Underneath It All (12 page)

Six months later, my time in therapy began to pay off. I was on the road to recovery. At least I now was beginning to understand why I'd behaved as I had. I was making progress. Each day brought a new set of challenges as the indictments and trials raged on, and I dealt with them moment by moment. The intrusion they caused in my life was like salt in an open wound. I felt the sting, paying dearly for the choices I'd made. But I'd had enough.
As the days passed, I was taking my life back, unwilling to continue to live in limbo. I had things to do. I wasn't sure what I wanted to be when I grew up, but decided to try acting —for real. After all, hadn't I been acting my whole life? I made my move. I auditioned and was thrilled to be accepted into the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute. Orientation was set for the next day. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve —so excited I couldn't sleep.
I woke up the next morning and scrambled out of bed, eager to begin the day. I was excited but nervous and had no idea what to expect. Would the acting class have many students? Would they know who I was? Was it a dream to think anyone would take me seriously? Was I about to make a complete fool of myself?
Come on girl, you can do this.
I dressed quickly, heading out the front door before I lost my nerve.
Cranking the radio, I peeled out of the driveway recline; like my luck was about to change. It was good to be alive. Two stop signs later, I spotted an undercover cruiser in my rearview mirror and was instantly brought back to reality. This was harassment. I'd already been served three times that month. They knew who my lawyer was. When were they going to leave me alone? I had to be in Hollywood in half an hour and I had no time or patience left for these games.
I sped onto the 405 freeway feeling like an outlaw, feds in pursuit. I'd just pretend I hadn't seen them. I thought I'd ditched them when I was stopped at the Santa Monica Boulevard off-ramp. The indignant agent slapped the subpoena on my windshield and said, "Consider yourself served, you little brat."
Adrenaline pumping, I arrived at school with no time to spare. I signed in and finally found teacher Hedy Sontag's classroom on the second floor. As I approached I could hear voices. Class had begun without me. I entered the room aware of a dozen eyes following me to the only empty chair. Being out in public was intimidating. Were the students staring because I was late or had they seen me on the news? Paranoid, I studied the crevices in the floor, wishing I could slip between them.
Hedy sat in the corner watching us. Rising from her chair, she said, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. You are here to learn to access the 'well' that life has provided you in your work as actors." I was intrigued: the "well"? At the time, I didn't know that method acting was based on emotional recall. The "well" Hedy spoke of was one's own personal experiences. I had stumbled upon another form of therapy. The three months I spent at the Strasberg Institute gave me insight into myself as an actor and as a person. My confidence was growing.
One afternoon, I was asked to read a monologue from a play, set in the 1950s, about a girl who refuses to join her schoolmates in a bomb shelter. The girl runs across the playground convinced that the world is about to end. Pleading to the sky, she asks God why she can't live longer. She confides in him that she wants to make love at least once before she dies. She continues on, talking about how she needs to know what it's like to have her legs parted and a man enter her. I finished the reading to stunned silence and then applause. Afterward, I was congratulated by my classmates who, one after another, commented on how brave my performance was. My teacher had pushed me toward the subject I most feared: sex.

Three months later, on the last day of school, Hedy told us we had to do three things to succeed as actors: find an agent who believed in us, give incredible auditions, and never give up. The following morning I placed an ad in the
Hollywood Reporter
seeking representation. Scott had agreed to field any calls that came in but only under the condition that he use an alias to protect his reputation. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was the one who directed me in those movies and now he was embarrassed to be associated with me?! Although I was hurt, I could understand his desire to leave our sleazy past behind.
The ad I placed attracted the eye of William Morris agent Fred Westheimer. He said, "If she looks anything like her picture, I want to meet her." I drove to Beverly Hills the next day.
My high heels clicked along the marble corridor as I was escorted to Mr. Westheimer's office. He was a well-dressed man with a dry sense of humor. Several people popped by to see if we needed anything and I was impressed at how important he was. I waited for him to ask about my porn days, but he didn't — and I didn't volunteer a word. Instead we chatted about the Strasberg school. I told him how serious I was about my acting career. He promised he'd give serious thought to representing me.
I called Fred the next afternoon. He said he had good news and bad news. The bad news was that the agency refused to represent me. He didn't say exactly why, but he didn't have to. I already knew. The stigma attached to being in porn movies was a big problem. I had no idea how insurmountable it was really going to be.
My spirits began to sink. "Traci . . . hello . . . are you still there?"
"Yeah," I muttered, depressed and ready to hang up.
He gave me a pep talk for a few minutes and said he'd be willing to send me out on a few auditions. But it would have to be between us, on the hush-hush. I'd heard that one before, and immediately wondered what the catch was.
Westheimer was a man of his word. He sent me on an audition the next day. Arriving at a silver-and-black high-rise, on Hollywood Boulevard, I waited anxiously to meet the folks at Stephen Cannell Productions. I was auditioning for the role of a call girl on the TV show Wiseguy . It was a role I knew something about. I booked the job! I was overcome with gratitude, promising God I'd never do anything bad again in my life. I was being given a second chance and I wasn't going to blow it this time. I left for Canada the following week.

