Authors: Traci Elisabeth Lords
Not of This Earth opened and closed within days. The film's failure coupled with the brutal press experience of the previous week pushed me further into a dark hole. I had gotten drunk way too many times that week, and I knew my drug abstinence was seriously at risk. I hadn't yet given in to the overwhelming urge to score, but I was itching. The little part of me that had dared to dream I could be something other than a porn girl was crushed. I had no hit movie, no mainstream success, and nothing to look forward to.
Depressed and feeling sorry for myself, I stayed in bed for days. I thought about how hard it had been watching myself as Nadine Storey at the cast and crew screening I'd gone to weeks before with Scott. I was so critical about my work I wanted to redo the entire movie, sure I'd be even better if I got another chance. Maybe the
Hollywood Reporter
was wrong about me and I really sucked. Had my lousy acting ruined the film's success? Or did it have nothing to do with me and it was just a B movie destined for a video release from the start? I didn't know. But I knew I didn't like the girl staring back at me on
Hard Copy
, and I didn't understand why anyone else would either.
As the months went by I returned to my old regimen of n - ning on the beach and weekly chats with my therapist. Slowly, I started to shake off the depression and constant urge for a drug-induced peace. I was living to fight another day, and once again, the time had come to do just that.
Though Not of This Earth had failed at the box office, it made a killing in video. Based on that success, Corman offered me another film on the condition that I appear nude again. But this time, although I wanted the work, I wasn't willing to sell my body to get it. I remembered how embarrassed I'd been sitting in the screening room between Scott and Wynorski when my nude scenes first came on. I'd cringed, fully aware of how gratuitous those scenes were, and promised myself I wouldn't allow that to happen again.
Keeping that promise, I turned down Corman's offer. This time I was going to try things differently. I didn't want B movie–queen stardom. I wanted something more. I wanted to be a serious actress.
Hoping I wasn't cutting off my nose to spite my face, I looked to Scott for reassurance, but he only made me feel more uncertain than ever. Amused by my concerns, he crassly reminded me that "everyone had already seen my tits anyway." I chose to disregard his advice to "go for it," opting instead to hold my ground and wait.
During the weeks that followed, print interviews for
Not of This Earth
in publications like
Rolling Stone
and the
Los Angeles Times
trickled out. It was the same rehashed sex-scandal story again and again. I knew I should ignore it, but it was hard not to be affected by the cruelty. I was tired of being called a "porn queen." If I'd known then how much longer that title would haunt me, I probably would have just given up. Instead, I marched along blindly—although cautiously—into new territory.
As the media continued to milk the kiddie porn indictments around the country, I tried to find new opportunities for work and healing. I explored the possibility of working with an organization called Children of the Night, which provided a safe haven for runaways and abused children. The founder of the shelter was a woman named Dr. Lois Lee and we made plans to do a series of public-service announcements together.
I was proud to be Children of the Night's spokesperson and hoped my experience would somehow give me the credentials to reach other lost kids. What I didn't realize was that the kids would be helping me as well. Through them I saw firsthand that I wasn't the only child who felt disposable, used, and guilty of things she had no control over. It made me even more angry at the world.
But this time, it was an active anger, one that fueled my desire to take a stand. One day, I promised myself, I would reach even more of these kids.
For the next few months I existed in a transitional prison. Tabloid photographers were still staking out my apartment, so I closed every blind, locked every window, and was glad I lived on the second floor.
Peering through cracks in the blind one day, I searched the trees closest to my balcony for men with cameras. I had a full day's schedule and couldn't wait any longer, so I made a mad dash to my Camaro in the garage. Reaching the car door, I was almost home free when they appeared out of nowhere.
"Come on, guys," I pleaded, "give me a break." I struggled with my keys, modeling portfolio, and the morning's coffee, my patience wearing thin.
"The movie closed ages ago!" I yelled. "I'm old news."
Ignoring my misery, they snapped away. There must have been four or five of them pushing at one another to get to me. In addition to the tabloid guys there were the autograph hunters. Those vultures were the worst. Pissed that I refused to sign nude photos, they thrust explicit penetration shots in my face in retaliation. "How about this one," one said, presenting a photo of my young face with a penis stuck in my mouth. The guy just laughed.
I wanted to rip his eyes out.
I roared away in my car, cursing at people as I made my way through traffic.
Was this shit ever going to end
? 1 had a meet ing with a modeling agent in Beverly Hills and was so shaken by the raunchy crowd that I just prayed he was going to be kind.
The owner of the modeling agency was Dennis Vaughn, and the head booker was a guy named Craig. Although my fivefoot-seven-inch frame is considered short in the modeling world, Dennis signed me anyway, conceding to Craig's argument that I could still do beauty and swimsuit catalogues. I signed an exclusive agreement with the Vaughn Agency that day, giving them all rights to my modeling services for a period of one year. As we were wrapping up, Dennis suggested I use my real name, Nora, to avoid any problems.
Tired of being persecuted for the name Traci Lords, I agreed. I decided I deserved a break.
