Underneath It All (22 page)

My weekend jaunt to Los Angeles had been the perfect blend of good food and old friends, Jeff's final kiss being the icing on the cake. I returned to work in Canada with a spring in my step and a lingering feeling about a certain bartender. Did he think I was a tease? I was a serial monogamist who seemed to have an undesirable talent for attracting bad relationships and I just didn't want to do that again.
As I sat in my trailer on the set of
First Wave
, engrossed in the upcoming week's script, I gasped in mock horror when I learned my character would be possessed by the alien Antichrist Mabus! What fun! Oh goody . . . oh goody . . . oh boy! 1 called Chris Brancato, thrilled with the evil plot he had conjured tip. My imagination ran wild as I fantasized about tormenting my fellow cast members—
I would enjoy this!
Brancato encourage me to unleash my wrath on the unsuspecting alien fighters. Man, I loved my job!
Brancato called me from Los Angeles the following week, having just gotten in the first Jordan/Mabus dailies. He applauded my performance and teasingly announced, "You're a great villain. I should have made you a bitch a long time ago!"
"Hey!" I feigned indignation, clearly pleased to have my work praised by the producer. He filled me in on my character's story line for the remaining episodes and told me of his plan to have Jordan/Mabus seduce Cade Foster in a coupling that would result in Jordan becoming pregnant with his child.
Holy cow! I was going to be a pregnant alien Antichrist!
Days later, costar Sebastian Spence and I climbed onto a round bed, nearly naked, but not quite, to film a very PG-rated, TV-friendly love scene. We treated it like any other scene, but for me, as tame as it was and as smoothly as it went, it was a big deal. I wondered if the scene was really necessary.
Or was it about getting Traci Lords to do a love scene?
Any other actress would have concerns about that kind of scene, but no other actress would have had mine. Was I being overly cautious because of my past? Was every screen kiss today magnified because of it? Did my sexuality have extra weight because of the porn queen title?
Did I still have something to prove?
As the final season of
First Wave
came to an end, so did my time in Canada. During that year I'd found the balance that had eluded me my entire life. I don't know why it took moving away from everyone to discover that missing piece of myself, or if that's really why or what happened, but I do know that I returned to Los Angeles one layer thinner, stripped of what remained of my own judgment about myself.
It was during those days that I realized there was nothing screwed up or missing or wrong about me. I was just a work in progress, like everyone else, and in truth I was as shockingly normal as they came. I'd just had an extraordinary journey.

On December 23, 2000 I walked into Muse and took a seat at the bar. My pal Tierney had some lingering business to finish up and left me in Jeff's very capable hands. I hadn't seen him or spoken to him since our kiss, but I'd thought about him often.
With my best Ohio twang, I teased, "How'd a nice western boy like you end up in a place like this?"
"This is fer mad money, honey," he answered back in a thick Colorado accent. "You should see what I do fer real kicks!"
I was intrigued to learn bartending was an amusing night out for this man named Jeff. His day job was far more intense: he was a union ironworker.
How sexy!
"A union ironworker working nights in an oh-so-Hollywood bar?! Really now—that's a new one," I said, almost spitting my olives across the room, my head filled with images of him in a hard hat and a faded pair of Levi's 501s.
Oh my goodness.
I nearly slid off my seat as I threw back the rest of my martini, grateful Tierney had come to save me from myself. Down, girl!
I started dating Jeff in February 2001. Apparently, I was the only one who hadn't noticed the crush he'd been nursing on me for the past
seven years
! He said he was a patient man, and over the next several months, I found out how true that really was. But I was cautious going into this relationship, testing him often, wanting proof that he wasn't going to hold my life against me as so many others had.
Looking back today I realize I had neverreally gotten over Brook.
Was it possible that I'd been in love with him all along?
For years I was convinced he was "the one who got away," and during my time in Canada, I'd decided to do something about that. I'd reconnected with Brook, revisiting those feelings and finally putting them to rest. Ironically, I discovered I'd been hooked on the idea of him as the husband and family man but not really on him, and while I was glad we could remain friends, thankfully, his ghosts had finally left the building. My heart had a vacancy, but squatters were not welcome, and I spent the next few months scrutinizing potential resident Jeffery Lee.
At the very least, our relationship had seven years of history behind it. Jeff and I had shared many a late-night chat at Muse about everything from boyfriends to jobs to sex, and we already had an ease with each other that was rare. It also helped that there was a lot I didn't have to walk him through. He got life. He was a grown-up. His thirty-eight years on this planet had left him with his own battle wounds. He was a fighter and I appreciated that. I saw a kindred spirit in him.
