I then “graduated” him to doing a couple of bigger movies with me, which meant that he had a lot more dialogue and was more integral to the story. Glen killed it because he’s such a great actor. It’s a testament to him that he did so well, because I know I am really hard to do a scene with if I’m directing. I can feel the camera move down my body, and as soon as it’s off my face, I’m craning my head to look at the monitor.
This was strictly an insurance policy if we broke up, not about guaranteeing two incomes. He only shot for me, so that $600 or $700 he got paid amounted to $150 or $200 by the time I bought his plane tickets and paid the $200 just to have his STD test done. We probably did seven or eight movies when Glen said, “Okay, I did it. So we’re good to go.”
“No way,” I said.
“But I did porn.”
“You can always stand up in court and be like, ‘She did a hundred scenes in her career, and on the few that I did, I only worked with her.’”
“So what do you want?” he asked.
“You need to fuck other bitches.” He rolled his eyes. I was sex-trafficking my husband.
I cast him in Love in an Elevator and gave him the superhot Kirsten Price as his scene partner. This guy managed to go laterally to another Wicked contract star. He only ever worked with A-list girls, which is astounding compared to the career trajectories of other male performers. You have a hundred guys a day approaching agents saying, “I wanna be a porn star.” Unless you have a hot girl saying, “I only want to do my scenes with him,” the only way guys really get in is by starting at the very bottom. Guy #57 in the two-hundred-guy gang bang. Or starting in gay porn and switching over.
And so, I got pregnant with a baby girl. All because my husband had sex with other women while I watched and worried about their makeup and angles so they’d look their best.
I was instantly fat. I know girls whose tummies don’t pop out until they’re like six months along. Six hours after conception, it was like, “Yup, she’s pregnant.”
I had terrible morning sickness, but in all honesty, I didn’t mind being pregnant. Mostly because I didn’t have to work. The pregnancy was planned, and I did twice as much work the year before so I wouldn’t have to perform. And when I directed, I just sat in a chair as the crew fawned over me and brought me food. It’s not like I was going through what so many women in this country do, getting up and working five days a week at some job doing manual labor until their due date. I had it very cushy. Though I do remember a time when I was heavily pregnant and on the floor as Glen raised a leg over me so I could shave his taint before a scene. “Is this rock bottom?” I said aloud, genuinely asking the universe.
Glen still had to work hard, though. Some days more than others. He was doing a movie for me and had a scene with a woman I will never name, and you know I can keep secrets. He was doing promotional stills with her in another room when he came tiptoeing in, bashfully covering his dick. I was sitting in a chair, eating a plate of chocolate cake someone had brought the nice pregnant director.
“I don’t think I can do it,” he whispered.
I stopped eating, but only for a second. It was good cake. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t do it?” I said. I had written this big feature with a role tailored to him and he had already been established with two days of dialogue.
“Uh, she has hair in her nose,” he said.
“Then don’t look at her nose,” I said. “Fuck her doggy.”
He leaned in, smacking his lips like he’d tasted something bad. “Pussy’s a little gamy,” he whispered.
I lost it. I growled at him in a voice out of The Exorcist. “You get in there and you fuck that pretty girl and you make me some money.”
He slunk off and did just that. He did so well that as the scene was building to the climax she called out his character’s name and yelled “I love you.” At those words, Glen broke character and looked right in the camera with a mortified expression.
“Cut!” I yelled, furious that they’d blown the take.
Husbands, am I right?
Full disclosure: I gained ninety-three pounds while I was pregnant. I gained a full-size human in addition to my little baby. I mean, the physics of it were outstanding, with my huge tits and growing belly. I didn’t know your body could get that big.
My due date was Halloween 2011, which meant I was pregnant all summer in hot-as-hell Vegas. My solution to any discomfort was mostly to lie in bed and get super addicted to bad TV. I watched things that I would never watch now, like it was a job. When I hear people saying they binge-watched a show they DVRed, I think, Amateur.
Not me. I made a schedule with a chart of what shows were on. I even mapped out what to do if two of my shows were on at the same time—which to watch live and which to DVR in the other room. MTV’s reality shows Sixteen and Pregnant and Teen Mom were my absolute favorites because we were in it together. Those original Teen Moms, by the way, those are my girls. We did this together. I’m fifteen years older than them, but that’s beside the point.
Hoarders and Labor and Delivery were appointment television for me, as were reruns of the E! series Pretty Wild, about delightfully self-obsessed sisters, one of whom is part of the Bling Ring accused of robbing homes of celebrities like Orlando Bloom and Paris Hilton.
I didn’t watch Jersey Shore. I had some standards.
And when I was settled in for my programs, I needed my ice cream. My drug of choice was Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake. It has these beautiful pink chunks of strawberry and wedges of pie-crust-like cookie—heaven. I’d never had it before my pregnant body demanded it, and I haven’t had a bite of it since. But at around five months, I started eating a pint every night. Glen would have to go out and buy me one, because if he bought two or three, I would eat two or three. He would gradually buy out the stock in each of the stores by our house, slowly expanding his radius farther and farther until they replenished and he could start again.
One night, he was gone for a really long time. So long that I wondered not just Where is my fucking ice cream? but Is he okay?
Finally, he came rushing in the door with the ice cream. When I saw him, all my concern evaporated, and it went right back to the anger of a pregnant woman who’d been kept waiting. “What took you so long?” I snapped at him.
“I had to go all the way to the Walmart Neighborhood Market,” he said.
“Why’d you go so far?”
“Babe, you’ve eaten all…” He caught himself. “The stores around us aren’t good on inventory.”
I didn’t answer, just peeled off the plastic ring wrap and felt the satisfying release of the cardboard coming away from the ice cream. We can talk later, I thought.
“I got there and there was one left,” he continued, a tiny amount of fear sneaking into his voice. “And just as I was reaching for it, an old lady got it before me.”
My eyes got big as I took a second dive with my spoon.
“Then,” he continued, with shame replacing the fear, “I followed her around the store for fifteen minutes until she wasn’t looking. I stole it out of her cart.”
He had done the right thing, but still I wondered. “Why didn’t you just ask her for it?” I asked. “A woman might understand.”
“Yeah, but what if she said, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ and I had to fight an old lady for it?” he asked. “Oh, God, I just stole ice cream out of an old lady’s shopping cart.”