I was poured into a stunning black lace couture dress and my hair was teased up high. Walking down the hallway in my heavy mink coat, I felt like a million bucks as I rang the doorbell, cooing "I'm Monique, Herb" to the man who answered. He reached for me and the director's booming voice broke the moment. "Cut. Print. Moving on. Great, Traci!" bellowed the director, taking me by the hand. "Next scene we're in the bedroom. It's postcoital. Camera pans your back as you get out of bed, we follow you down the hallway, and then we all go home. Got it? Good. Get changed."
It was the final day of shooting on
Wiseguy
. Everything was moving at lightning speed. There was no time for butterflies as I hung on the director's every word. I was a sponge, amazed at how much there was still to learn about acting. I was so green! In the past few days I'd learned the basics. I now knew that the colored piece of tape on the floor was called "a mark," which was the target I had to land on before delivering my lines. It was trickier than I'd first thought because I had to do it without looking down! Later in my career, I became a master mark hitter, but in those days I was lucky to land a foot away. Fortunately, the cameraman took pity on me by placing a "sandbag" on the floor that was impossible to miss.
All in all, the five days I spent on location went off without a hitch. I had no problem memorizing dialogue and nailed my lines in a few takes. I was proud of myself, certain I hadn't embarrassed Westheimer. As I said my good-byes to the cast and crew I was pleased to receive a dinner invitation from the show's heartthrob, Ken Wahl. The attraction between us was intense and I happily accepted.
Ken was tall, dark, and brooding with a mischievous smile. He took me to dinner that night at a down-home Italian joint near my hotel. It had a low-key vibe and sensational food. He was a star with simple tastes, which impressed me. He was kind to people and bantered easily with the staff as he leaned back in his chair. The white T-shirt, faded jeans, and ancient motorcycle jacket he wore completed the package. He was one sexy man. I'd only had two boyfriends in my nineteen years and this man was very different from them. His contagious laughter put me at ease and the conversation flowed. As the evening passed, I found myself not wanting it to end.

I sat staring out the window, cloud gazing on the way back to Los Angeles, the night's events fresh in my mind. I wondered if this was the part where I was supposed to feel guilty. I had slept with my leading man. But I was grown-up and hadn't acted irresponsibly, I reassured myself. I was a healthy nineteen-year-old woman and it was about damn time! Ken was the first civilian I'd made love to post-porn. And it was a bit of a head trip. I wondered if his attraction was fueled by that taboo part of my history. Was I the girl every guy wanted to screw but would never take home to his mother? And did that matter? Yes, I realized, it did. As the descent into Los Angeles began, I knew my views on sex had changed. While I had no regrets about the one-nighter with Ken, I realized then that I wanted something more than sex. I wanted a loving relationship.
When I stepped off the plane, Scott greeted me with flowers. He'd missed me, he said, and I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it possible to cheat on a relationship that was all but over? I was confused as I hugged Scott back. I wasn't in love with this man, but I kept him around anyway. Why? Was he my daddy figure? Was it the history we shared? I wasn't sure. But I knew I had a lot to talk about in my next therapy session.
On the ride home, Scott must have felt the distance. Annoyed, he snapped, "I asked you a question." "Sorry, I'm Feeling spaced-out from the trip," I fibbed. "What was your question?" He repeated himself, the irritation obvious in his voice. He wanted to know all about the filming. He's jealous, I realized jealous I'm doing what he's always wanted to do. With one episode of a television show under my belt, I was already more legit than he was. Was my thirty-six-year-old lover showing his true colors? Or was I just finally seeing them?
I met Jim Wynorski the following Monday at Roger Corman's office in Brentwood, California. Corman was producing a remake of the Beverly Garland classic
Not of This Earth
and Wynorski was set to direct it. They were searching for a leading lady to play the part of Nadine Storey, the film's sarcast ic, quick-witted sexy nurse, and I was up for the part.
When I arrived I was given three scenes to read and, much to my surprise and delight, I realized I had a near photographic memory. Memorizing the lines was easy, calming my nerves was another matter. I was intimidated by the boisterous Wynorski, a horror film legend at Corman's.
I hoped "audition" was not just an excuse to meet me.
Over the past few months, I'd found that horny men from all walks of life wanted to meet the notorious teenager in the news, so I had become suspicious of everyone. Just the thought of Wynorski having ulterior motives annoyed me enough to want to win. I didn't know it at the time but my paranoia was actually an asset. Seeing myself as the underdog, I overcompensated. I was twice as prepared as everyone else and I believe that hunger that brutal determination and take-no-prisoners attitude—is what helped me succeed. I was absolutely relentless in my pursuit of a legit acting career.
I won the role of Nadine Storey and was set to begin work the following week on Roger Corman's soundstage in Venice.

