You Wanna Be my Freak?

The day before my strip-club audition, I made an amateur porn tape with a 6'6", 350-pound actor and ex-NFL player who called himself Bear.

We'd met two months earlier, in the office of a Hollywood talent agent who shall be known only as Dirty, Old Nobody – or D.O.N. for short. At the time, Bear was D.O.N.'s biggest client. Bear was currently recurring on a minstrel black sitcom that starred a future Oscar-winning, Ray-Charles-playing actor/comedian/singer. The first episode hadn't aired yet, but would in a matter of weeks.

I was there to audition. I nailed a dramatic scene from the play Oleanna, complete with real tears. D.O.N. thought I was a "terrific actress," but worried that I wasn't sexy enough. Bear put in a good word for me, helping convince D.O.N. that I was worth taking a chance on.

A couple weeks later, Bear laid the rap down hot and heavy, intimating that if I "helped" him sexually, he'd "help" me financially. So I helped him. And I received mutual aid of $43.70 when he dumped the contents of his wallet in my lap.

I met talent manager, Stripper Pimp, that very same day, and our six-week relationship had taught me two things: (1) I could advance my acting career by stripping and (2) Stripper Pimp was incapable of meeting my sexual needs.

So Bear's mid-day booty call was a welcome diversion.

I met Bear at a seedy motel, where he proceeded to set up a camcorder on a makeshift tripod of phone books, all the while muttering about the room being too dark.

I didn't utter a single word of protest.

We started going at it and bam! – the camcorder hit the floor. Bear cursed a bit and shut the camera off. He had bigger plans than a homemade porn tape.

"You wanna be my freak?" he asked in his sexiest voice (which I didn't find sexy at all). Would I do him, other men, other women, groups of men and groups of women?

I said yes like it was nothing.

"Future A-Lister is gonna love that great, big ass of yours," he grinned.

So that was his angle. Bear thought that if he gift-wrapped me and gave me to Future A-Lister, he might get upgraded from a recurring role to a series regular. No word on what I'd get out of the deal, though. Another $43.70? Or just the pleasure of basking in his second-hand glow?

As for stripping?

"Girl, you better make that money while you can."

I tried to practice my first-ever lap dance on him and burst into tears. "Naw, girl, that ain't right. You gotta get closer. No, closer. Closer!"

He concluded that I "wasn't ready" and took me on a mid-afternoon field trip to Ron's Barbary Coast, a strip club that was all hood, up to no good and surprisingly close to my house.

The girls were rough. Half were fat, some were on drugs, and some had visible scars. They could leap to the top of the pole and slide down upside-down and spread-eagled, crotch smearing the metal. They could pump their booties at 100 miles per hour.

To someone who had never quite mastered a cartwheel, it was both vulgar and intimidating.

At the edge of the stage, two guys wadded up dollar bills and aimed them at the girls' crotches, laughing the whole time.

Bear loved the Barbary Coast. It was a place where hos catered to hood rats. He introduced me to a dancer named Red, who he claimed would "have me whistling Dixie" in a future threesome. She brazenly put her hand on my thigh and squeezed.

I didn't even squirm.

I didn't care what happened to me. Tomorrow I would be trading my Yale degree for a life as a hoochie-mama stripper. I was numb on the surface, but beginning to feel blazingly, murderously angry underneath. It was almost like I was dead, but amazingly, my crotch still worked.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 8 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)

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