Sinner Takes All: A Memoir of Love and Porn

CHAPTER 2 The Switch

Iclearly remember my first orgasm. I was twelve. I wasn’t a sexual child until I met Mark. He was the uncle of my friend Danielle. He was twenty-five, about five foot seven, skinny and lanky, with short brown hair. He kind of looked like Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots. He rode a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and worked at the gas station down the street. I knew he was way older than me, but that didn’t stop the huge crush I had on him. He was my first of many motorcycle-men crushes.

I was walking to school one day, carrying my books, and he pulled out of the gas station on his bike and just the sight of him excited me. I dropped my books and stared at him. I think it was the first orgasm I ever felt. It was at least the first tingling I ever had down there in that way. And I had not had any sexual feeling like that before, at least not that I remember. I vividly recall this intense sexual tingling and getting wet in my panties. I had thoughts of him for days after that and finally one day I made out with him.

I would see Mark often at Danielle’s house (she lived with him and her mom in a Santa Rosa apartment) and couldn’t help but flirt with him. He noticed the way I looked at him, smiled at him, and hung on his every word. I liked making a man pay attention to me, because I wasn’t getting a lot of attention at home. I didn’t think of the age difference at all. When you’re young, sexually curious, and starving for attention, you don’t think of those things. Today when I think about it, I see it as twisted and wrong. But in the moment, it was just exciting to have this flirtation with this older man. One day he invited me to come over and look at his books because I was still quite the bookworm at the time. Of course, I went. I loved books and I was flattered by the invitation. I thought it was a great opportunity to flirt more with this cool guy. As I was busy thumbing through his copies of Easy Rider magazine and various mechanical motorcycle books, my friend Danielle was busy in another room. Mark and I were sitting close on his living room couch and I kept looking at him with the sultriest look I could muster up for a twelve-year-old. He was flirting with me, too. Our smiles told it all. Each time we’d look at each other, we’d grin from ear to ear. The attraction was obvious, and well, I made it hard to go unnoticed because I was wearing a tight tank top and short-shorts. As we talked closely, we could feel the warmth of each other’s breath and the electricity in the air. We couldn’t take it anymore, and he finally leaned in and kissed me.

I didn’t know how to kiss, but I was going at it like crazy and clinging on to him, holding on to him, and moving my tongue all around his mouth. It was my first French kiss. More than the kissing or the age difference, the thing I remember the most was not wanting to let go of him. I was wrapped in his arms and clutching on to him. It felt so good to be in the arms of a man who liked me.

My friend Danielle walked in on us and said, “You might want to close the blinds.” We stopped the make-out session, pulled apart from each other, and I said my good-byes. When I look back on it now, I’m glad Danielle caught us. I think it spooked Mark. I don’t know if he would’ve tried to take it further than kissing, but if Danielle didn’t interrupt us, maybe he would’ve. I don’t think I was prepared to handle what could’ve happened on that couch that day. I’m glad we kissed, but I wasn’t ready for anything more. However, in that moment, in that twelve-year-old brain, I probably wouldn’t have had the maturity to know that it would’ve been a bad thing. I think Danielle’s interruption might just have saved me from doing something that would’ve left me with some severe emotional repercussions and a lot of regret down the road.

I also started to emotionally cling to men from age twelve. I would befriend the older men in our apartment building. I wasn’t sexual with them, and no one ever stepped out of line with me. Unlike so many porn stars, I was never sexually abused or raped. But the men in our building knew I liked to read, and I was a young cute girl with big boobs, and they’d invite me to come over and see their books or to just read at their apartments. I loved the attention. And I guess they liked having a young, hot girl with big tits hanging around their apartment. Even though I was only twelve, I felt like a woman. I learned that having boobs at this young age was very powerful. I saw how men looked at me, and I started to harness that power for my own good. I’d flirt more and would prance around in wifebeaters with no bra, and it would get me what I wanted—like rides to the mall or to rock concerts or escape from boredom and loneliness.

