I was the prototypical, new-to-Hollywood actress – desperate and hungry. I'd never seen his type before, but you can best believe, he'd seen mine hundreds of times. He knew exactly which buttons to push, and at least one of those buttons was below the navel.
The first test: will she come alone to my apartment? The audition, allegedly for a TV show about his all-girl singing group, took place in his apartment (not a casting office).
Our first meeting lasted a full hour. He was so interesting! The son of a Jazz legend. His brother was the president of Mercury Records. He'd worked at Motown, where he'd dated a Supreme and helped launch the Jackson 5. He'd managed a Taste of Honey when Boogie Oogie Oogie became their first big hit. Everything seemed legit.
Almost.
Because somewhere between me warbling off-key into a microphone and heading out the door, he'd managed to work in the question, "How do you feel about nudity?"
"Uh, I guess I'm ok with it as long as it's not porn." Right answer ... for Stripper Pimp.
The very next day, he invited me to lunch and extended an amazing invitation: He had some songs for me to learn, and I could perform as a solo act at the Fireside Lounge in Downey on Monday nights.
Test #2: can I get her in some revealing clothes? He took me to stripper shops on Hollywood Blvd. I ended up with a pair of 6" stilettos, but I couldn't fit any of the dresses I tried on. I was flat-chested, barely a B cup. "How do you feel about plastic surgery?" he asked.
Then came the most important test. Can I get this silly girl to hump me? Eight days after we met, Stripper Pimp called me: "I'm attracted to you. Is this just business, or are you attracted to me, too?"
"Both," I replied. Again, right answer ... for Stripper Pimp.
That night, I experienced the most perfunctory, uninspired, three-minute sex I'd ever had in my life. Normally, I would have been pissed, but for Stripper Pimp, I was surprisingly forgiving.
The most important element of our sexual escapade was this: The lights were on, the blinds were wide open and we did it in front of a mirror. After he finished cumming all over my dress, Stripper Pimp smiled a mischievous little-boy smile, bowed toward the open window and remarked, "If my neighbor was home, he'd have just gotten a show." His neighbor was a famous gangsta rapper from Long Beach.
That night, he handed me a talent management contract with some not-quite-standard provisions in it: a 25% commission on my work in motion pictures, television, dance, blah blah blah, in places of amusement and entertainment, blah blah blah.
The grooming process continued over the next month. There were seemingly legitimate talent-manager things: rehearsals, performances, advice on agents, new dresses. He even came to see me muddle through the lead role in a distressingly bad play.
But then again, Showgirls, a movie about stripping, just happened to be on when I came over. He'd casually mention how he had tried to talk a previous client into porn because he knew "the industry would accept her." He stressed "always look cute" and "never have boyfriends."
And finally, a month into our strange relationship, the grooming process nearly complete, he threw down the gauntlet. If I wanted to make it in the entertainment industry, I needed to become a "dancer."
(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 4 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