That afternoon I was sent on a casting call for Frederick's of Hollywood, and I signed in as Nora. When Delores, the casting director, called my name, I just sat there not realizing at first that she was talking to me. The clients were three older women dressed very conservatively in navy blue suits and low-heeled shoes. Whispering to the casting lady, they looked me up and down. I rolled my eyes and expected the worst, my foul mood beginning to take over. I only had two photos in my portfolio, and the waiting room was packed with models, knockouts of every shape and size. I didn't think I had a chance in hell.
I wish they'd hurry up and throw me out so I could go find a new place to live.
Approaching me sheepishly, Delores asked if I would mind trying on a bra-and-panty set for the clients. I had no body shots in my portfolio and the clients needed to be sure I had a good figure. I couldn't believe it. I had managed to meet the only people in the world who hadn't seen me naked! Greatly amused, I modeled my undies for them.
They were pleased I had natural breasts, apparently an increasingly rare commodity in Hollywood. I got that job, as well as several other bookings as a bra model for them, and over the next few months I was photographed from the nape of my neck to the middle of my stomach, a headless torso for hire. I felt like a complete jackass, but the job was harmless and the much needed income and very much appreciated anonymity were welcome. But it almost came to an end when I made an even bigger splash as Vaughn's new girl by modeling two swimsuit covers for
Muscle & Fitness
.
The first cover hit the stands with me as Nora Kuzma and my anonymity was secure. But a few days later the
Los Angeles Times
ran an article about how the face and body of the model looked strangely similar to Traci Lords. The owner of the magazine was a clean-cut ex-bodybuilder named Joe Weider, and he issued a statement saying that he didn't know anything about his model being a former porn star. I was hired strictly for my physique. He even ran a second cover later on in spite of the fuss —
or was it because of it?
I was next hired to model for L'eggs pantyhose, which was a huge commercial job; however, the client canceled my booking at the last minute. They refused to say why, but off the record I was told they found me "morally unsuitable."
They felt I'd misrepresented myself by using my birth name.
My modeling agent told me not to take it personally. But how could I not? It was personal. I knew I'd made a mistake as a young girl, but did that mean I'd have to continue to pay For it forever? Hadn't I suffered enough? I wasn't doing porn any more. I wasn't doing drugs. I was really trying to change my life! Couldn't anyone see how hard I was working? Didn't that count?
I felt like I just couldn't win. What do you do when your past is your present? How do you leave it behind?
I chose to stop running from it. Instead, I owned it, legally changing my name to Traci Elizabeth Lords.
That's who I was, and that's who I was going to be.
Months later, on a warm November morning in 1988, I moved into a spacious suburban home in Woodland Hills with Scott. The prying eyes of the media had finally driven me from my Marina Del Rey oasis, and while I missed the clarity I got from long runs on the beach, it was a fair trade for the sanity I found in my new neighborhood.
Being tucked away in the gated, pretty Valley home with a swimming pool and rooms full of rented furniture was a blissful departure from the daily harassments I'd grown accustomed to dealing with. I woke to birds singing and children playing catch in the street. I finally began to relax. Everything seemed to slow down in that southern California version of Mayberry and I felt enormously relieved to be there. I'd made it out of the fast lane and now I could slow down and safely reevaluate my options.
Though Scott and I were getting along, I was concerned about living with him. He was the person I trusted more than anyone else, but I had made the move more out of financial necessity than any growing love I had for this man. It wasn't that I didn't care for him, because I did. But his elitist attitude and condescending air continually left me feeling inadequate and stifled. He hated when I "acted my age" and scolded me for
my immaturity. I was a twenty-year-old woman and I'd been given a new lease on life. How could I not be giddy?
My last two years in therapy were helping me cope with a lot of these feelings. My emotional need for Scott was diminishing and I think that scared him. The anger that had served me so well in life was growing into a pure hunger
for
life —a new and positive one. But it was a life that most likely wouldn't include him, and maybe on some level he knew that.
Setting my goals high, I enrolled in another acting class with a teacher named Vincent Chase and started looking around for a theatrical agent. I studied comedy and shared coffee with my classmates, opening myself up to judgment but also friendship. It was a major emotional gamble —and it paid off. The other actors were supportive and most had their own stories to tell. I wasn't the only one who had struggled with drugs and I found that prostitution came in many forms. I was still sensitive about my past, so I never spoke about it with anyone (especially after the
Hard Copy
nightmare), but it wasn't a fresh wound any longer.
I wasn't bleeding as much.
In the following weeks, I booked modeling jobs for swimsuit ads and continued to model for Frederick's of Hollywood, earning enough money to pay my portion of the rent and finance my schooling. During this period, my relationship with my family was also starting to grow, although slowly. So much had happened in all of our lives that being together was difficult. I wasn't the only Kuzma sister who had issues with our parents. My three beautiful, strong, but emotionally battered sisters had suffered as well. They might not have ended up on the streets, but they wrestled with their own demons while growing up and acted out in their own ways. Somehow, though, we all seemed to be landing on our feet.
