Closing the Chapter on an Issue…

You may get the urge to flee what might appear, at first, to be a redundant, annoying and ridiculous rant, but hang in there, it actually goes somewhere, and I preserved it’s flow because I didn’t know where it was going until I wrote it.

I had a breakthrough moment Tuesday night… I think. I’ll say I had a breakthrough moment and then, because I said it, I’ll jinx myself and find out I really only imagined it. The joy of vocalizing life experiences and then… regression. Lovely. Well, for the sake of trying to be a know-it-all I am going to indulge myself, anyway!

It was an average evening. I was suffering from a head cold, but because I couldn’t eat or sleep, I sat in front of my computer like an automaton and cranked out the last bits of the video I’d been working on for three months. Mike posted it below, “Thank you, Mike!” Mike’s so cool… Anyway!

Doug, my darling, walked me to the corner store for Kleenex and other whatnot supplies, and as we were traversing Sunset Boulevard, within the vicinity of Book Soup, Doug mentioned that Tera Patrick’s book had been on display in the window a few weeks before. It was a passing moment, a conversational piece, nothing too punctuated or implied, and yet, to both our surprise, I turned into an instant bitch. Instant, as in, if it had been more instant I would have traveled back in time. Silly. It’s so damn silly, but I did. The next thing I know I’m going on a tangent about Tera and Jenna and then I’m attacking him, which bewildered him so much he fell completely silent. I tried backpedaling and avoiding and maneuvering in every which way, but there was no escaping the fact that I had stumbled upon a big fat issue I had yet to resolve. Like a thunder clap followed by a lightning bolt, it had split my brain without warning, shot out of my mouth and scorched the environment immediately in front of me. Doug was singed.

I apologized about ten minutes later, then went about verbally walking through what had happened and why. This is where I have progressed past some of my family members, who do not think about what they’ve said or done until weeks have gone by and sometimes never even apologize for the damage they’ve caused. I had to walk through it quite a few times because it was not really apparent what had happened. In fact, I’m still not one hundred percent sure I understand it, but at least I’m trying… I guess.

I like being happy for people who do well. Stacy Valentine, for instance. She is someone who did well as a performer. I like her. I’m happy for her. There are other well-known performers I like, too. She comes to mind, immediately, because she is a very sweet person. She’s kind and she’s real. She is someone that I think is a great influence on the people around her because of her gentile disposition and poise, and I am proud to call her my friend. … I want to be happy for everyone, I want to like everyone, it’s part of who I am. I am an Aquarian. I like to communicate, I like to understand human motivation, I think everyone has an interesting story to tell and every life is valid. I have a lot of love in my heart. And yet, it would seem that I loathe these two women with a passion that could set an entire planet on fire! I am terrified of speaking my true mind about it because it makes no logical sense whatsoever! In fact, it makes me look like a mean, strange, jealous, contradictory and typical female! To say such a thing represents the petty thinking of someone who wishes they had done the same thing, but I do not, and that is what doesn’t make any sense. There is something very weird and deep-seeded going on that I don’t comprehend, but it is there, it is real, and while I can say that, ‘Yes, it is still an enigma to me,’ I feel lighter for admitting it. In fact, as I write this I realize what it is. It isn’t the women at all, it’s the idea that the two most successful female porn star lives are written and that is that. That’s what it is! It’s the impossible finality of the biography as the sum up of a completed life, a life, which, to me, is still in it’s prime. It represents a paper prison, and it is as if there is no more story to tell. Hot damn! That’s it!! This is what I love about writing. The honesty. That’s why I couldn’t conform to that publisher’s rules. He wanted me to write a straight autobiography and I couldn’t do it. My life’s not over. The people I look up to, the people whose lives I think are really interesting never had an autobiography written while they were in their thirties. An autobiography is the end of a life, to me. It’s a full story. It doesn’t stop at the end of your sex-video-expiration-date. It’s an illusion and I have been looking at it the wrong way, but basically, and right to the point of it, an autobiography is synonymous with death. Which is ridiculous, of course, but that’s why I’m ill with feeling about it. I resent the implication that the thirty-something, retired porn star’s life is over, the story must be told and sold and then we, literally, close the book on it/her. I’m terrified of writing an autobiography because I’m afraid it means there’s nothing left to write about. I’m afraid it will kill me. Literary suicide. Man, I am dramatic!

Thank goodness I get it. Whew! On paper I look like a horrible person, but in my own mind I know I’m not that shallow – I know I don’t actually hate these people. In fact, now that I get the truth of my irrational fear, I am happy for them. An autobiography is about a full life, and while their lives are not over, their lives have been full.  And, of course, it’s also about making money, but you still have to have an interesting life to make money off of it because you have to pull people in and captivate them. I’m thrilled that a few books about the female porn star have actually done well. So many women have tried to write a good and honest chronicle of their lives and did not pull off the success these women have. The Secret Lives of Hyapatia Lee by Hyapatia Lee, Porn To Be Wild by Christy Canyon… Just a little research will reveal quite a few. Tera and Jenna were smart to hire ghost writers because a practiced writer understands what people want to read, they understand how to carry the story like a boat on a river. They know when to speed it up and send it crashing into waves, and they know when to slow it down and ease it into the purposefulness of reflection. It’s smart. Good business and they get there story out there, which in turn paves the way for others, hopefully.

Incredible. Well, that clears up an issue. I have residual guilt feelings because I didn’t do everything in my power to “close the book” on that part of my life and bank off of it, which I may not have been able to do, anyway. Let’s face it, I don’t have an interesting story by porn star standards. I feigned almost all of the industry trappings. I would not sleep with anyone who could actually do something for me. I got financial offers to have sex with a few well-known people and it turned me off. I mean, it really turned me off. I’m shallow that way. Is that shallow? I think maybe it is. These people were iconic figures in my mind and I did not want to ruin it by having sexual information about them. Plus I’m shy and not really interested in being what people expect, I guess. Contrary and paradoxical and rebelious. And though my short stories were funny and interesting as these little photographs in time, it doesn’t really matter if my entire story is interesting to anyone else. I’m happy to write regularly and have a home here on Mike’s blog and know that while my life is fairly plain, it’s still quite interesting to me. Now, it will probably be very interesting in ten-to-twenty years…

– Julie Meadows