Out of Bondage (11 page)
Authors: Linda Lovelace
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Linda Lovelace, #Retail, #Nonfiction
eighteen
The flashback—
Michelle, her face unnaturally white against the blackness of her throat-high dress. Tall, thin, witch-like, saying: “Linda, we don’t want to punish you but whatever we do, it’s for your own good. ” Me, naked, watched by faces white in candlelight. Michelle saying, “Don’t be frightened, my darling Linda, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. ”
Tying my hands together, leading me over to a footrest, bending me over a miniature leather elephant, my backside exposed to the rest of the room. Candles flickering against eerie white faces, wall shadows dancing crazily. Then the whip, a short stiff riding crop—tapping against my backside. A hair-dryer, a long-snouted hair dryer blowing warm air on all parts of my body. Setting the switch on hot, the movement of the hair-dryer across my body is slow, so slow. And so begins the ceremony of pain.
Michelle is saying, “And now, my dear Linda, the foreplay is coming to an end. You must prepare yourself for the . . . ah . . . true punishment,” Producing a dildo. “I only wish you were a man, not a girl. I wouldn’t do this to a girl unless she had been very naughty. ”
Prodding me with the dildo, working it into my rectum. I begin screaming but she does not slow down. Candlelight glistening off the perspiration on Chuck’s face, a face now coming alive with pleasure. Michelle stabbing into me faster and faster, harder and harder. The most intense pain I’ve ever known. “Oh, God! Stop her! Make her stop! She’s killing me!” Michelle is sobbing out her breaths now; both hands on the dildo as she stabs it into me over and over again. The warmth of blood gushing out from me, the room spinning slowly around me.
“These people were so sick—all except one man,” I was saying. “There I was, bleeding profusely, and all I heard were people saying, ‘More! More!’ And then I heard the voice of the one sane person and he was saying, ‘Hey, aren’t you guys getting a little carried away?’ Then I heard him say, ‘This is too far out for me.’ If it hadn’t been for him, they might have gone on until I was dead.”
Telling the stories was never automatic, never simple. At times it was impossible. There are memories that run so deep in me that I cannot pry them loose. And then we were coming to that darkest day, the day Chuck forced me to submit to a dog for an 8-millimeter movie. I don’t remember how much money Chuck picked up for that—$150, if he was lucky. What he purchased for that was my worst nightmare.
There was snow in the forecast the day we were to talk about that. It was gray and heavy, a perfect match for my mood. The questions went on, just as on any other day: What happened next? What did he say then? What did they do with the animal next? What
kind
of dog was it? Oh, I was trying—I was trying so hard—but I just couldn’t. My responses were different on this day. Each question opened a wound and it was all I could do to get out a monosyllabic answer—just “Yes” or “No.” Then it became, “I don’t remember.”
kind
of dog was it? Oh, I was trying—I was trying so hard—but I just couldn’t. My responses were different on this day. Each question opened a wound and it was all I could do to get out a monosyllabic answer—just “Yes” or “No.” Then it became, “I don’t remember.”
“Stop,” I finally said. “Please, stop. Why does this have to go in the book?”
“Because we’re putting everything in—that’s what we agreed.”
“But why this?”
“Because this book is an attack on people who have mistreated you. We’re explaining how you were terrorized, how you were forced to do everything that you did. This is crucial, the moment of greatest terror, the most degrading thing that ever happened to you. Why on earth would we not have this?”
“Because it’s too awful, too horrible! I don’t want anyone to read about it. I don’t want my family to know.”
“It’ll be no worse to them than all the other things.”
“It’s worse,” I said.
But he continued with the questions, continued until they just became too much for me. There came a time when I stopped answering. He brought me back too far, too clearly, and I was there again, there in that dungeon with the three men, the gun, the dog, the fear. I froze.
“Is something the matter?” my co-author asked. “What
is
that matter?”
is
that matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking at me like you hate me,” he said. “You look like you’d like to kill me.”
“No,” I said. “I want to stop here. Let’s stop now.”
“But-”
“No, really. It’s better we stop here.”
It was not just Mike I was hating—it was
all
men. The nightmare had become too real and he was there so he was part of it. He was right. I had been hating him just as I had been hating everyone connected with that moment, with that part of my life. And we ended the session then—a little bit early, but just in time, as far as I was concerned.
all
men. The nightmare had become too real and he was there so he was part of it. He was right. I had been hating him just as I had been hating everyone connected with that moment, with that part of my life. And we ended the session then—a little bit early, but just in time, as far as I was concerned.
On subsequent afternoons Mike tried to get back to that incident, but I had said all that I was going to say. It took too much of a toll. And, in fact, when
Ordeal
came out, I managed to omit that scene. I wish I could have erased it as easily from my life and from my memory. It was, the only part of the book that was softened, blurred, made more fit for human consumption. I still can’t stand the thought of people going through that degredation with me.