Our relationship blossomed. We wasted no time on the petty stuff new couples sometimes struggle with. He wasn't interested in how many lovers I'd had, or who was the best, or any of that kind of meaningless ego stuff. He was secure in himself, smart and sensitive, and I was impressed.
One evening at dinner in a romantic restaurant in the Hollywood Hills, the heel of my brand-new Gucci shoe broke. While I was glad to be sitting when it occurred, I was mortified at the thought of how I would leave the restaurant with a crippled shoe, in a town where image is everything. I whispered my dilemma to my handsome date and he just smiled, telling me to pass the shoe under the table to him. Hiding it beneath his jacket, he excused himself to the men's room. What was he going to do? Did he have a miniature welding machine in his pocket?
He returned to the table and discreetly slipped the repaired shoe back on my foot. We finished our meal and managed to make it out the front door and into the cool spring air before heel snapped off again. I laughed, grateful for the rig job at least, and leaned on him to steady myself. Jeff was the kind of man a girl could lean on and a woman could trust.
Six months later, we strolled arm in arm down a woolen pier in Moorea, Tahiti, a bottle of our favorite red wine in hand, We cozied up on the edge of the pier and looked out over I he pristine turquoise water with not another soul in sight. Speaking softly, our sarongs dancing in the tropical air, we sipped our vino and rested in each other's arms.
A brilliant sunset of orange and yellow painted the sky, and Jeff's fingers slowly ran through my hair. The sun was so warm and his skin was so hot. I wanted him tokiss me, and I wasn't afraid of what would happen next. . . . I was that little girl again . . . ten years old in the field . . . but everything was different — I was wiser and those wounds were badges of courage.
He sees me, I thought, he really sees me.
And here I am.
"Will you marry me?" he whispered in my ear.
I guess that broken Gucci slipper was an omen, because Jeff turned out to be the prince of princes. I'd given up looking for Mr. Right. He'd been right under my nose all along.
On a glorious February morning in 2002 I drove up Pacific Coast Highway listening to U2 sing "Beautiful Day" and feeling like it truly was. My long red hair danced in the wind and my cell phone rang every so often, bringing me greetings and well wishes from my best friends Juliet, Donna, and Danna.
I arrived at the private beach club just before noon and greeted the waiting staff. My dressing room was already filled with my giddy friends, and my hairdresser Reny whisked me into a chair and started combing out my windblown locks. I sipped a Starbucks latte and watched the waves crash through the big glass window overlooking the sea. People were rushing around outside. The scent of gardenias hung in the air, and the unseasonably warm February breeze sent iridescent teal green tablecloths dancing.
Fishnets decorated the buffet tables and caterers bustled in the back kitchen. The whole place buzzed with excitement as guests began to arrive. Donna did my makeup and Reny pulled up my hair into a cascading mass of curls. Juliet and Danna helped me slip into my gown and John Tierney practiced the "butchest" way to hold the bridal bouquet, taking his role as the "best thing" very seriously.
Jeff and I were married quietly on that afternoon, overlooking the ocean in Malibu, California. We were surrounded by the most important people in our lives.
My mother was one of them.

I have spent the last twenty years of my life trying to figure out who I am, what I stand for, and what my journey here on earth is all about.
I've always believed that celebrities are given a platform, a stage, that enables them to comment on things in a very public way. Whether they choose to do so or actually have anything to say is another story. I for one have always been a bit reluctant to speak out on certain subjects, mainly because words have a way of getting tangled up. After having several articles come out filled with half-truths, untruths, and various other slants, I chose silence as a defense.
Writing this book has broken that silence. It terrifies me on one level, to give my innermost thoughts to whoever chooses to read them, but it gives me great satisfaction to know that I finally got to tell my side of the story, after years of being terribly misunderstood.
I talked about the onion effect earlier and once again I find myself surrounded by peelings. My quest for balance still continues after all these years, but I look at life differently now. I don't believe things are black or white anymore. I see the gray area. I carry with me the scars of my battles, but my heart has healed a great deal.
While I now have a caring relationship with my mother and sisters, I've accepted the fact that that will never be the case with my father.
The hardest person for me to forgive has been me. I thought for such a long time that I was just a bad girl, and what happened to me was simply all my fault. Working those issues out in front of the camera, first in porn, then later in mainstream Hollywood, was hell. Today I feel about porn as I feel about an episode of
Jerry Springer
: I just can't stomach it.
