“Come on, girls never come over here,” he said.
“They can watch, but they can’t jerk off,” I said.
The idea of some of the guys watching us fuck turned me on… a lot. It’s funny the lines that I draw: watching is OK, but watching and jerking off is not OK. When it was just one guy (Cole in Tokyo), it was OK, but the idea of a group of guys jerking off to me fucking, well, that just seemed wrong. Yeah, it seems arbitrary now, but it made sense to me in the moment. Regardless, it was a huge turn-on to have them watching me, staring at me, and wanting me but not being able to have me.
My fireman fuck buddy peeled my clothes off in front five or so other guys and positioned me with my hands on the wall in standing doggy position. As he fucked me from behind, I looked over my shoulder to make fuck-me eyes at the guys, who were really into it. They were cheering us on with “oh yeahs.” That turned me on even more. I loved performing for people. I fucking loved being the object of their erections! That was truly the start of my desire to fuck for the world to see.
When I left the firehouse that night, I left my man those white panties, and a few days later he showed up to my place with a box of doughnuts. Not exactly a fair exchange, but it was sweet. I soon dumped him because I just got bored, and then I met Clayton.
Clayton was twelve years older than me. I was eighteen; he was thirty. He was a rock-and-roll car nut. He had a car- and bike-building business, was a tough guy, and was financially independent. The independence was what attracted me to him. He was a father figure, in a way. I was looking, once again, for a man to make me feel secure and loved. I wasn’t feeling strong enough to take care of myself, so I looked to men to do it for me.
I was still young, rebellious, and sex-crazed with raging hormones. My hormones were so in control that I ended up cheating on dear Clayton because he wasn’t giving me enough sex. My sexual appetite was insatiable. Clayton treated me well and I broke his heart. I do feel bad about that. I obviously hurt him a lot, because he made me pay him $1,500 to buy back some of my old modeling photos he had of me.
The first guy to match my sexual appetite was my next boyfriend, Roland. Roland was a wild, sexy, perverted real estate guy who lived in a huge house in Victorville, California, where I moved after my break-up with Clayton to live with my father once again, who had, once again moved due to a new job. (This time it was a trucking gig.) Roland made the fatal mistake of moving me to Los Angeles with him when I was just twenty-one years old. Los Angeles was a place where I could (and would) get into a lot of trouble. It had the same fast life I loved in Tokyo—the shopping, the partying, the hot rocker boys, and the proximity to the entertainment business.
Roland opened me up to a whole new sexual world. We started making home sex tapes and took pornographic photos. I loved having sex for the camera, but at the time I never thought I’d do it professionally. It was just our dirty little secret. It turned me on to see a photo of his cock in my pussy or photos of me with a dildo. I’d always had this really nasty sexual side to me, but Roland was the first guy to truly unleash that beast.
He also introduced me to porn. I’d never watched porn before I met Roland. The first video I ever watched was titled Cafe Flesh, a 1982 postapocalyptic sci-fi film that was a cult favorite. It featured a beautiful actress named Pia Snow and was cowritten by Jerry Stahl, who went on to write the book and movie Permanent Midnight and that ’80s show ALF. And the first porn magazine I ever saw was at Roland’s house. I’m talking the real, hardcore porno magazines, not the Playboy or Penthouse I was used to seeing. I don’t remember the name of the magazine, but I’ll never forgot how turned on I was by a photo spread with Shayla LaVeaux. She was blond and gorgeous.
It was all about kinky first-times with Roland. He was the first guy I had anal sex with as well. It hurt, of course, but I liked it. He introduced me to anal beads and other kinky stuff, like the time he put my pearl necklace in my butt and then made me wear it around my neck when we went to dinner that night with his parents. I was so turned on watching Roland stare at my dirty necklace during that dinner. Roland’s also the guy who shaved my pussy bald. I had a bush before I met him!
But all kinky things must come to an end. Roland started getting into heavy drugs like crystal meth and cocaine, and I wasn’t down with that. I never have been and never will be into hard drugs. The drugs made him abusive, and one day he hit me. I moved out immediately, broke off our engagement, and left. No guy’s ever going to fucking hit me, and no man ever did again.
It was time to move on anyway. New cock. New life. After Roland, I just took guys home randomly when I needed to get fucked. I’d grab a guy and say, “You’re coming home with me. I’m fucking you.” No man said no.
CHAPTER 6
From Bedpans to Bedrooms
After a few years of meandering through life, I decided it was time to stop fucking around and get serious. At age eighteen, I spent a week studying for my GED and passed it on the first try at Boise State University, and began my undergraduate studies in nursing there. I transferred to the American Institute of Health Technology, also in Boise, where I earned an emergency medical technical (EMT) certificate and trained to be a nurse.
Dad was finally proud of me, and I was finally settling down and growing up. No more self-indulgent wild ways. It was all about being of service to others for a change. I worked most days as a telemarketer for a security-alarm-system company. It was my first time dealing with rejection: I got hung up on a lot! And I went to school at night. I moved back to California after school because I found a job at a nursing home in Simi Valley. At first I really loved working with old people and was good at it. So good that I remember my dad telling me one day, “I don’t fear getting old because I know you’re going to take such good care of me.” That made me feel good. It was nice to have Dad back in my life again.
The nursing work came easily to me at first. I loved to knit, so in the wintertime I would knit lap blankets for my patients, and in the morning instead of just giving them their meds and pushing my medicine cart to the next room, I would sit down and talk with them and brush their hair and put on their makeup, or even do some exercise with them. I was all about engaging my patients. It felt good to be good.
It also felt good to be around hot doctors, whom I flirted with shamelessly. The other nurses would often tease me about what a big flirt I was and say things like, “Oh, Linda. You belong in front of the camera.” Or, “Oh, Linda, you should model.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I tried modeling. I was embarrassed to let them know I blew it. Besides, I was enjoying my new life. For the first time, I didn’t have to watch my weight and I wasn’t messed up on drugs and alcohol. At age twenty-two, I was finally feeling pretty happy and normal.
But as time went on, the work became a little more difficult and a lot more depressing. There were still a lot of great patients whom I enjoyed helping, but the day-in, day-out nature of the job started to take a toll on me. My breaking point came one day with one of my regular patients—a woman named Catherine, who was in her mid-seventies and had a bad case of Alzheimer’s. She was demanding every single kind of drug under the sun. I helped her as much as I could, but she just kept hitting her call light and demanding more. At one point, she put on her light and asked me to put her on the bedpan, which I did. Normally, another nurse would have come in a few minutes later to remove it. But the nurse ignored the light. An hour or so later, I saw her call light was going off again. I was about to leave for lunch, but I felt really bad for her and I thought to myself, “I’ll stop by her room one last time and see what she needs before I go.”