I didn’t know how to kiss, but I was going at it like crazy and clinging on to him, holding on to him, and moving my tongue all around his mouth. It was my first French kiss. More than the kissing or the age difference, the thing I remember the most was not wanting to let go of him. I was wrapped in his arms and clutching on to him. It felt so good to be in the arms of a man who liked me.
My friend Danielle walked in on us and said, “You might want to close the blinds.” We stopped the make-out session, pulled apart from each other, and I said my good-byes. When I look back on it now, I’m glad Danielle caught us. I think it spooked Mark. I don’t know if he would’ve tried to take it further than kissing, but if Danielle didn’t interrupt us, maybe he would’ve. I don’t think I was prepared to handle what could’ve happened on that couch that day. I’m glad we kissed, but I wasn’t ready for anything more. However, in that moment, in that twelve-year-old brain, I probably wouldn’t have had the maturity to know that it would’ve been a bad thing. I think Danielle’s interruption might just have saved me from doing something that would’ve left me with some severe emotional repercussions and a lot of regret down the road.
I also started to emotionally cling to men from age twelve. I would befriend the older men in our apartment building. I wasn’t sexual with them, and no one ever stepped out of line with me. Unlike so many porn stars, I was never sexually abused or raped. But the men in our building knew I liked to read, and I was a young cute girl with big boobs, and they’d invite me to come over and see their books or to just read at their apartments. I loved the attention. And I guess they liked having a young, hot girl with big tits hanging around their apartment. Even though I was only twelve, I felt like a woman. I learned that having boobs at this young age was very powerful. I saw how men looked at me, and I started to harness that power for my own good. I’d flirt more and would prance around in wifebeaters with no bra, and it would get me what I wanted—like rides to the mall or to rock concerts or escape from boredom and loneliness.
I was obsessed with going to rock concerts in the ’80s with my best friend Ally Graham. Her favorite band was Motley Crue and mine was Def Leppard. I looked like such a rock slut during those years. I was such an exhibitionist. I would dress in ripped-up jeans with a hole in the butt and only wear concert shirts—cut up, tied up, or off my shoulder. I was a total rock chick, and a big tease at this age. I drooled over every boy with long hair or who rode a bike and looked tough. I wasn’t just a rock chick. I was a metal-head. My first concert was Iron Maiden and Saxon, and it left quite a mark on me. I was hooked on going to rock shows from that first concert. The whole experience was so hot to me, and I started fantasizing more about marrying a music man. I was the girl in love with every lead singer of hot metal bands out there. And I was the girl who was flashing her boobs to Gene Simmons at a Kiss/Slaughter/Winger show, and I know he saw me. I made it hard to be missed.
Officially boy crazy now, it was time for “the talk.” With Mom not around, that task was left to my dad. It was not pretty. He said, “I know you’re blossoming now and men are going to want to touch you and feel you, but you don’t have to do it.” That’s all he said. That was “the talk.” I just said, “OK, Dad.” But deep down I was embarrassed for him and it made me kind of sad. If he only knew that it was me who wanted to do stuff to the guys, he’d feel horrible. My dad had no idea how much of a tease I was becoming and how at the young age of twelve, I was flirting with older men, kissing lots of boys, and using my sexuality to get what I wanted.
But he did know the effect I had on men and that I was turning into an attractive girl. I was five foot seven with a 34-C chest and twenty-two-inch waist by the time I became a teenager. We spent every weekend in San Francisco because I was attending the Barbizon School of Modeling there—I wanted to be a model so badly.
It didn’t take much convincing to get my dad to enroll me in modeling school. He knew how much I wanted to be a model. But more important, I think the reason my dad agreed so readily was because I didn’t have a mom in my life to be show me how to become a lady. Modeling school is not just about posing for photos or learning how to put your hair in a pretty bun or how to blend your eye shadow. It was also about how to grow from a girl into a woman, how to be poised and proper and how to present yourself in the best way. I didn’t have a mother to teach me those things, and I think he felt bad about that and saw Barbizon as an opportunity for me to have a girlie outlet. It was a positive, healthy extracurricular activity, too, just like taking up sports or ballet. And it gave me something to do. It occupied my time so he didn’t have to worry about figuring out what to do with me all the time. Being a single dad to girls can’t be easy.
I think the cost was about $90 a week at the time, which was kind of a lot and especially for a single parent. But he worked two jobs and found a way to afford it. He was good at giving me what I wanted within reason. I mean, I didn’t have new clothes all the time, and we scrimped on other things, but this was one cost he was willing to pay because he thought it would be good for me.
One day in 1990—I was thirteen years old and in eighth grade—we went to Fisherman’s Wharf, where all the tourists in San Francisco go to see the sea lions. And this guy, who had been kind of checking me out, came up to my father and started talking to him. I just assumed it was another creepy old man staring at my tits.
“Your daughter is really beautiful. She’s really tall, really thin, and has a great look. Has she ever considered modeling?” the man said to my father.
“Well, I have her enrolled in Barbizon. She wants to be a model,” my father cautiously replied.
Meanwhile, I was being very quiet but exploding inside with excitement. I trusted my father to do what was best for me and he did.
“I think she would be a really great model,” the man said. “Her look is very contemporary, and I think she could make a lot of money. Why don’t you let me do a test shoot with her? I’ll send it off and we’ll see if anybody bites.” He turned out to be a talent scout from Japan named John Teo. A test shoot is like a trial run of a photo shoot. They take photos of you, send them to agencies and pitch you for modeling jobs.
My dad agreed, and the two exchanged numbers. And the following weekend, that’s exactly what we did. I had my very first test shoot.
My father’s girlfriend at the time, Lori Meyer, came with me. I was very close to her. She was like a mother to me. We would watch House of Style with Cindy Crawford on MTV and I would study Cindy’s moves to learn how to model. So Lori chaperoned this test shoot, which was at a beach and in a park in San Francisco. All I could think was, “I’m on my way to doing what my idols Marilyn Monroe and Paulina Porizkova do!”
The second John Teo started shooting me in the sand on that beach in a wholesome white top and cutoff jean shorts, I was hooked. I knew this was what I was meant to do. John didn’t give me a lot of direction, because I was naturally doing what he needed. I wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty relaxed and easy. It was so fun to move to the camera. I was really excited and happy, and it felt right. Lori kept cheering me on, “You’re doing great. Turn to the right, stick your hips out, smile!” I was having so much fun. I had to tone down my antics because the shoot was for Japanese scouts and John kept reminding me, “Now remember, this is for Japan and they like their girls to be very ladylike and demure, so don’t over-pose.”