I was obsessed with going to rock concerts in the ’80s with my best friend Ally Graham. Her favorite band was Motley Crue and mine was Def Leppard. I looked like such a rock slut during those years. I was such an exhibitionist. I would dress in ripped-up jeans with a hole in the butt and only wear concert shirts—cut up, tied up, or off my shoulder. I was a total rock chick, and a big tease at this age. I drooled over every boy with long hair or who rode a bike and looked tough. I wasn’t just a rock chick. I was a metal-head. My first concert was Iron Maiden and Saxon, and it left quite a mark on me. I was hooked on going to rock shows from that first concert. The whole experience was so hot to me, and I started fantasizing more about marrying a music man. I was the girl in love with every lead singer of hot metal bands out there. And I was the girl who was flashing her boobs to Gene Simmons at a Kiss/Slaughter/Winger show, and I know he saw me. I made it hard to be missed.

Officially boy crazy now, it was time for “the talk.” With Mom not around, that task was left to my dad. It was not pretty. He said, “I know you’re blossoming now and men are going to want to touch you and feel you, but you don’t have to do it.” That’s all he said. That was “the talk.” I just said, “OK, Dad.” But deep down I was embarrassed for him and it made me kind of sad. If he only knew that it was me who wanted to do stuff to the guys, he’d feel horrible. My dad had no idea how much of a tease I was becoming and how at the young age of twelve, I was flirting with older men, kissing lots of boys, and using my sexuality to get what I wanted.

But he did know the effect I had on men and that I was turning into an attractive girl. I was five foot seven with a 34-C chest and twenty-two-inch waist by the time I became a teenager. We spent every weekend in San Francisco because I was attending the Barbizon School of Modeling there—I wanted to be a model so badly.

It didn’t take much convincing to get my dad to enroll me in modeling school. He knew how much I wanted to be a model. But more important, I think the reason my dad agreed so readily was because I didn’t have a mom in my life to be show me how to become a lady. Modeling school is not just about posing for photos or learning how to put your hair in a pretty bun or how to blend your eye shadow. It was also about how to grow from a girl into a woman, how to be poised and proper and how to present yourself in the best way. I didn’t have a mother to teach me those things, and I think he felt bad about that and saw Barbizon as an opportunity for me to have a girlie outlet. It was a positive, healthy extracurricular activity, too, just like taking up sports or ballet. And it gave me something to do. It occupied my time so he didn’t have to worry about figuring out what to do with me all the time. Being a single dad to girls can’t be easy.

I think the cost was about $90 a week at the time, which was kind of a lot and especially for a single parent. But he worked two jobs and found a way to afford it. He was good at giving me what I wanted within reason. I mean, I didn’t have new clothes all the time, and we scrimped on other things, but this was one cost he was willing to pay because he thought it would be good for me.

One day in 1990—I was thirteen years old and in eighth grade—we went to Fisherman’s Wharf, where all the tourists in San Francisco go to see the sea lions. And this guy, who had been kind of checking me out, came up to my father and started talking to him. I just assumed it was another creepy old man staring at my tits.

“Your daughter is really beautiful. She’s really tall, really thin, and has a great look. Has she ever considered modeling?” the man said to my father.

“Well, I have her enrolled in Barbizon. She wants to be a model,” my father cautiously replied.

Meanwhile, I was being very quiet but exploding inside with excitement. I trusted my father to do what was best for me and he did.

“I think she would be a really great model,” the man said. “Her look is very contemporary, and I think she could make a lot of money. Why don’t you let me do a test shoot with her? I’ll send it off and we’ll see if anybody bites.” He turned out to be a talent scout from Japan named John Teo. A test shoot is like a trial run of a photo shoot. They take photos of you, send them to agencies and pitch you for modeling jobs.

My dad agreed, and the two exchanged numbers. And the following weekend, that’s exactly what we did. I had my very first test shoot.

My father’s girlfriend at the time, Lori Meyer, came with me. I was very close to her. She was like a mother to me. We would watch House of Style with Cindy Crawford on MTV and I would study Cindy’s moves to learn how to model. So Lori chaperoned this test shoot, which was at a beach and in a park in San Francisco. All I could think was, “I’m on my way to doing what my idols Marilyn Monroe and Paulina Porizkova do!”

