Living with my mother again was hell. Nothing had changed. We fought every day. She wasn’t happy that I was smoking and making friends with older people in the building. Every time she’d get mad at me, she’d throw my failed modeling career in my face. “Oh, well, the supermodel doesn’t like it. What’s the supermodel going to do about it?” she’d say. It went on for six months until we finally had it out in her Hyundai on the way to the mall when she called me a “crazy chain-smoking supermodel bitch.” I called my father and gave in. “OK. I’m ready to be normal and come home.” I didn’t talk to my mother for another sixteen years after that.
But this time, it wasn’t because she beat me. I was just being a rebellious teenager and figured if Mom wouldn’t let me live the way I wanted, I’d go to Dad’s. I was playing both sides. I didn’t realize I was hurting her or abandoning her. Like many sixteen-year-olds, I hated my mother. And I never worked through the reality of her beating me when I was a child. I just buried those feelings and pretended like it never happened. At that age, you don’t have the emotional maturity to work it out or the wisdom to know that I should’ve let her be a mom and guide me. Instead, I took the easier way out and just left and never dealt with it. At the time, I didn’t know how to handle my feelings or confront my problems. I just knew how to move on. Besides, she was condescending and mean and I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. So, back to Dad’s I went.
When I showed up on Dad’s doorstep in Gresham, Oregon, where he was teaching horticulture at Gresham College, he looked at me and said, “Welcome home. I love you. You’re going to college.”
One thing I liked about being back home with Dad was his girlfriend, and my soon-to-be new stepmom, Kara. She was only about ten years older than me and I thought she was really cool, hip, and pretty. We got along great. I craved a female relationship. I craved a mother. She was like a cool big sister and a mother all in one. She liked the same music as me; she’d take me shopping and even taught me how to drive a stick shift. And I could easily talk to her about my problems. And she brought youthfulness to my father, which I was grateful for. I didn’t want him to end up with some cranky old lady. I was happy he found a younger woman who could make him happy and feel young again.
It was in Oregon that I learned how to fuck. Sure, I was experienced by then, but I didn’t really know what I was doing until I met Paul when I was sixteen. Paul was twenty years old with long, straight blond hair, muscles, and a demon tattoo on his shoulder blade. And he drove a badass lime green Barracuda muscle car and worked out a lot. That combination spelled instant love for me.
If it weren’t for Paul, I’d probably be a bad lay today. With him, I finally enjoyed sex for the first time. I was so in love with Paul that it made the sex all the better. We did it every day. He taught me how to fuck, how to have an orgasm, and how to master my blowjob technique. I used the blowjob tips I got from the Guns N’ Roses groupies in Tokyo, but Paul was really the one who helped me take my BJ to the next level. He showed me the trick where you give a hand job while you are sucking and once the dick is all wet and slobbery, you twist your hand around the head of the penis after you come up the shaft. Paul also taught me how to be dirty and introduced me to sucking balls.
The first time we had sex was the first time I ever had sex on top, and it changed everything for me. It’s truly best when you’re on top. He flipped me up on top of him and rubbed my clit with his thumb and bit my nipples and I just kept coming and coming. He had me at that fuck. He was doing everything he could to please me. I was hooked on him instantly.
With my teenage hormones raging, I told my father, “Dad, I’m in love with Paul and I want to be with him.” He must have thought, “What do you know about love, little girl?” That night, my dad and my new stepmom went out and I was left alone in the apartment in Gresham. I packed a bag and left for Paul’s place. I found out later that when he returned home, he shut the door to my room and cried. I put my dad through so much.
At age eighteen
But I was in love. Really in love. And I was having fun. Paul’s parents paid our rent. We were total bums. I’d drink champagne all day and he’d drink beer. And we’d fuck. He would touch me and I would instantly crave him. It was magnetic. He made me go crazy. I was finally having sex that I really, really enjoyed and I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted it every day, every way.
Paul treated me great, but he was very jealous and that ended up doing us in. He would take me to rock concerts and I would fantasize about having sex with Paul and the lead singer of whatever band was playing, so one day I asked Paul for a threesome. He said no. I wanted a threesome so badly, but he was just too jealous to deal. The fantasy of having sex with two guys turned me on more than anything else, and it was driving me crazy that I couldn’t have it. If a guy even looked at me, Paul would be like, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Our relationship ended when I was eighteen and I couldn’t control my raging hormones anymore. I really wanted to fuck the singer in this local band named Terry. So, I did. He was a total scumbag with long straight hair he’d wear in a ponytail, and he wore a dirty leather jacket. I was bored. I’d been with Paul for two years and I was getting restless. Paul wasn’t letting me act on any of my sexual fantasies, and frankly, I just craved a different cock. So I cheated on Paul with Terry and Paul flipped out and kicked my cheating ass out the door.
“Get the fuck out of my house, you fucking slut!” he said.
In a fit of jealous rage, he ripped the blinds off the kitchen windows and punched holes in the wall. I thought he was going to beat the fuck out me, but he didn’t. He just made me feel horrible about how I’d hurt him.
“I can’t believe you did this!” he yelled. “That guy is a fucking scumbag.”
I was still basking in the glow of fucking that fucking scumbag. All I could do was smile and say, “Yeah, well, you know…”
CHAPTER 5
Serial Heartbreaker
I’ll admit it. I was a serial heartbreaker. I was only up for a sexual thrill. After Paul, I jumped right into two more long-term relationships in a row—with Clayton and Roland. And I can’t believe I was engaged to them both. They were hollow engagements, though. I said yes, took the ring, played the fiancée role, but I never really planned to live my life with either man. Poor fellows. They never saw it coming.
But before those two ill-fated back-to-back engagements, I had a sexual experience that would send me further in a direction that I seemed destined for anyway. I’d had my first taste of voyeurism when I fucked Alberto in front of Cole in Tokyo. But that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to my desire to be watched, to let strangers in on my most intimate moments, and to be the fantasy girl that only some can touch. I let that freak flag fully fly when I met a fireman from Boise, Idaho, when I was eighteen. I’d moved to Boise the year prior to move back in with my father, who was teaching at the University of Idaho at the time.
The fireman (whose name I don’t remember) and I were just having a casual fling and one night I visited him at the firehouse. I wore a pair of white lacy panties because I wasn’t planning on being a bad girl that night. To this day, I always wear white or pink panties when I feel like being good and red or black panties when I’m feeling ultra slutty and bad. When I got there, he was in an especially frisky mood.
He took me aside and asked, “Hey Linda, can the guys watch us have sex and jerk off to us?”
“Ewww. Nooooo!” I replied, completely disgusted.