Authors: Traci Elisabeth Lords
I woke up the next day panicked. I was late for school again and I'd already used up all my absences. I had been warned about truancy twice this quarter.
The night before, Roger had insisted I stay over and offered me his bed. He took the couch. When I awoke, my head was throbbing from the champagne. It was quiet. Roger must have gone off to work. Pulling on my clothes, I realized it was Saturday and let loose a huge sigh of relief.
The previous day's events played through my head.
I felt sick to my stomach thinking my mother would find out I posed naked for Polaroids, but then I found a note from Roger. He said I should go home, change into something cute, and be back by noon if I wanted him to drive me to work.
Work?
Oh yeah ...
I was a model!
All my doubts about Mom finding the pictures of me went out the window. They were silly, I reasoned.
She doesn't even notice when I'm home
. How could she find out about this?
No one was home when I got there.
I showered, put on some tight shorts and a tank top, and was on my way. Roger was waiting when I got back with a stack of magazines he'd bought, like
Vogue, Teen, Playboy,
and some foreign nude ones. We hit the drive-thru on the way to the Valley, and I snacked on a Big Mac and chocolate shake, flipping through the magazines and rambling on about the models I saw. He told me I needed to memorize all the different poses, be cooperative with the photographer, and most of all act like a professional.
What did that mean?
We arrived at the studio fifteen minutes early. The photographer was arranging the set and I was introduced to a man wearing more makeup than I ever had. He said his name was Coco. He'd be doing my makeup and showed me where I could change.
Coco mixed me a vodka cranberry and had one himself while Roger talked to the photographer in the other room.
"You have the most flawless skin I've ever seen," he said. "What's your secret?"
"I'm an Ivory soap girl."
He laughed and said it ran in the business, referring to Marilyn Chambers. I had no idea what he was talking about but pretended it was the funniest thing I'd ever heard. I only got the joke years later, when I crossed paths with the queen of porn herself. Apparently Miss Chambers, star of the X-rated film Behind the Green Door, originally gained fame as the Ivory Snow detergent girl.
When Coco finished painting me I changed into a blue pleated skirt and a tight sweater. My teased hair made me look at least five feet ten and I couldn't believe the image in the mirror staring back at me. My lips were painted huge and so glossy they looked like they were going to drip. I wasn't sure if I looked pretty or not, but the photographer seemed pleased. A pair of white bobby socks and really high heels completed the outfit.
The photographer showed me where to go and I climbed up on a white bed filled with big pillows and pink bows, realizing then that this shoot couldn't possibly be for a clothing store. t Roger was there, I told myself, and he wouldn't let anything had happen to me. And I had to start somewhere.
The photographer talked me through a dozen poses and I had three more vodkas in between film changes. My eyes were watering so much from the liquid eyeliner and the false eyelashes that we had to keep taking breaks, and I couldn't help but wonder if this would be considered unprofessional. But the vodka eventually washed away my worries---and schoolgirl innocence.
I was the center of attention for the first time in my life. I remember feeling important, even powerful. My sexuality had robbed me of so much, and now it suddenly gave me something that had eluded me in every aspect of life — control. I got off on the power my body held over that entire roomful of adults.
As I lay on the bed, the photographer showed me where he wanted my rear end. Then he asked me to really arch my back as I bent forward. Cupping my naked breasts, I slid my panties off, closed my eyes, and made the kissy face Tim North had taught me.
I spread my legs and caressed my breasts. Through a dreamy fog, I spotted Roger sitting in the corner of the studio, his hand buried beneath his coat, watching me.
What was he doing?
He caught me staring and immediately stopped.
Was he masturbating?
Disgusted by the thought of my honorary "stepfather" doing such a thing, I avoided his gaze, and when we finished the shoot minutes later, I dismissed the incident as a vodka-induced hallucination.
I dressed quickly and, with the vodka buzz finally wearing off, felt unsettled by the afternoon's events. I'd been turned on by the attention I'd received, and now it confused me. I became flooded with shame as I got dressed.
I had to get out of there.
Roger collected the two hundred and fifty dollars cash I was owed for the shoot. Apparently, the girls were paid at the end of the shoot in cold hard cash. I quickly lit the first of a series cigarettes I would chain-smoke that night.