The second John Teo started shooting me in the sand on that beach in a wholesome white top and cutoff jean shorts, I was hooked. I knew this was what I was meant to do. John didn’t give me a lot of direction, because I was naturally doing what he needed. I wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty relaxed and easy. It was so fun to move to the camera. I was really excited and happy, and it felt right. Lori kept cheering me on, “You’re doing great. Turn to the right, stick your hips out, smile!” I was having so much fun. I had to tone down my antics because the shoot was for Japanese scouts and John kept reminding me, “Now remember, this is for Japan and they like their girls to be very ladylike and demure, so don’t over-pose.”

He also told me not to tan my skin, because the Japanese like their girls to have light pale skin. That was tough for me because besides having natural brown skin from my Thai mother, I was also a sun goddess who would catch rays with baby oil, Hawaiian Tropic, or Ban de Soleil over my skin like I was a basting turkey!

After the shoot, I really had no idea what was going to happen. The whole thing seemed like a lark to me, but I was so excited that my dream of becoming a model might actually come true. John told us the pictures came out great and he went ahead and sent them to different modeling agencies all over the world: Paris, New York, Milan, and Tokyo.

The biggest response came from Tokyo. They were so interested that they sent scouts to come see my dad in Napa Valley, where we were living at the time. They were surprised that I hadn’t modeled before and told my dad they wanted to take me back to Tokyo with them. A few weeks later, I signed with the Morning Sun modeling agency in Tokyo, signed with a model manager named Myuki, and was booked to move to Tokyo by myself.

Sure, Dad was hesitant at first. After spending a lot of time apart when Debby and I were younger, Dad and I were finally spending some time together. But I was open to the idea, and eventually so was he, especially after the scout told him that the runway and photo work in Tokyo would easily pay for my college tuition. He knew how much I wanted to model and how much I was enjoying my time at Barbizon, so he saw it as a great opportunity for me. And he did his homework. The agency went through Barbizon. It wasn’t just some random, unknown company swooping in to send me off. Barbizon vouched for the company and the agency and helped ease any fears my father might have had. And he trusted me. I don’t think the thought crossed his mind that I would get into trouble over there.

In my mind, I was off to be a supermodel and take over the world. In my dad’s mind, he was losing his daughter, but gaining college money for me. Dad dropped me off at the airport and said, “This is your big chance. Make the best of it, and call me if you have any issues and I will come there.”

Thirteen and a half hours later, I stepped off the plane and there I was in my new home, Tokyo, Japan. I was fourteen years old. And I felt powerful.

I was so young, but it was a very adult experience. I lived in a huge apartment with Joe, the owner of Morning Sun, but he was never around. I had a full-time tutor for school and another tutor to teach me Japanese, which I didn’t exactly pick up very well. Luckily, most people in the industry spoke English. We lived in the Omotesando area of Tokyo, which was a trendy neighborhood. He had one half of the apartment. I had the other. I was pretty much on my own. When I wasn’t at a casting call or booked for a modeling job, I’d spend hours shopping in the market and going into fashion boutiques, blowing my $500 weekly allowance on nonessentials like lip gloss and trendy shoes. Five hundred dollars is not a lot of spending money when you consider the fact that two oranges cost $9 in Tokyo markets at that time.

I was able to make friends right away with a lot of the other girls who worked at the agency. Most of them were much older, in their twenties. It was quite an experience, running around in a foreign country with all these models from all over the world. They were adults and I was a young kid. Even the few girls who were near my age seemed more worldly than me because they had already been in the business a few years. The ones who were sixteen had started when they were twelve. They already knew the ropes, but I didn’t.

My best friend among the models was Thea Kulick. She became my big sister. She was British, tall, and very beautiful, with short blond hair and a tight body. She reminded me then of Annie Lennox and now of model Agyness Deyn. I would follow her around and mimic everything that she did. She was very smart and well spoken and I loved her posh English accent. I think part of the reason that I felt so comfortable around her is because my dad’s family is English. I had spent some time in England with family, and I really gravitated to Thea.