Today porn is everywhere I look. I find it in the junk mail folder on my computer, it peers at me from local magazine racks, and sits blatantly in the window of the liquor store where I buy my wine. Porn stars play themselves on television shows, appear on billboards, and give interviews about how "liberating" porn is for women. Well, I believe it's anything but. It annoys me that I can't block out these unwanted intrusions in my life. I find the junk mail insulting, the box covers inappropriate (in a public place), and the women who claim porn is liberating, irresponsible.
It disturbs me deeply to think some young girl could hear what these women say, find out about my start in porn, and think that is a viable path to success. While I am opposed to government censorship, I can't help but wonder where it will stop. When is sex no longer sexy? I have struggled with that question in both my career and personal life. And I have come to the conclusion that, while I find sexuality and eroticism as healthy as laughter and as nourishing as good food, I believe hard-core porn is desensitizing to the viewer and that it objectifies its performers. I am speaking from personal experience when I tell you that while many porn stars may look pretty on the outside, I have never met one who wasn't damaged by a business that makes it impossible to think of its "stars" as human at all.
I hate that I'm the poster child for a business I loathe. I'm constantly reminded all these years later that I was a teenage porn star by people from all walks of life, people who are either ignorant of the fact that I was just a kid when I made those movies twenty years ago or who just refuse to see me in any other way. I find it infuriating at times and just plain simple in others. All I can say is, it keeps me humble!

Growing beyond the porn queen image has been a daunting task in Hollywood. There were those who accepted me, gave me a chance, and to them I will be forever grateful. And then there were the others: the producer who got cold feet and fired me the day before I was to start work because he was afraid I would "taint" his project; the network exec who had my role cut because he didn't think I belonged on his network (though he's known to have a large collection of my bootleg tapes). I could go on and on, but I won't. They say if something doesn't kill you it makes you stronger. And in my case it's true.

I think about how close I came to becoming another statistic and it chills me. I was another runaway, another molested child, another victim of sexual predators. But underneath it all I was a survivor. I chose to write this book for that very reason.

I walked into the beauty salon giggling like a schoolgirl, my Starbucks latte in one hand and a ringing cell phone in the other. I smiled wickedly as I switched it off. For the next hour and a half no one would be able to find me! It was just me, hair color 841, and a pungent twenty-volume peroxide. Ahhh, a morning of beauty. What every author needs after schlepping across the United States hawking her book.
In the weeks after its publication, I'd done hundreds of interviews for radio, television, and print, traveling from Texas to D.C. to San Diego. Along the way, I made many store appearances. Old boyfriends and schoolmates as well as complete strangers showed up at my signings. My high school sweetheart read the book and gave me one of the most heartfelt apologies I've ever received. I was overwhelmed. People I'd never laid eyes on before confided in me, sharing their most intimate stories. They told me things I quite frankly didn't always want to know. From sexual advice to mental health referrals, I was a taller Dr. Ruth. They came in droves, an endless army of humans who had struggled with similar demons, and helped prove to me that I really wasn't alone.
Relishing a moment of peace in my regular grooming parlor in Los Angeles, I began to think about the Book Soup appearance later that night on the Sunset Strip. I certainly wasn't going to show up with a head full of roots! I had friends flying in from Canada and New York, and my pal, designer Rebecca Richards, had stitched me up a fabulous frock to wear. I was on edge. Maybe it was from being home for a moment, maybe it was seeing the support around me, or maybe I was just feeling the cracks in the interior.
The tour had been fantastic in many ways. But it had also been really difficult. I started out with a glorious review from
Publishers Weekly
and a much-anticipated interview with
Dateline
. Everything had lined up beautifully . . . and then I hit a bump. In the world of media journalists the luck is in the draw, and I got a lousy hand. The
Dateline
piece was a huge disappointment for me. Unfortunately they assigned my interview to a journalist who seemed to have written the story before he'd even met me. While some interviewers understood my book as an attempt to shed light on how my life had evolved and my desire to use my own story as a cautionary tale, he seemed to willfully misinterpret my motives and chose to see it as a nefarious plot to rewrite the history of a "bad girl."