Ordeal
came out, I managed to omit that scene. I wish I could have erased it as easily from my life and from my memory. It was, the only part of the book that was softened, blurred, made more fit for human consumption. I still can’t stand the thought of people going through that degredation with me.
Just as Mike had trouble getting over our talks, so did I.
At this point, as
Ordeal
was being written, Larry and I were at our lowest ebb. We were totally dependent on welfare. Carol, Victor’s wife, was a former nurse, so whenever Dominic got sick, I’d call her and ask what to do. At times she came over and took me out shopping for groceries. She’d always bring a little present for Dominic. Or she’d bring us things that couldn’t be purchased with foods stamps—like dog biscuits for our dog Alice. It was a good thing that Carol was a pet lover or our dog might not have made it through the hard times.
Ordeal
was being written, Larry and I were at our lowest ebb. We were totally dependent on welfare. Carol, Victor’s wife, was a former nurse, so whenever Dominic got sick, I’d call her and ask what to do. At times she came over and took me out shopping for groceries. She’d always bring a little present for Dominic. Or she’d bring us things that couldn’t be purchased with foods stamps—like dog biscuits for our dog Alice. It was a good thing that Carol was a pet lover or our dog might not have made it through the hard times.
The writing of
Ordeal
proved as much a strain on Larry as it did on me. After every working session with Mike, Larry would sit down and begin the third degree. What had we talked about that day? What happened? Was I going to be involved in another pornographic book or would we be taking a more psychological approach?
Ordeal
proved as much a strain on Larry as it did on me. After every working session with Mike, Larry would sit down and begin the third degree. What had we talked about that day? What happened? Was I going to be involved in another pornographic book or would we be taking a more psychological approach?
Larry wasn’t trusting anyone these days. Something was going on with him that I didn’t understand at all. One morning he was driving me to an interview session when he became convinced that we were being followed by three men in a dark sedan. I looked back and saw nothing suspicious, just three men apparently on their way to work. Who were they?
“I know who they are,” Larry said. “They don’t fool me.”
“Larry, who are they?”
“They’ve been following us for the past three days,” he said. “Last night when we were down at the dock, they were down there, too.”
“I didn’t see—”
“They were in a pickup truck,” he said. “One of them was wearing a beard.”
“But who are they?”
“Mafia,” he said. “That much I know. Hang on, here we go. We’re gonna lose those dudes.”
Larry doesn’t even remember this incident today. I’ll never forget it. Larry had cracked. He was convinced that the three men were figures from my violent past—pornographers, mobsters, sexual deviates. As I looked at Larry more closely, I could see how upset he was.
The escape route he chose was a treacherous one. He raced the car through suburban shopping centers, bounced wildly over curbs, ran through red lights, narrowly missed a head-on collision with a school bus and almost managed to kill us several times during our “escape.”
Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. Larry needed professional help and we both knew it. There were two emotional breakdowns, two episodes he doesn’t want me to write about, and I’ll honor his wish. However, he was fortunate enough to find a psychiatrist who soon figured out that Larry was the victim of a chemical imbalance. The drug, lithium, seemed to help. It calmed him down, smoothed out the highs and lows, made it possible for Larry to live with himself and therefore for us to live together and survive.
It took considerable time before Larry would trust anybody. Because of his precarious state, he had agreed that it would be a bad idea for him to read any of the manuscript of
Ordeal.
It was bad enough that I was reliving the time with Chuck; it would serve no good to drag Larry into it.
Ordeal.
It was bad enough that I was reliving the time with Chuck; it would serve no good to drag Larry into it.
However, one night he happened to come across a single page of the manuscript, a page detailing a typical sexual humiliation. Although it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, I could hear him on the telephone, shouting at my co-author: “I don’t want you talking to my wife ever again. I’ve just read a page of your book and you’re trying to involve my wife in another dirty book. I won’t have it!”
So saying, he slammed down the telephone. And what my co-author was hearing that night, I heard every night. This incident was more an example of my husband’s rigidity than any emotional problems he was having at the time. Larry is amazingly puritanical in many respects. I say “amazingly” because he has always operated in a rough world. Most of his life he has been a laborer; he can install cable television systems, run a junk yard or spackle an apartment building. Yet, he won’t look at a copy of
Playboy
magazine. I’m sure he’s never been unfaithful to me, and he simply did not want our book to carry the kind of details that it did. Understanding his nature, I’d made a deal with him at the beginning: I would write the book but only if he agreed never to read it. The only time he violated our agreement was the night he called Mike McGrady.
Playboy
magazine. I’m sure he’s never been unfaithful to me, and he simply did not want our book to carry the kind of details that it did. Understanding his nature, I’d made a deal with him at the beginning: I would write the book but only if he agreed never to read it. The only time he violated our agreement was the night he called Mike McGrady.
Larry has never seen an X-rated movie, except for the few moments of
Deep Throat
that could not be avoided in the Miami courtroom. If an R-rated movie on closed-circuit television has so much as a single nude scene, he’ll get up and change the channel. Let me tell you a typical experience. One night we went with our good friends, Danny and Gwen, to see a movie that had received some excellent reviews. This was
Midnight Express,
the story of a young man who was arrested trying to smuggle drugs out of Turkey.