I loved my new friends, and I was happy when they were around. But when we’d go our separate ways at the end of the day, I’d get really lonely by myself. Nighttime would roll around, and I would be alone in my empty apartment in Tokyo thinking about what my family and friends were doing back home. It was an odd feeling to be so excited to be living out my dream in this exotic place, but at the same time miss the comforts of home, like my dad’s cooking or my sister being there to gossip with. It didn’t help matters that I was having a hard time trying to learn my way around Tokyo. I had a tutor who was teaching me Japanese every day, but I was failing miserably. But just when I was feeling my lowest, I’d remember that it was still daytime in America. I would pick up the phone and call somebody, anybody, but usually my sister Debby or my best friend, Ally. My phone bill averaged more than $2,500 a month—money that was supposed to go to my college fund. And I would tell Debby and Ally all about whatever was happening. They were particularly interested in my experiences in the clubs in Tokyo because they had never been to a club at all, let alone one in Tokyo. And I was going out every night.

My favorite club was the Lexington Queen in Roppongi, which is where all the rock stars would hang out. We would use our zed cards to get in. A zed card is a modeling calling card. On the front, there was a head shot, and then on the back there were four or five small pictures of you in different modeling poses. They were supposed to be for your cattle calls. And they called them cattle calls because they would literally pile all the models in a van like cattle and take us from booking to booking. If you got booked for a job, you would go back and do it the next day. But when you weren’t working, you just kept getting sent out on cattle calls. The door guys at the clubs knew about the zed cards and when they saw one, they would just let you go on in. Models are good for business.

And since we were all models, we would get everything for free: free admission, free food, and free champagne. A lot of the models smoked pot and took pills, especially Valium, and I did too. I had smoked pot for the first time right before I left for Tokyo. My dad’s always grown marijuana and has been a big pot smoker, and back in the U.S. I’d stolen some pot out of his hiking backpack and smoked it out of his pipe. It kind of hurt, but I liked the way it made me feel. I had to lay off smoking when I got to Tokyo because I was having a little too much fun. I would go over to friends’ houses to listen to music and drink a little bit of champagne. We would smoke a joint and the next thing I knew it was four in the morning and I would realize, “I’ve got to be up at seven in the morning and I look like shit!”

But even totally sober, I was very outgoing—a stark contrast to my early childhood years. I was the first one to introduce myself and the first to volunteer for karaoke, which was, of course, a huge thing in Japan. This was the beginning of feeling good about myself and not being the shy girl who dreamed of being wanted. Instead, I was coming out of my shell and into my sexuality and loving it. I finally got out of my rut and into another environment and found a place where people found me sexy. No one was calling me Spider in Tokyo. I was really feeling the power of my sexuality and the power of being attractive to the opposite sex.

I was also always the girl with the shortest skirt and the tallest thigh-high books. I loved showing off my legs. And I would typically wear a lacy bra with a little sheer top tied over it. A couple of the girls in the group were a little jealous of me, I think. They would bitchily say to me, “With that long hair and those boobs, you’re not going to get a lot of work.” But I was working every day. My first job was a runway show. I also did a lot of work for cosmetics companies, including Shiseido, and for the jean company Gerivobe. Often, I’d be hired to model makeup at the cosmetics counter in department stores as well.

I was living the life. Nothing turned me on more than turning it on for the camera, and sometimes photographers were there to benefit from that. I lost my virginity to a thirtysomething photographer on one of my earliest shoots in Tokyo in my first year there. I can’t remember his name, but I’ll never forget this shoot. He was really, really hot. He had gorgeous, thick, short brown hair. His frame was small, his waist thin, and his body was all lithe muscle like David Beckham. He could have been a model himself when he was younger, but his face was a bit menacing-looking. I think I was attracted to him because he looked like a bad boy, and I loved a bad boy—musicians, motorcycle men, model photographers.