The show went for the cheap shots and sexed up the whole thing. They tried to push me to give them permission to use clips from the last porn movie I ever did. I refused. Ultimately, no clips were used but they saw fit to interview my former porn agent, and I was horrified. The last thing I ever wanted to do was give that man any more publicity, which is exactly why I changed his name in the book. I didn't want any other innocent young girls to seek him out thinking he might give them an entree into "show business." Having explained my position to
Dateline's
producer and the journalist who interviewed me, I was stunned by their decision to give him airtime.
The piece was shown the first night of the book tour. I sat my Dallas hotel room, gaping at the broadcast and cringing as this foul little man called me a liar. It was all I could do not to throw the television out the window. I was livid, absolutely inconsolable. Several martinis later, I passed out feeling even worse.
That night I dreamed I was the murderous bride in Quentin Tarrantino's movie
Kill Bill
I woke deeply disturbed by the glee with which I'd slain my enemies. In that moment, I felt a pure, unapologetic hatred wash over me. It made me sick, literally, that anyone could affect me like this. Retching in an elegant bathroom high above the city I doubted everything, especially myself. As the sun rose, I popped an aspirin and headed for the airport. I was due in D.C. that evening. There was no more time to wallow.
Next up was Larry. King, whom I hadn't seen since
Cry-Baby
days. In my vulnerable state, I was grateful not to be speaking to a complete stranger. He asked tough questions but did it in a respectful way. We laughed easily during commercial breaks. I felt safe, well liked, and, most important, seen. It meant a lot to me when he closed the interview by saying, "I'm really glad you're happy now, Traci." I was screaming on the inside, wanting desperately to tell him how hard doing these interviews was. But I took a deep breath instead, feeling his words land. He was right. I was happy! My life was rich with love and the kind of success I'd always hoped for. Why was I letting a few fools drag me down? Larry King had inadvertently been the voice of reason at a time when the past and present weighed so heavily on my mind that I had momentarily forgotten that these were the good days!
Soon I was off to New York to chat with Matt Lauer on the
Today
show. Matt was everything the
Dateline
interviewer was not. He was intelligent, sensitive, and genuinely curious about my life. He understood my desire to send a wake-up call to parents, and I left the studio with some of the bounce back in my step. They weren't all bad guys after all.
As I walked down Forty-fifth Street toward Times Square, the stench of ripe garbage assaulted me. I stood anonymous in the crowd, feeding off the frantic energy, taking in the faces.
Tonight, some of these very same people may come to see me,
I thought.
At five o'clock I arrived at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square and was whisked through a back door into the building. A reporter from
Inside Edition
, the tabloid TV show, was waiting in the corridor to interview me. I laughed out loud as the journalist introduced herself. "Forgive me," I said, "but this is truely like returning to the scene of the crime."
"No kidding," she replied. "You snubbed me at the
Blade
premiere.''
I was really amused now. "Yeah, well, you guys have trashed me in the past and I hold a grudge!"
Dateline
had sure cured me of any lingering respect I had for the media.
She shrugged, defeated, adding weakly, " I'm sure it wasn't personal."
AHHHHH! "You guys suck," I snapped.
We spent the next thirty minutes sparring with each other. I finished the interview, held my ground, and somehow managed to laugh at how ridiculous it all really was.
"I guess I'll remove you guys from my hit list," I quipped. "But don't let it happen again," I added, doing my best New York tough guy impersonation. I walked away laughing, but underneath it all the request was very real. I hoped now that I'd told the full story they wouldn't treat my past flippantly.
I turned the corner, a small army of handlers behind me, and walked right into my friend J.T.'s arms.
"Hello, gorgeous," he said, hugging me, talking a mile it minute. "It was hell getting through security. I had to show them my picture in the book! This place is a madhouse! Did you see the lines?"
As we walked through the doorway, I was thunderstruck by the mass of humanity. Faces peered at me and people started screaming my name. A stunning dark-haired man reached out for me. It took me a moment to realize it was my pal, photographer Mike Ruiz. I felt my eyes well up; my friends were all here, surrounding me. And my fans had come out in droves to support me. I was deeply moved. I swallowed hard, putting on my game face as I posed for the paparazzi.
Several hundred handshakes later, I found myself enjoying a moment with my publisher Michael Morrison at the after party. I was grateful for the opportunity to sit with him and thank him for his faith in me. Seriously, most writers never get published. I knew how lucky I was. And I felt the overwhelming urge to thank everyone in the room that night. Just as I was approaching full-on "gush" my editor Josh Behar saved me from myself. He was running on pure adrenaline. Wide-eyed and slightly crazed by the turnout, he slid into the booth next to me. This project was his baby and tonight was as much his victory lap as mine. We grinned at each other and I planted a wet one on his face.
