twenty-two
That was the end, my last picture show, the final starring role for Linda Lovelace. There would be another venture, a deservedly short-lived sex farce in Las Vegas, something called
My Daughter’s Rated X.
And then, nothing.
Oh, other movies were offered to me, are still offered to me, but there is always a catch. Always
the
catch.
The patterns didn’t change. I would go into a big office, and men wearing business suits and ties would treat me, with respect. They would describe their new movie project and it would sound like a beautiful love story or a screamingly funny comedy. There would be meeting after meeting. The ties would come off and the collars would be loosened. At each meeting the story would change slightly. All of a sudden there would be a nude scene, then another. And a sex scene. Soft-core, of course. Then hard-core, maybe just one hard-core scene. Or two. And by the time anyone ever saw a movie camera, we’d all be knee-deep in garbage. And somewhere along the line I’d have to tell the men in their business suits to take a hike.
There were other propositions, as well. The possible three-picture contract if I would just give so-and-so a sample of my wares. The network show if I’d go to bed with Mister Big. The comedy that would be written just after I deep-throated the director.
It’s all such a shame. Because I would have
loved
being an actress. This was something I dreamed about when I was a little girl. But I wanted to be an actress the way Susan Hayward was an actress. And that was never to be.
Regrets? Many. Once, just once in my life, I would have enjoyed being in a movie where there was a real story and a real script. A movie where actors had to memorize lines. A movie where the director would say something like, “Let me tell you what your motivation is going to be in this next scene.” A movie where you felt they had film in the camera. A movie where you didn’t have to do anything disgusting.
The funny thing is that I would really have enjoyed being a regular actress. Because I’m good at it. I know I could have done it. I still have a fantasy of making one movie, one decent movie, and winning an Academy Award and having all those people knocking at my door so that I could say to them, “I’m sorry—you’re too late. You should have been there when I needed you.”
The last movie offer I heard about, one that was presented to a lawyer, was for a huge sum of money. I’m talking about more than a million dollars. All I had to do was make one more pornographic movie, just one more
Deep Throat.
The money was to be deposited in a Swiss bank account before the first day of filming.
Well, I refused to do it then, and I refuse to do it now. I mean, give me one million dollars or give me fifty million and I still won’t do it. And that’s that.
Every now and then I’ll pick up a newspaper and see that a new X-rated movie is opening and it “stars Linda Lovelace.” Don’t ever believe it. All that means is that they are including a scene from
Deep Throat.
I never made another dirty movie and I never will.
Nothing much has really changed. Chuck Traynor is back at the same old stand, managing the career of Marilyn Chambers. In a recent interview he talked about me and he said, “She was better at housework and cooking than sex. She was a lousy lover. When I first dated her, she was so shy it shocked her to be seen in the nude by a man.” I consider that the first honest thing Chuck ever said about me. I sometimes wonder how he’ll react to this book, how he’ll feel when the truth is there for everyone to read. I think he’ll look on this as an advertisement, a way of reaching more freaks.
Sometimes I look back and I laugh. Thank God I can still laugh. I remember how I was living after getting rid of Chuck. I’d go to a new hotel and as I was checking in, I’d tell room service to bring me a cold platter of lobster and shrimp and plenty of champagne on ice. Not just any champagne, mind you. It had to be Mumm’s. If they only had Dom Perignon, I wasn’t interested.
I think about that and I have to laugh. These days I can’t afford to buy a bottle of California wine or a single shrimp. I have felt real poverty these past few years, and I’ve been on welfare. I feel poverty very intensely. I’ve gotten so I hate the last few days of the month when there is no food in the house.
I just hope that when this book comes out, I’m not on welfare. That would be embarrassing. It’s terrible never being able to get in the car and just go for a ride; first we have to make sure that we have enough gas to go back and forth. And I always have to make sure that I have a dime for a phone call, in case there’s an emergency.
I hope this book brings us some money. In a way, it’s an interesting experiment. The other books, the trash and the garbage, made a lot of money. What will the truth do? Was the other publisher right when he said that no one wanted to read the truth?
This time if there is any money, it won’t just vanish. It will go right into a trust fund. The one thing I want someday is a home, just a small home. And, if it were possible, I’d like to buy one of those little foreign cars, forty miles to the gallon. I’d like someday to live in peace and quiet, with my husband able to go out and work for a living. I would like one more baby, a girl, and I would like a garden of my own.
Why haven’t I done these things already? Because it’s one thing to be Linda Lovelace with plenty of money and round-the-clock bodyguards. It’s another thing to be Linda Lovelace with no money, with an infant son, and with no protection. Once I’m identified, our life falls apart. My husband has to leave his job to protect us and to move us somewhere else. Where I’m recognized again and again, I’m the target of freaks and degenerates.
When I was with Chuck, I was sure he had to be one of a kind. There could be no one else on earth like that. Now I know better. There are Chucks everywhere and there is some of Chuck in many people. I see it even in people who were once good friends of mine, people in their twenties and early thirties. Suddenly they’re swapping mates and having affairs with each other’s wives and going to sex clubs. I don’t understand these people at all. I don’t understand America anymore.
Thank God I love my husband. Thank God we can have a normal, healthy, and happy love life. I really do thank God for this. But my husband has been good to me and he’s not sick like those other people. Everyone I met out in California seemed to have the sickness. California is really bad. Worse, I think, than any place else. But I don’t know for sure; it’s all around, everywhere.
How can you identify a Chuck Traynor? The answer: you can’t. At first Chuck seemed normal and nice. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand and it was pointed at my head. I never thought something like that could happen to me, but now I know better. It could happen to me, and it could happen to you.
This story is not unique. There are plenty of Chuck Traynors out there. And an endless supply of girls who are young, trusting, gullible, and sometimes a little stupid. And it is certain that these people will, from time to time, come together. By the time they are pried apart, incredible damage can be done.