Deep Throat
that could not be avoided in the Miami courtroom. If an R-rated movie on closed-circuit television has so much as a single nude scene, he’ll get up and change the channel. Let me tell you a typical experience. One night we went with our good friends, Danny and Gwen, to see a movie that had received some excellent reviews. This was
Midnight Express,
the story of a young man who was arrested trying to smuggle drugs out of Turkey.
Halfway through the movie, there’s a scene where the hero, locked up in a Turkish prison, is visited by his girlfriend. They’re separated by a glass partition but the girl takes off her shirt so that he can once again see her breasts.
Even this was too much for Larry. It was a highly dramatic moment and the movie theater was hushed. Except for my husband. All of a sudden, I heard him say, “Awwww, no, I can’t believe it, here we go again.” And then, when everyone around him started making “ssssh” noises, he got to his feet and went out to buy popcorn.
But that’s one of the reasons I’ve loved my husband. Because he’s different from other men. If Larry’s out working with a crew installing cable and it starts to rain, quite often they’ll all pile into a topless bar for a brew while Larry sits in the truck reading a newspaper.
I may be prudish myself—I guess I am—but nothing like my husband. If Larry’s not at home, I’ll go so far as to watch an R-rated movie on cable. But if he’s with me, I won’t. I hate it when they take sex and just throw it into a story where it doesn’t belong naturally. It seems to me that movies have gotten very trashy this way. And there are times when I’ll get just as aggravated as my husband.
This may seem a bit unreal to you if you’ve read all of
Ordeal.
But that was the toughest decision we had to make in writing that book—what to put in and what to leave out. The last thing I wanted to hear was that I had written a pornographic book myself.
Ordeal.
But that was the toughest decision we had to make in writing that book—what to put in and what to leave out. The last thing I wanted to hear was that I had written a pornographic book myself.
Our major problem was to get people to believe my story. The best way to do this, we decided, was to tell it all. It was a hard decision, but we decided not to prettify any part of the book. That meant the language would be as harsh as the scenes we were describing. It also meant we wouldn’t change the names of anyone, not the Hollywood superstars or the mobsters or the corrupt doctors and lawyers.
The important thing was that the truth be told. Since school days I’ve believed that a greater judge will judge those who lie and I still believe that. The book
Ordeal
would be my one chance to get the truth out and I wasn’t about to tamper with it. That way, when people read the story and experienced in some way what I went through-all the horrible details, all the names, all the facts, all the terror—they’d have to know that someone couldn’t sit down and make it up.
Ordeal
would be my one chance to get the truth out and I wasn’t about to tamper with it. That way, when people read the story and experienced in some way what I went through-all the horrible details, all the names, all the facts, all the terror—they’d have to know that someone couldn’t sit down and make it up.
After our first sessions, there was enough tape-recorded material for Mike to put together a presentation—an outline and sample chapter. A prominent agent sent this to leading publishers. My co-author told me not to worry about a thing. He pointed out that the book had more sex and violence—none of it gratuitous—than any other book around. It had a sprinkling of famous names. It featured the Mafia. It said a great deal about America and what had been going on in our country. He said this was one book that couldn’t miss.
“I once heard writing defined as ‘turning one’s worst moments into money,’” he explained. “Never has anyone had so many worst moments. Never will writers make so much money.”
Wrong.
A year would go by before we would get together again. During that time, 33 publishers were offered the opportunity to publish
Ordeal.
Mike told me that never before had he received such rapid and emphatic turndowns. I got a chance to read some of the rejection letters and I could tell that the publishers had not read the outline, had in fact not gotten much beyond the name Linda Lovelace. They clearly ranked the name (as did most people of intelligence) about midway between Adolf Hitler and Lucretia Borgia in appeal. The publishers wrote that Linda Lovelace was “old hat,” that she had been “out of the limelight for too many moons now,” that “everyone here wonders why she hasn’t made more movies lately.”
Ordeal.
Mike told me that never before had he received such rapid and emphatic turndowns. I got a chance to read some of the rejection letters and I could tell that the publishers had not read the outline, had in fact not gotten much beyond the name Linda Lovelace. They clearly ranked the name (as did most people of intelligence) about midway between Adolf Hitler and Lucretia Borgia in appeal. The publishers wrote that Linda Lovelace was “old hat,” that she had been “out of the limelight for too many moons now,” that “everyone here wonders why she hasn’t made more movies lately.”
Other books
Let's Get Lost by Sarra Manning
Public Relations by Armstrong, Tibby
The Dark Unwinding by Cameron, Sharon
Fade by Kailin Gow
A Spy for Christmas by Kristen James
Sicilian Dreams by J. P. Kennedy
Ride to Freedom by Sophia Hampton
Margaret St. Clair by The Best of Margaret St. Clair
你好，旧时光--三周年完美纪念版，套装全三册 by 八月长安