"You did alright, Behar," I said, wiping the lipstick off his face.
Back in the salon, lost in my thoughts, I jumped when the timer went off. It was 10:17. My hair was cooked. Rubbed and scrubbed, I was then sent back out into the world to carry on with the day. No sooner had my feet hit the pavement, cell phone switched on, it all started again.
Ringggggggggg
. It was Juliet. Rats. I'm being hunted. I surrendered, answering the phone.
"Yes . . . Ms. Green . . ."
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Umm ... nowhere," I replied, feeling guilty as I slid into my car.
"Well," she said coyly. "Guess who just got accepted into the Fox Search lab?"
I lost my breath, my eyes welled up, and I gasped, "WHAT?! Me? Are you serious?" Oh my God! She was for real.
Weeks earlier, I had applied to Twentieth Century Fox's program for first-time directors, pitching an idea I had for a short film, but I'd heard nothing and feared the worst. Thinking I sucked and they just didn't want me, I went on the book tour and tried not to care. But I did care! I was so happy that I blasted the radio, singing along with Sheryl Crow, bawling all the way home. I couldn't wait to tell Jeff. I was going to write
and direct my first film! I promised myself that it would be shot by the end of the year.
I wrote "Sweet Pea" in the fall as soon as I was finished with my book tour duties. The idea came from an early chapter in this book called "The Curse of the C Cups." As much as I wanted to "turn the page" in regard to talking about my past, I found that as a writer my strength was in what I knew. I used my experience as a victim of rape to write a fictional story about a young girl who finds herself in a similar situation. I chose fiction because I felt that it would give me the emotional distance I needed as a writer/director.
Having completed a rough draft of my script I now had to assemble a crew. The budget I had been given was minuscule, meaning everyone who worked on the film would have to work for free. Now I understood why the Lab only accepted filmmakers
who had spent years working in the business. You had to be able to call in a whole lot of favors to put together a film with almost no cash. I got incredibly lucky.
On December 5, 2003, I walked onto the set of "Sweet Pea." It was seven in the morning and I felt like I was going to explode. We were shooting exteriors that morning and the weatherman said there was an 80 percent chance of rain. I could only pray that we'd finish before the storm hit. It was day one of a two-day shoot. And I'd never directed a thing in my life.
Oh man . . . what have I gotten myself into now?
I downed my third cup of coffee, pacing near craft service.
Calm down woman
, I ordered myself.
It's all under control
.
The actors were in makeup, the camera was in position, and we were ready to roll. I'd approached my position as director much as I approach my work as an actress. Homework. It's all about doing the prep. And I had. The storyboards were tight, the shot list was ready, and I could see the film already playing in my head. I just had to put it on the screen.
No problem
, I told myself, taking a seat behind the monitor.
I can do this
. I was no longer pacing, which was a good sign, but boy was I amped! was like jumping off a cliff and suddenly discovering I could fly. Whether or not I was good at it was a whole other thing, but the fact was that at that moment I had wings! It was the ultimate rush. I loved every minute of it.
Directing was the most challenging and fulfilling experience I've ever had working in the film industry. The learning curve was sharp. I was astonished that even after more than fifteen years on movie sets there was still so much I just didn't know. But I soon found my rhythm. I realized that flexibility was a key component. You plot it all out, and then you go with the moment. It's kind of like putting on a wet suit and fins and diving into a tidal wave. My perspective on filmmaking was forever changed. As a director, I saw a bigger picture. From the wardrobe to the wallpaper, it all painted a specific picture. My picture. It was the first time I had seen my vision from concept to creation come to life on film. And I was hooked.
Working with a stellar cast and crew we completed the movie in two very long days. It was grueling, but as I said my good-byes I felt like I had been part of something important. And I was proud. During production, I learned that nearly every single person who worked on the film had somehow been touched by rape in his or her life. Ironically, as much as I had tried to create some emotional distance from my own experience, I found it staring me right in the face. I surrendered to it and stood still. It wasn't the first time the waves had hit me, and once again they took me down.
As much as I've grown, healed, forgiven, and tried to forget, there is still a part of me that aches and remembers way too clearly what it feels like to be powerless, rendered silent. But at the end of the day, no matter what happens, I am no longer a victim of that silent shame. I am grateful to have somehow found my voice. In my heart I know, without a doubt, the drama of putting myself out there to be scrutinized is a ridiculously small price to pay for a truly blessed life.