“But there’ll be . . . no . . . fucking . . . attorney . . . around. You and your husband have an attorney. His name is Philip J. Mandina. He is
our
attorney. If Miss Linda Lovelace has an attorney, I don’t want to know nothing about it. ’Cause that’s bullshit. There is no Miss Linda Lovelace. You are Missus Charles Traynor. And
Mister
Charles Traynor takes care of Missus Charles Traynor.
“So, listen, man, knock it off!
Now!
While we still got something we can put back together. You’re gonna take about one more step, babe, and there ain’t gonna be nothing to put back together.”
“Well, first of all, that’s what
you
want,” I said, finally breaking into his monologue. “That’s what you say and that’s fine for you.”
“Look, I love you and you are my wife,” he said. “I do not think you have sufficient reason to stay separated from me. I think what you are doing is a bullshit deal. You know, I was kind enough—and
am
kind enough—to put up with it for a little bit. I have not given you grounds to stop loving me. And you better not fucking act like I fucking have. Cause I have
not.
I have done nothing wrong. If you go to court with me, you’re going to look like a complete asshole. I haven’t fucking run out on you. I don’t drink. I supported you well. I’ve taken care of you.”
Taken care of me . . . supported me . . . loved me
—from then to the end of the conversation, I didn’t say a single word. It didn’t matter. Chuck was off now. And in his final speech to me I can hear his world come crashing down around him. He was losing his meal ticket and his sex ticket and there was absolutely no mistaking the panic in his voice.
“You see, Linda,” he was saying, “there’s nothing for you to sign. All you got to do is stick out your hand, take a piece of paper and watch me sign a contract. You’re not going to sign anything. And there’s no way you can get fucked. I can go over there and sign the contract without you. Except without you and I going in, and being ourselves, husband and wife, Brodsky isn’t going to put up the money. And if Brodsky doesn’t put up the money, Linda, we’re
done!
Don’t you understand that?
Done!
“We got twenty thousand left in the bank. And about five thousand we’re going to owe David Winters because there’s fifteen thousand on the contract and he’s got five more coming. We’re gonna end up with like eight thousand dollars to divide between us for our divorce. And your attorney will take a third of yours. That’s really a nice way to go, isn’t it?
“We were close to becoming millionaires. You know? And if you don’t want nothing else, just fake it, Babe. But don’t pull this shit. Because this shit won’t work. You know, if you hate my guts, fine. Sleep in the next room. You know, I can feel the same way about you that you feel about me, whether it’s good or bad. But don’t fucking blow the whole business. We’ve worked for four fucking years to get here. We’re right on the doorstep now. But one fucking move by you and it’s
gone!
“Now you got nothing to lose, Babe. Nothing. You have signed all the papers that you have already signed. That fucking attorney can’t erase the contracts that you signed, can’t erase anything. I can give you half the company. You don’t have to sign anything, you don’t have to do anything. You just have to take it in your fucking hands. You just have to sit there with a grin on your face while I sign the fucking contract. It may be distasteful but you could smile at me or maybe kiss me, just once, so Brodsky will feel cool, like we’re ironing this thing out, you know.
“I mean, what the fuck? You know? Man, you’re thinking crazy, and you better get your shit back together. I mean, you better be thinking about a rehearsal, not this legal shit, not this, ‘I don’t think we’re getting back together.’ If we’re not going back together, then fuck it! Let’s end up with $8,000 and divide it in half and get a fucking divorce. I’m not going around and making more of an ass out of myself than I already done.
“Whatshisname, the guy from Head Shampoo, he’s not gonna sign any contract. The contract he’s got is with Linda Lovelace Enterprises.
I’m
the President. He wants you to endorse his product; he wants me to sign the contract. If I tell him we’re split up, what the fuck you think he’s gonna do? Think he’s gonna give twenty-five grand? Shit, no! Now . . . knock . . . it . . . off, Linda. Get your ass into fucking gear. Get over here! Get dressed! We’ll go over to Brodsky’s. Now we can do that and things’ll be cool. Don’t do that and things aren’t gonna be cool.