Since I had no agent at the time, Scott negotiated a fee of double minimum for me, about three grand a week, and two topless scenes in the movie. While I was uncomfortable with the nudity, I thought they'd laugh if I protested. (I was two for two now two auditions, two jobs!) But life was far from smooth. I was dealing with the pressures of a new acting career, the continuing harassment of the federal government, and the emotional roller coaster of therapy. I felt like everyone was watching to see if I would fail, and at times I believed I might. The more "real" my new life became, the more doubts I had about being in the public eye again.
What if I messed up? What if I started using drugs again?
Sometimes, I just wanted to hide under a rock.
But I didn't. I was so desperate to make a new life for myself and change the world's perception of me that I kept moving forward. I morbidly kept thinking,
What if the porn world makes good on its threats to kill me . . . and I die today?
I was repulsed by my contribution to the world so far.
What would my tombstone say?
Here lies a cocksucker? Good God!
I felt solely responsible for my own mess and was determined to change my destiny, to redeem myself, to redeem my family. It was an impossibly heavy burden and I wondered if I'd ever get out from under it.
I reported to the set of
Not of This Earth
completely prepared. I wanted to be liked, and greeted everyone with a pleasant smile, hoping to win some kindness points from the cast and crew. I nailed my lines, got along with my costars, and finished up feeling confident that I'd made a good impression. But as I changed out of my nurse's outfit I wondered if the "pink elephant" still overshadowed my efforts. I honestly don't know what I would have done if someone had mentioned porn, but it wouldn't have gone well—just the word made me feel like ripping someone's head off.
Midway through the ten-day shoot, I realized method acting was useless in some scenes. I mean, seriously, how could Hedy expect me to use my emotional "well" to pretend my Ray Ban–wearing costar, Arthur Roberts, was a man from outer space as he chased me through Griffith Park?
I decided to throw my acting "technique" out and hoped I wasn't making an awful mistake. I hadn't studied comedy but I'd studied the role of Nadine and appreciated the character's quick humor. As I played the scenes I was surprised and gratified when the crew laughed at all the right places. Huh? I thought.
I'm funny? Who knew?
Wynorski was a real screamer on the set. A passionate director, he was clearly frustrated with the short shooting schedule of the movie but his tantrums were never directed at me. I avoided all conflict by mastering the art of disappearing at the right times. And despite his sometimes gruff ways, I liked him. How could I not? He was the man responsible for hiring me.
I was biased.
We worked like dogs throughout the picture, filming twelve to fourteen hours a day and completing the whole project in just ten days, which I was told was unheard of in legitimate films. Then the Roger Corman machine went to work quickly editing and completing the film. They wanted to get it out as soon as possible to benefit from the ongoing publicity around the Traci Lords scandal.
Not of This Earth
opened in a theater in Westwood only four months later, and people said Corman and Wynorski had done the impossible, putting an ex–porn star in theaters across mainstream America. The
Hollywood Reporter's
review read, "The answer is yes. She can act." I was ecstatic and thought I was finally on my way to leaving the past behind for good.
Fueled with a newfound confidence, I agreed to promote the film. Corman and Company jumped at the opportunity, setting up several interviews in the days to come and taking full advantage of the press's desire to speak to me. Having no experience with the press or doing interviews, I trusted all the wrong people, agreeing to speak to
Hard Copy
and
A Current Affair
about my past as long as they focused on my present life and the new movie. I spoke candidly about my struggles with drugs, pornography, and the pain of recovery—really deep issues that I had never shared before. And I got knocked flat on my butt.
Both programs broadcast footage from the illegal porn films, showing clip alter clip of explicit photos with the smallest blockers allowed on prime-time television to cover my private parts. They referred to me as "the porn princess" and claimed I'd starred in more than a hundred porn movies, as if twenty weren't enough. They even interviewed people from the porn world who either didn't know me or barely knew me, and they all swore I was some kind of child genius who'd deliberately plotted to destroy them.
How could I have been so stupid?
God, it hurt. And the worst part was my mother knew about the new movie and the TV interviews, and I was sure she'd seen it all. Once again I'd screwed up, shaming myself and my family in the process.
I was a wreck, and it nearly drove me back to drugs and out of the film business for good.