere and full breast, which made it difficult for her to fit into the tubular sized “0”, skeletal draped clothes that the designers regularly churned out season after season.

Kevin, her stylist, was also based in Manhattan, and serviced many of the “B, C and D” list starlets and models. She recalled their first meeting, when Kevin at the request of Jerod came to evaluate her for potential representation.  As he pinched strands of her weave between his thumb and forefinger, the expression on his face betrayed his utter disgust, and by the smear of his lips, one would have thought she had sewn rat fur onto her head.

While Jerod dismissively flung her “piss poor” quality headshot and comp cards to the floor, Kevin grabbed her face between his large, plump hands and announced in a grand and exuberant voice, “well, the girl has bones, I can say that much.  I can work with the face and hair; I leave the body to you,” he announced as he continued to examine her nails, hands and toes, cheek and collar bones.

“I’ll take you honey, but you better have a lot of money because you are going to need it!” announced Jerod, obviously pleased that Kevin agreed with his initial assessment.

The cost of reworking herself to Jerod’s specifications was daunting, but not insurmountable.  She started the process in Miami, and had become adept at keeping her two lives and careers quite separate. Her first forays into the adult entertainment industry were based upon her need to finance her initial make-over, portfolio and headshots which both Jerod and Kevin had so disdainfully trashed. Had Jerod known that she worked by night in this industry he would have dropped her immediately.

The two industries are exactly alike; flip sides of the same coin. Only the illusion of respectability, opportunity to move to the head of the line to become a trophy wife, and/or the allure of fame enticed hundreds of thousands neophytes each year to join the ranks of the modeling industry’s “almosts” and “neverwas” versus working as adult entertainers.  The modeling industry like its co-regent, the movie industry, depended on an ever flowing river of nubile flesh to be exuded, extruded and exploited.

Within the latter one retained very little control over one’s destiny and moral boundaries, whereas in the former, a performer commanded great sums, never had to prostitute themselves, and could with shrewd planning leverage the exposure should they desire to transition into the other two fields.  She worked with many women who financed their law and medical degrees working by night in this industry.  They were serious, hard working women, often with children, some with husbands and boyfriends, all with a goal or objective, who for whatever reason, felt that this was most expeditious means to attain their desired goals.

Like these women, she was working toward a goal, but unlike these women, it was to transition into acting on stage and in film.  To do this, she saved her money, used it when required in furtherance of her career and the tools of the trade, and never mixed business with pleasure.  It was the early morning casting calls that were most difficult.  Always a late night person, subject to bouts of insomnia, she seemed well suited to the working hours of gentlemen’s clubs.  In by eight o’clock in the evening, out by four thirty that morning.  Home, decompressed, cup of coffee, make-up removed, hair brushed and roller-set, all by six a.m., when the earliest of commuters were heading out into the daylight hour traffic.

Usually when casting calls started at six thirty or seven a.m., she would forego sleep entirely because the risks outweighed the benefits.  A few hours sleep delivered less rest, than puffiness beneath eyes starved for a long respite from the world of men.  She often resorted to a trick of the trade; in case of emergency, dab a small dollop of Preparation-H on any particular puffed areas of skin, and voila, immediate relief and decreased swelling.  The sensitive areas beneath the eyes responded best, although she was sure the manufacturers did not have this use in mind during product development.

Thus, she would usually stay awake straight through the night, and half the day whenever she was lucky enough to book a commercial, video, or bit extra part.  Sometimes she would get small trade magazine spreads, for which she would have to enlist the services of Kevin to hide a night spent in a smoke filled den of sensual illusion and broken promises.  But, never once did she reveal to him the source of her income, nor did he ever inquire.

She was careful to always work in places where high-net worth clientele frequented, who had as much to loose as she had to gain, and were therefore disinterested in flaunting their patronage.  She also made it a practice to never befriend any of the girls working in the establishments, because jealousy could not only jeopardize one’s income potential, but some girls could be physically dangerous.

Particular, hard to interact with and to watch were the girls and women from the former Soviet Union Eastern Block countries.  Tall, striking, incredibly beautiful and typically blond, they went to extraordinary lengths to make money.  This included prostitution, lesbian sex acts, and stealing.

Each evening they would arrive with their “bodyguards” in late model exotic sports cars, and prepare to work.  They spoke only to each other, often in Czech, Romanian, Bulgarian, Serbian, and Russian as they prepared for the evening.  They were absolutely ruthless, and usually on the nights that they worked, she choose to either work at another establishment or to take the night off because there was no way any woman playing it straight could compete.

Years later, after she had left the industry, she realized that many of these women were actually sex slaves, and their ruthless pursuit of money was driven by much darker and more sinister motivations than any she could have imagined. But at the time, as a business woman, she admired how they worked the room, but hated how it cut into her bottom line.

These women had an unparalleled and uncanny ability to hone in on the “biggest of spenders”, and would often stay with him until the end of the night in the private VIP rooms. Almost, sequestered from the prying eyes of envious patrons, as well as coworkers, these women with the aid of a lone bouncer, would fulfill every fantasy and desire of the customer; but always at a price. It was not uncommon for an end of the night tab to close out at between $15,000 to $25,000.

She, like every other girl in the club did the math, and the figures were astounding. Even with 15% to the house off the top, and then 20% of whatever they decided to declare to the bouncer and house mom, with the final 10% to the DJ and bar, they were still walking away with between $5,000 and $7,000 each. She could never understand why, night after night, these girls worked relentlessly, when for her, $2,500 was a good night and she would take off for the next few days, if not the week.

One of the benefits of working in the industry is that it afforded her flexibility and ready cash, both of which were required in pursuit of her legitimate career as a model/actress.  She could set her hours and as one of the higher earners, she could within reason, choose the best days to work, usually Friday, Saturday and some Wednesdays.

Hump days were amazingly brisk, as people started the mental shift from work week to weekend. Working in the City she made no less than $1,200 a night after tips and house fees.  She used the proceeds to pay for the pied-a-terre she rented.  “A pied-a-terre, French for “foot in the ground,” used to mean a small city apartment or condo used occasionally by owners who live elsewhere, and which affluent real estate consumers have stocked up on in Manhattan for years.“

She used the remaining funds for acting lessons, clothing, grooming, and new headshots/comp cards, which served her well.  So, well, she was eventually approached by a talent scout to do a test shoot for a spread in Playboy’s Sexy Girl’s Next Door Magazine.  She was at a crossroads.  This type of exposure could lead to immediate increase in revenue, but it had the downside of the stigma “normal” America associated with girls and women who posed in these magazines.  She could potentially leverage it like Pamela Anderson, but she also knew that the confluence of events and life circumstances that catapulted Pamela Anderson to stardom, left just as many down on earth.

To be continued………..