“Man, you’re going down the wrong road, Linda. I’m telling you. I’m your old man. And I love you. Now knock off this fucking shit and get back over here where you’re supposed to be and take your stock certificate. You got 50 percent of
our
company. And if you just put an honest effort in putting you and I back together, that’s what I want in exchange for what I’m gonna do. Man, that’s all I ask. If I’m asking too much, then fuck it.”
I hung up the telephone.
twenty
One night David Winters invited me out for dinner and a talk, a memorial service for my poor dead act. We picked Alice’s Restaurant because we knew it would be the kind of restaurant Chuck would never choose. We walked in the front door and I froze. The first person I saw in the restaurant was Chuck Traynor. In that same glance, I saw that he had his little gun bag resting by his feet.
Sitting across the table from Chuck was a new porno queen, Marilyn Chambers, the former Ivory Snow girl who had starred in
Behind the Green Door.
While I’d still been with Chuck, he had contacted Marilyn Chambers to see whether they couldn’t be involved in projects together. Since then, I’ve read that Chuck is her business manager and that they’ve gotten married; I hope both arrangements work out better for her than they did for me.
The pressure from Chuck remained intense. And everywhere he went in his search for me, he was accompanied by Lou Perry’s man, Vinnie. Through a mutual friend, I finally reached Lou and asked him why he was letting Chuck use Vinnie. Lou had been told that I was forcibly taken from Chuck and was being held against my will. And he was simply avenging a
paisano
’s honor; despite everything he knew about my life with Chuck, Lou saw this as protection of hearth and home. When he learned the true story, Vinnie was called back from the front lines.
And then it stopped.
It all just stopped.
It ended. Just like that. Just that quickly. I don’t know why. One day I was hiding under wigs and sunglasses and sneaking around corners. The next day I heard through my new attorney that Chuck Traynor was prepared to sign a divorce agreement.
Why? Was Marilyn Chambers now occupying his full attention? Did Lou Perry order him to cease and desist? Did he lose heart when people took out court orders against him? It’s impossible to tell you what was going on in Chuck’s mind; I could never tell that when I was with him.
And that really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I was finally going to be free of Chuck Traynor. Chuck would be off my case forever. And using a new attorney, we worked out a division of all our worldly goods. We divided them after marriage much as we divided them during marriage. Chuck took the Jaguar, the motorcycle, the couch, two tables, a stereo, a color television, wall fixtures, barrel chairs, binoculars, camera, movie camera, hammocks and cushions. Total value: $12,000. I took a bed, a dresser, a radio, two speakers, a tape deck, a cassette deck, a turntable, an amplifier and a slide projector. Total value: $1,500.
But there was one possession not included in the list. Me. One human being, misused, and badly scarred, but young and strong and anxious to live a life. Total value: still undetermined.
When signing the divorce agreement, I met Chuck one last time. We shared an elevator on our way to the lawyer’s office. I was surprised that he no longer generated fear. He seemed innocuous, a balding middle-aged man with a Fu Manchu mustache. I’ll never forget his parting words.
“Just remember that I love you,” he said. “And if you ever change your mind, I’ll always be there.”
I’m sure that’s the truth. Chuck Traynor always will be there. I’m aware that he is out there somewhere, and every now and then, he makes a guest appearance in my nightmares. And at odd times, when I least expect it, I’ll see him in the face of a stranger coming down the street toward me. Or I’ll be talking to someone and I’ll see him in the eyes or the smile or just a gesture. He is there and he always will be there.
My little stage act had died at birth. But out of the ashes, new life. I became friends, then lovers, with David Winters.