Quiet on the way home, I listened to Roger cheerfully jabber on about how gorgeous I looked while I was modeling. I wondered what would happen if I said something about what I thought I saw him doing. Would he get mad? Would he tell my mom I was a nude model? Would I be in trouble?
I was fifteen years old when I was hired to model for
Penthouse
magazine. I was told I needed a "sexy" stage name so I chose Traci, one of the "popular" names I'd longed for growing up. During a rerun of the series
Hawaii Five-0
later that evening, I took actor Jack Lord's surname. In my mind, his Steve McGarrett was the perfect fantasy father. I added an "s" to Lord because there were three of us: Nora (my birth name), Kristie (my fake ID name), and now Traci (the girl everyone wanted).
From then on I was known in the sex industry as Traci Lords. The buzz in the business grew as North hyped me. The talk of the town was his new girl with the baby-fat bod, pouty lips, and appetite for destruction. The combination of little girl gone bad had photographers fighting to shoot me. It was a total ego trip. I was the flavor of the moment, the It girl. I felt like I'd won a spot on the cheerleading squad. Any doubts I had about posing nude were overruled by my insatiable desire for attention.
For five weeks I led a double life. I was high school sophomore Nora Kuzma by day and nude centerfold model Traci Lords by night. I avoided my girlfriends, ditched classes, and barely squeaked by in school. I started wearing the slutty outfits I posed in to school. My microminis and come-fuck-me high heels raised an eyebrow or two, but no one said anything. I wanted to be stopped, yet I got off on the idea of getting away with it all.
I was playing a dangerous game.
One sunny afternoon, as the lunch bell rang, I rushed into the cafeteria wondering what the day's mystery meat would be. I was conscious of my snickering classmates as I collected my food. Something weird was going on. I paid for my tray and moved toward a half-empty table near the door. Minding my own business, I arranged my food and wondered if my tarty outfit was responsible for the unwanted attention.
The moment I slipped into my seat a beefy jock sauntered over. "Hey, Paula," he said with a stupid grin on his face. I took a bite out of my green Jell-O, ignoring this Neanderthal.
Smack!
The magazine landed on the table.
On the front cover, there was a young girl in a pleated skirt with her hands over her breasts. The caption read "Pump Paula," referring to a pullout board game that boasted how you too could fuck the centerfold.
I choked on my food.
Oh my God, it was me!
As I sat there frozen, my neighbors craned their necks for a better look.
It was me — spread-eagled in a really sleazy skin magazine that looked nothing like
Playboy
or
Vogue
.
I ran out of the cafeteria and off campus, never to return to school again. My heart pumped in my throat.
Oh my God, everyone at school knows I'm a nude centerfold! Someone might tell my sisters . . . my mother! I can't go home. I can't go back to school.
What now? I hadn't even finished tenth grade. What am I going to do! What have I done?
Panic-stricken, I forced myself to slow down. I walked briskly toward a pay phone, my thoughts racing. I had to speak to Roger. He'd know what to do. But he was nowhere to be found. I waited on his front porch for hours, praying he would come home soon. I grew more anxious with every passing car, afraid I would be caught and put in jail.
Where was he!
I didn't know what to do. Kids at school knew I was a nude model!
What was I going to do? This was not supposed to happen.
Anxiety overwhelmed me as I raced for a passing bus, making my way to Hollywood, where I was sure I'd be safe.
Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I could breathe again, grateful to be just another ant on a big hill where no one knew my name. I'd never spent any time on Hollywood Boulevard, but it was worth the three bus transfers and passing freak show I'd encountered to get there. I was curious about the other sights but knew exactly where I wanted to go first.
I found her star at Grauman's Chinese Theater. Sitting down next to her, I placed my hands in hers, surprised that they fit so perfectly. I wondered if everyone fit in them.
Marilyn Monroe was a curiosity to me. Since Tim North told me she'd had a similar start in Hollywood, I really wanted to know more about her. What I did know was when I looked into her eyes, I saw someone as lost as I was. Was she told she'd have to pose nude to be a star too?
Roger still wasn't answering his phone. It was getting dark.
I'd spent the day on the Walk of Fame and needed to move. I had a hundred dollars and change left over from my last photo shoot and figured I could clear my head by walking a bit. High heels in hand, I walked for blocks and blocks. A taxi driver offered me a free ride. Thinking he felt sorry for me, I climbed in. He took off, but no sooner had we left the curb when he looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, "Listen, honey, no sex, okay? Don't freak—I just want a golden shower."