He took charge and he told me I was beautiful. I loved posing for him, and seeing how he wanted me. I wanted him, too. We were flirting a bit before we started shooting, and when he’d touch me to move my hair out of the way or fix the strap of my top, my skin felt hot. I was so excited to be working with him.

He was feeding me champagne and Valium and I was getting wasted. I’d had plenty of drinks before, both in the clubs in Japan and at the winery my dad worked at in California, but I was a different kind of drunk on this occasion. It was the kind of drunk where your head falls back but your eyes stay staring out in front of you, the kind of drunk where you’re not really sure what’s happening, the kind of drunk where you lose your virginity to a man twice your age. Yeah, the kind of drunk where statutory rape happens.

“You look so beautiful,” he’d say. “Move your hair to the side. Perfect.” His direction turned me on. I wanted to feel like a sexy woman, not a fourteen-year-old kid straight off the plane from California, and the way he told me how to look like a grown woman turned me on wildly.

The shoot was going great and we were flirting with each other, and then he kissed me. I felt warm, fuzzy, and very soft. And most of all, I felt wanted. I felt desired. He made me feel like my dream of becoming Paulina Porizkova was coming true. Right then. Right there in his photo studio. He made me feel how I felt looking at Paulina’s photo that first time in my dad’s Playboy.

I was posing on a chaise lounge in this little dress and he found every excuse to get closer to me, to remove the space between his camera and my body. He’d say, “Let me pull your strap up.” Or, “Here, it would look better if you unbuttoned one more button.” The next thing I knew, he slid his hand up my thigh and I shivered.

I’ll never forget the feeling I got in the pit of my stomach. I still get that feeling sometimes even today. It’s a feeling that something is just not right and I can’t quite put my finger on it. It almost takes my breath away. I had that feeling when he started feeling up my leg and putting his fingers inside me, and touching my nipples. I was very turned on and hot for him, but something didn’t feel right.

Finally, he lay on top of me, lifted up my dress, pulled my panties off, and spread apart my drunken legs. I was having an out-of-body experience. He finally inserted himself, and I was wet for him. We had sex for about fifteen minutes, and I remember being wasted during most of it. But I also remember feeling some pain. I was a virgin, after all. I just kept thinking, “Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?!” It felt feverish. He was like a jackhammer, and I was not enjoying it.

I never said “no” or “stop.” I felt like it was my fault because I enticed him. I brought it on. I flirted with him and kissed him. I had this way of flirting too far, where you push and push and push and tease and tease and tease until something finally happens. That’s what this was. Later on, I didn’t talk to the other models or my manager about it because I didn’t want to get a reputation or lose jobs, so I just kept quiet. To me, at the time, it wasn’t rape because I consented. But it wasn’t right, either. I always thought I’d lose my virginity to someone like Joe Elliott, the lead singer of Def Leppard, in a field of flowers. This was not that.

After we were done, I told him I was a virgin, and he asked, “Are you kidding?”

“Nope. I am.”

“Wow, maybe I should have been gentler.”

“Why?”

“Well, you don’t treat a virgin the same way you treat any old regular girl.”

After that, we continued the photo shoot as if nothing happened. This is where “The Switch” kicked in. This is when I changed forever and it sent me on the path to porn. He was done. I was done. OK, I can move on and finish the shoot now. I was completely professional and acted like nothing had happened. I had a job to do and I was going to do it well. This switch kicked in where I could turn it on and turn it off at will. I could go through a painful, weird, drunken sexual experience and in the next second be back in front of the camera all smiles and ready to give it my all again. Have sex, move on. This MO would serve me quite well when I starting doing porn.

I actually liked turning this sex queen on and off. It really did work well for me for a while, and not just in porn, but also in my real-life relationships. If that first sexual experience went differently, would I still be a porn star? I don’t know. I think my emotional life would’ve been different, that’s for sure. But I don’t have any regrets, because if I wasn’t a famous porn star, I wouldn’t have been able to call up the man of my dreams from three thousand miles away and make him my husband. I wouldn’t have millions of dollars and be recognized all over the world. As fucked-up as it may sound, if it weren’t for porn, I probably would still be this shy little introverted girl nicknamed Spider. As violating as it may seem, that sexual experience made me who I am today, and I love who I am today.

