It all started with a breakdown. A kiss hello from Mr. Marcus and Sean Michaels. It all started with touchdown, and then lift off. Newark NJ, down to the shore, up to Edison, and off into New York. It all started with a yes, a hello, and a goodbye. It started, in me.
Newark airport was expected to be filled with pornstars arriving from LA to sign at the Exxxotica Expo. I expected to see 400 random broads in Friday nights best, but thankfully only ran into people whose company I enjoy. Mr Marcus and Michaels, Kylie ireland, and Ginger Lynn. All preoccupied with getting there, all except of course for Sean, who is always a gentleman, dapper, kind and attentive. He is one o the few men in adult I never had sex with, but always entertained fantasies. Not many men like him in adult, not many men like him on this planet. He is out of my league.
Taryn picked angel and me up at the airport, we went back to her pad on the shore, enjoyed some tasty pizza and went to sleep. Sleep is great. I’ve been a fan of doing it for awhile so when it comes time for sleepy time, I get down with the get down. I slept light Thursday night, because in all reality, this weekend represents the death of Penny Flame, and in attending the Expo, I would be attending my own funeral. Here are some thoughts leading up to this idea:
The packing of ones suitcase for such an event became a monumental action in preparing me for the funeral. Every single piece of evidence, physical evidence I own that shows I’ve been in porn for 8 years has been sitting in my living room closet for the past six months. Over one hundred DVDs, thousands of 8×10 slicks and toys galore filling plastic tubs to the point of explosion piled high, so high that I felt it necessary to drape curtains over, felt the need to hide my evidence from my own eyes, as if opening the closet and being able to see all the shit I’ve bought in hopes of selling to guys in strip clubs would somehow bring me back into the business, would somehow whisper to me in the middle of searching for a jacket “just say fuck this and be the pornstar you are…” I pulled my entire career from the closet, dumped it all over my entryway, became immediately overwhelmed, and sat down to cry. And I’m not quite sure why…
Maybe I cried because my entire career is laid out on my floor, pulled from the dusty tubs that contained memories of a million lives, a lifetime ago, an entirely different person.
Maybe I cried because it felt as though once this shit is no longer sitting in my closet, it’s officially over. Selling off the rest of my schwagg means I will never have need to appear as a pornstar again. I will never get to play this amazing character whose identity has usurped my own, who is tragically flawless and emotionly void, beautifully terrible and purely evil. Once I sell off this merchandise there will be nothing in my home physically tying me to my alter ego, the only remnants a school girl outfit here, a pleather skirt there, some plastic heels and fishnet stockings, which are also waiting to be sold to the highest bidder, a final farewell. Once the closet is empty, the only thought lingering of a woman it took 8 years to perfect will be in my head. Her destruction a mere six months, and a few thousand dollars.
Maybe I cried at the thought of selling my career. Like selling homework assignments I’ve put my all into, maybe I cried because I can pack 8 years of work into a northface duffel bag, can zip away my smiling face, check it into American Airlines and pay extra if it’s all heavier than 50lbs. If my career weighs over 50lbs I owe an extra 50 dollars, and I owe that 50 whether it’s 2 lbs over or 10lbs. My entire career can be checked for $50, and bought for under $2000. There is something intrinsically depressing about this thought, something brutally honest and unfathomably true. Surreally sincere.
Friday I signed, brought half of my merchandise to the show in hopes of selling the first half, which did not happen. Instead, I met a man who was obviously experiencing the same emotional turmoil as I. He stood in front of my booth.
“I’m getting a little choked up looking at all your DVDs. I mean, you entire career is on this table, for sale, and once it’s gone it’s over. This is so finite. I’m going to miss you.”
I felt my eyes watering over, and flashed a Penny Flame smile, one that swallowed down the salty tears forming in my eye, a reassuring smile that said “everything is fine” while my lips pressed the words “I know, thank you for your support, thank god I’ve shot enough content I will always be young and there will always be fresh content of me. I will be like Marilyn, I’ll never grow old, I’ll never die,” over coffee stained teeth, cigarettes still on my breathe and a drink not far from my mind.
That night, upon returning to Taryns home, I decided to leave this bag of schwagg in the truck, no point bringing it upstairs to bring it right back down in the morning. Besides I didn’t want to think about my funeral anymore, didn’t want to carry the body bag. I left it in the car, ate some frozen yogurt and went back to sleep. I dreamt of drinking champagne, of lying to Angel and saying goodbye. The next morning I awoke, showered and wore black, all black, because it is appropriate to wear black to ones own funeral. As I came downstairs, it became apparent that something had gone terribly wrong.
The car, and everything in it, has been stolen.
I thought “bad for Taryn, but now I only have to sell half the product to walk away from my former identity. Now I will definitely sell everything.”
Sometimes things go terribly wrong.
To be continued…