Every woman should know a David Winters at least once in her life. A David Winters who brings fresh roses every day and offers them with a sweeping bow. A David Winters who races to open a door or light a cigarette or throw a kiss. I’ve always been an incurable romantic and David Winters could have been designed in my daydreams, seemingly the exact opposite of Chuck. If he never did anything else on God’s earth, David Winters did one thing: He helped me get back the self-respect that Chuck had stolen.
Money never mattered to David. Not in the least. When I first knew him, he told me that he was six million dollars in debt and going through bankruptcy. But little details like that didn’t even slow him down.
“Six-
million
dollars?” I said. “How can that be?”
I soon found out how that can be. Shopping became a way of life for us. He insisted that we go to the best stores in Beverly Hills. I no longer bought one pair of boots; I ordered a dozen of them. And why buy a gown in white when it was also available in a rainbow of colors? When I decided to get a car, David recommended a Bentley.
“Isn’t that expensive?” I said.
“Not in the long run,” he explained to me. “You’ve been in serious accidents. If you had been driving a Bentley, you’d have come through without a scratch.”
I may be one of the only people on earth to get a Bentley for safety reasons. But there’s no doubt that it was an extravagance. I could have been just as happy with a Mercedes. I have to laugh at that thought; you should see the ten-year-old heap I’m driving these days. I’m lucky if it makes it to the corner deli without a mechanical breakdown.
And that was not just a matter of gestures; that was the way he was with me. He asked my opinions about everything. He allowed his eyes to light up when he saw me. He persuaded me that I was not a freak, not an ugly, worthless piece of garbage. And he also happened to be the first adult male I knew well who was not a pervert.
From the beginning, we shared tenderness and warmth. I clung to him the way a drowning person would hang onto a life preserver, the way a poisoned man would reach for an antidote. For the first time in my life, I fell in love. David brought up tender feelings and emotions that I didn’t know I had. And I’ll always feel, no matter what happened to us, that I was blessed to have a David Winters enter my life after a Chuck Traynor.
David’s special talent was beauty. He had a genius for beauty. He had worked on stage and in films with the world’s most beautiful women and somehow he had made them even more beautiful. I believe he could take a Phyllis Diller and she would become gentle and soft-spoken and sensuous. He even made me feel beautiful. And you know something? When you feel beautiful, you
become
beautiful. I
was
beautiful.
But that’s the point. Life with David Winters was a fantasy, a bubble, a fairy tale complete with handsome princes and shiny limousines. It was false fingernails and Gene Shacove doing my hair. It was a trip to the Cannes film festival and a sudden flight to Paris for dinner, this because a girl should not go through life without having had dinner in Paris at least once. It was a long-stemmed rose on a pillow. It was a thousand-dollar-a-month beach cottage. It was high-fashion photographs by Milton Greene and dozens of gowns and a sable coat and all the beautiful things on earth.
If I had any complaints about David then—and, believe me, I didn’t—they would have been about his love affair with the telephone. David was born with a telephone in his ear. He carried on telephone calls from swimming pools and bathtubs. If he had no plans on a particular day, he would take out his personal bible—his phone book—and work his way from A to Z, calling everyone who had ever meant anything to him.
In retrospect, I would have just two words of advice to anyone leading the kind of life I was leading with David Winters: bring money. Lots of money. Not that we let the thought of money interfere with our happiness. We didn’t. In fact, we didn’t even carry money with us. We signed my name to everything. I look at my diary and day after day there is a single notation: “Shopping” or “Shopping again today.”
And, of course, there was no need to cook our own food, not with all those lovely restaurants. And all they ever required was my signature. My signature worked for David’s mortgage and his gardener, for car payments and meals, for everything. In just three months, using two credit cards, I ran up tabs of $25,000.
But that didn’t disturb me. Not only was David Winters loving me, he was putting together a whole new career for me. A legitimate career. You’d be surprised how much money is needed to launch a legitimate career. But who was counting? What person in love ever stopped to figure out the tab? I had never seen any money in the past and it didn’t seem all that important now.