The cab stopped at a light on Santa Monica Boulevard and I jumped out fast. I was shaken up, cursing myself for being so stupid. How could I get in a car with a total stranger? Freaks — everywhere I looked there were nothing but freaks! Who likes to be pissed on?
I learned an important lesson that day: no one rides for free.
On the walk down Santa Monica Boulevard, all these hot boys were looking at me. Some made crude jokes and pointed, and I had the feeling I'd better find a place to stay—fast. I saw a motel near Highland and made a beeline for it. But before I could get across the street, a nasty Latin kid stepped in my way, demanding to know what the fuck I thought I was doing there. "This isn't pussy town," he said. "Don't you know that? Take your cock-sucking ass somewhere else, and quick."
I was in Boys Town and these cuties were going to beat the crap out of me. I lost it, sobbing my apologies, explaining I just didn't have any place to go. I only wanted to find a place to sleep. I'd give him all the money I had if he would just leave me alone. I pulled out a few twenties and he grabbed me by the hair. Suddenly laughing, he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me down the sidewalk, calling to the other boys and saying, "The ho has dough! Let's party!"
We ended up under the overpass of the 101 Freeway, just blocks from the bus stop where Roger had first picked us up. We scored some pot and a bottle of whiskey and got high. There were five of them, all around my age. The youngest boy was about eleven, and everyone called him Tricky because he turned more business than anyone else.
They were male prostitutes and they scared me. I was sure they didn't want to rape me for pleasure but I wasn't certain they wouldn't do it for entertainment. They slept here all the time, the oldest one said. Every once in a while the cops would drag them off, the city would then throw their couches away, and the boys would be stuck sleeping in the dirt until they found new ones.
I didn't know where the night would take me, or if I'd even be alive in the morning. I felt so small I longed to sit beneath the clothesline in my daddy's backyard as my mother folded laundry.
Tricky asked me to sleep next to him. Afraid to say no, I curled my body against him and laid still. He was so young. As he fell asleep he told me everyone he loved had left him. It was sad, looking at his baby face covered with cigarette burns and scars from who knows what. I wanted to wash all those bad memories from him. That night, I didn't sleep at all, and when the sun rose I had no choice but to leave Tricky too.
I found a motel that charged by the hour. A lot of girls probably worked there, I thought, but I didn't care. I needed a shower and a washing machine to tidy myself up before work. I still couldn't find Roger and was due in Hollywood in a few hours for a photo session. I asked the manager how far away Vine Street was and discovered it was within walking distance. I cleaned myself up and made it there with a few minutes to spare.
The clients and photographer were all waiting for me. The shoot was for a book on couples and sex. I was there to do the photo illustrations. A stunning man in his early twenties showed up about an hour into the session. The director said we were playing a married couple and we'd be shooting some lovemaking poses together. We'd be dressed in our underthings and it would be tastefully done. The man who had written the book stood nearby and was watching the entire process intently.
I was outfitted in a beautiful white lace teddy with stockings and garters, and my "husband" had on red silk boxers. The set was a garden, which reminded me of one of the corny romance novels my mom collected. The guy was instructed to kiss my neck softly and hook his fingers under my bra strap as if he were going to remove it. He was an amazing kisser and I found myself enjoying his touch. We spent the entire afternoon being photographed in a series of simulated sex acts.
I got a real education that day. I had no idea so many positions existed! It was like Sex Ed 101. The author was a chatty man in his fifties who proudly boasted about how the book was to be used for sex education classes in colleges. He said he wanted to help young adults come to a healthy conclusion about their sexuality. I wanted to scream,
Help me! I need a healthy conclusion!
I wanted this wise fatherly man to see through the persona I'd created and save me from myself. Instead I finished the job, collected my two hundred dollars, and left.
During that photo shoot I found myself completely turned on and hoped to God no one could tell. I had no idea sex could be more than what I'd experienced until that point. There was so much I didn't know and couldn't understand, but it was strangely exciting. The other model was really nice and didn't try anything with me unless he was specifically asked. But that confused me too, until his boyfriend showed up to take him home.
Was everyone in Hollywood gay?