Two days after losing my virginity, I wanted to have sex again. I went out with a group of models—Alberto and Nancy from Holland, Cole from Florida, Kay from L.A. (who was dating Guns N’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan), and Orly and Galit from Israel. We headed out to the Lexington Queen and I finally came face to face with one of my idols: Axl Rose of Guns N’ Roses. The band was in town to play the Tokyo Dome, and I couldn’t go to the show because I had a job, but we were all going to meet up after.

I was sitting there on one of the couches, glass of champagne in hand, strobe lights pulsating away to the club music playing loudly. Over the music, I said to one of the other girls, “Oh, my God. This is so cool! We’re going to meet Guns N’ Roses.” And just as the words left my mouth, Axl Rose came walking through the club in a long fur coat. I was so starstruck that I didn’t speak to him. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at everything around me. I was so intimidated being around this crowd of people, but I was also keenly aware of how cool it was to be so young and in a foreign country and among all these beautiful, famous people. I knew that I was now closer than ever to fucking a rock star.

I was pretty sexed-up this particular night. I spent much of the evening chatting up some Guns N’ Roses groupies who were much older and more experienced than I was. With a few drinks in me I felt loosened up enough to ask a question that was on my mind: How do you give a blowjob? I was already plotting the end of my night and I knew I wanted to fool around with someone, so I thought I should learn a few tricks, and who better to learn from than these gorgeous rocker-chick groupies. A really hot petite blond groupie gave me the best advice of my sexual life up to this point:

“Here’s what you do—practice on a popsicle. Get your mouth nice and wet and start by opening up wide and putting your lips out over the popsicle, then slowly slide the popsicle as far down your throat as you can go while making a sucking motion with your mouth. Alternate between sucking hard and fast and teasing it slowly with the tip of your tongue. Whatever you do, don’t do the same motion the entire time. You have to change it up!”

Instead of going home with one of the guys in the band, though, I went home with two models, Alberto and Cole. Alberto was tall and skinny with thick black wavy hair and a black beard he kept neatly trimmed. He had a really sharp nose and square jaw and piercing ice blue eyes. Like many models, he was a chain smoker, and I found it sexy. Cole had thick brown wavy hair and had more of a husky, football-player build with a great broad chest.

They got me drunk on a drink called Cookies & Cream, which was a sickly sweet concoction containing lots of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

I was feeling like a sex kitten and it made me feel in control. I wanted to wrap my arms and legs around every hot guy I saw and just rub my body on them. I just loved men and even though that first experience wasn’t great, I wanted sex again. It made me feel powerful. It still does. So the guys took me back to their apartment in Tokyo and I couldn’t wait to put the Guns N’ Roses’ groupies’ advice to use. There was no time to practice on a popsicle; the real deal was happening right then and there. I remember putting Alberto’s dick in my mouth for the first time and being excited to drive him crazy. The groupie girl’s words echoed in my head: “Whatever you do, don’t do the same motion the entire time.” With that in mind, I was all over his cock. I went from taking it deep in my throat to flicking the head with my tongue to sucking him hard and fast to taking his hard cock in and out of my mouth as he begged for more. It was easy because he didn’t have a big dick, so I was able to really go to town on it. I’m sure it was the worst blowjob ever, but he seemed to like it. We had sex after that while Cole jerked off and watched.

At the time, I couldn’t figure out why I was doing what I was doing. I was so immature. Just a little kid. All the other girl models were like, “What the fuck is her problem?” I think it was obvious to everyone that I was drinking and slutting around more than the other girls, especially girls my age. It wasn’t that bad, though. I only slept with two guys. But I fooled around with three others. For a girl my age it was a little out of control.

A week later, I couldn’t sleep and Galit gave me Valium. I’d taken it before, but taking it this time set me on a bad path. At first I took it just to sleep, but pretty soon I was taking it all the time.

I was fourteen years old, living on my own in a foreign country, and sleeping with guys twice my age. How much could a few pills hurt?