And what could money matter when David was there, bringing me a new gift every day? A bouquet of flowers. A book of love poems. Or just a card with a pretty thought written on it.
I have to admit that I’ve never been any good with money. Even after I got high-priced accountants—no,
especially
after I got high-priced accountants—I never knew how much money I had or where it was. With Chuck out of my life, I wanted to trust people. I still have that desire. If I ever become too skeptical, or too cynical, I won’t survive. I just have to forget everything that ever happened to me and look on each new person as a good human being.
There was no way to put my stage act together again, not after Chuck threatened to kill anyone who helped me. And when I was unable to make the November first date in Miami, it cost me $30,000. You see, I was sued by Chuck’s Florida lawyer, Philip J. Mandina, for breaking my contract. He got approximately $20,000 in a settlement, and the Florida lawyers defending me got $10,000 in fees.
But it was only $30,000; that’s what my new advisers told me. Only $30,000. I was told not to worry about that because a fantastic new career was about to open up for me. A legitimate career.
There was the wonderful world of television, for example. They were about to film a new adult series called
Soap
and I would be a natural for that. Someone involved with
Movie of the Week
was interested in me. Writers, directors, and producers were all coming to us with projects and proposals, straight non-pornographic projects and proposals. But evidently the studio heads and network executives took a secret vote and decided that I must not be allowed to corrupt the morals of the nation. And you know something? I have never appeared in a network television production. Never once. And I suppose the nation’s morals have gone uncorrupted.
Oh, there was work available. Porno work. If I wanted to star in another freak show, there would be plenty of work for me to do. And money, plenty of money.
My feeling about those offers was simple: no. I will never do anything pornographic again.
I look at my life then and I know I went along with some things. I was wearing revealing clothes and signing autographs and enjoying the attention that came my way. But I wasn’t being dirty. I wasn’t being thrown into a room with five men. I was wearing silk and satin, and, if I was in a room with men, it was to discuss a contract or a deal, not their favorite perversions. Most of the propositions I was listening to were clean ones.
Maybe at times I did get a little carried away with myself, a little impressed by the fact that I was Linda Lovelace, but I always came back down to earth. When we were in France for the Cannes film festival, I was walking into a hotel lobby as the famous actor Rex Harrison was walking out. When he recognized me, a fantastic smile creased those famous features and he called out to me, “Miss Lovelace, I
must
shake your hand.”
Rex Harrison!
I was so pleased and flattered. Then later I had time to think about it. Hey, wait a minute. I hadn’t just done a great film that had gotten me an Academy Award. I had been in a disgusting film with disgusting people. All those celebrities who wanted to meet me—what were they doing watching a movie like that in the first place?
The offers coming our way were varied: tee-shirts, posters, record albums, commercials, books, college lectures, public appearances at car-racing tracks, pornographic cassettes. In a way, the proposals were like ghosts—they loomed large for a brief moment, then disappeared without ever quite materializing.
Since I was now able to meet the press on my own, without Chuck feeding me lines, I decided to tell the truth. And I did. I told the exact story you’ve been reading here—that I had been brutalized, raped and forced into every sexual situation imaginable. But maybe you never read that story in your favorite tabloid. They couldn’t use that story. The minute I started telling it, the reporters would turn off their tape recorders. They’d explain to me about the laws of libel. And then they’d point out that the true story would really be a downer for their readers.
Finally, since the truth got such a negative reaction from everyone, I was advised to become more general in my answers and to talk about my present, not my past. Unfortunately, my present wasn’t much to talk about. My only stage appearance was in a sex farce,
Pajama Tops,
that closed during the first week of its run in Philadelphia. There were no decent movie offers. And the only apparent way to make money was to go back and do a second book.
This time I was looking forward to the thought of doing a book. This time I would be free to tell the truth. And my writer this time would be Mel Mandel, a man who not only knew the true story but who had lived some of it with me. And so Mel tape-recorded my memories of life with Chuck and sat down to write
The Intimate Diary of Linda Lovelace.