Scott spent most weekends with his son at his ex's place somewhere on the other side of the Valley. Over time, these overnight and weekend visits became more and more frequent. I was pretty sure he was sleeping with his ex, but since I had little interest in sleeping with him myself, it didn't really matter. I was more concerned about his trustworthiness. He was starting to look like a real fair-weather friend. He'd shown his true colors during the aftermath of the porn scandal. He didn't have my back. It seemed like he was just out for himself.
The question wasn't if I would leave him—it was when. But how would I untangle myself from a man I'd been with since I was seventeen years old? We had a lot of history together mainly traumatic, but still history. What is it about stepping away from something familiar that's so difficult? I'd done it in every other way, with porn, drugs, and physically abusive men.
Why couldn't I do it with him?
As November flew by I welcomed December and the festive mood the Christmas season put me in. I spent the next few weeks running around on go-sees for my modeling agency and sending out eight-by-tens trying to get a theatrical agent. At the Samuel French Bookstore on Sunset Boulevard, I bought a book that listed all the agents in Los Angeles, and decided the best way to get one was to do a mass mailing.
I only made it through "h" before I ran out of pictures, résumés, and stamps, so I sent out fifty-five requests for representation.
I got four responses the following week.
After meeting with Don Gerler, I decided he was the best choice. He was a pleasant man in his late fifties who had a simple office in a strip mall off Ventura Boulevard. He had a kind face and fatherly way about him, and I liked him right away. He seemed to understand my passionate plea for clothed roles, so I left his office excited by all the prospects the new year might bring.
Yayyyy! I finally bad an agent!
When I was a little girl I baked tiny cakes in my Easy-Bake Oven. I considered myself a fine baker indeed and once thought I would grow into a jolly old plump woman with rosy cheeks who lived on a big grassy hill and baked breads and cakes for the little Russian village I came from.
It's a weird thing, self-image, but at my new home in Woodland Hills I found myself constantly venturing into the kitchen to play chef. Although I hadn't cooked much in my life, learning wasn't difficult. My father once told me that the best thing about cooking was that you get to eat your mistakes, and he was right.
As I stood in my kitchen remembering his words, I was filled with a longing for him to be near me. How could he have let so many years slip by? Where was he now and what did he think of me? Was he ashamed? Would he be surprised to know I'd dug through his Playboys as a kid? Did he realize how much he scared us when he drank and slapped our mom? Was he sorry it all turned out to be such a mess? Did he have the same desire to fix everything that I had?
Did he know how much I needed him?
The kitchen became my outlet for self-expression. When I was angry, the sauces were bold and spicy; when I was sad, I whipped up garlic mashed potatoes and homemade chicken pies.
I cooked because I loved it.
Christmas came and I invited my mother over to help me roast a turkey. Just as I had once found common ground with my father in the kitchen, I found it again with her. My mother and I were growing closer.
January greeted me with a few auditions that led to a few forgettable, but clothed, roles in lame B action movies. I was presented with the opportunity to make some money doing an exercise video with Scott. I'd only been to the gym a dozen times in my life, and although I was in good shape from running, I didn't know anything about "jazzthetics." No one seemed to care. Scott, apparently no longer afraid to be associated with me, put the video together quickly.
Tanya Everett, one of the teachers from Strasberg, was hired to choreograph the video. She was so good at what she did that I actually looked like a professional dancer. Scott directed the video, choosing a two-piece yellow leotard for me to wear. I thought I looked ridiculous, but Scott said it was perfect. I learned all the required dance moves but paid no attention to the shots Scott set up during filming. Oblivious to camera angles and lighting, I was mortified to see the final product. It was an embarrassingly cheap video with crude angles and a cheesy soundtrack. The exercises themselves were shot in a vulgar manner that exploited the otherwise innocent bending and stretching I did, and as I watched the camera pan invasively up and down my body, I wanted to strangle my boyfriend. "How could you do this?" I demanded.
He seemed to have no clue why I was upset.
Looking back now, I think, Man, was I stupid or what? The guy was only out for himself! What did I expect? Good taste? But at the time, I naively believed Scott wanted to better himself and make films he could actually show to normal people. Gullible? Absolutely! He had been plugging away in the back office of our house, trying to raise money for the same softcore movie that he'd been "casting" since the first day we met. I couldn't ignore the obvious.
I spent the following week looking for a new apartment, going on auditions, and avoiding my boyfriend. I couldn't believe how much money it cost to move! How would I make it on my own? I could gel a roommate. No, I was still too vulnerable. A new boyfriend? I'd been down that road and I didn't want to step into something worse, so I saved my money and bided my time.
The opportunity I'd been waiting for finally arrived in I he spring of 1989. My agent, Don Gerler, called to say a director named John Waters wanted me to audition for a role in his new movie
Cry-Baby
. I'd never seen a John Waters film before but was excited just the same.
A famous director wanted to meet me!
After months of doors slamming in my face and the workout-video fiasco, I was eager to meet a real filmmaker. I tried to picture him in my mind, remembering a television interview I'd seen him do a few years earlier.
I think he has a very skinny mustache
, I thought to myself as I drove over to my agent's office to collect the script.