The Inverted Girl 1 free porn video

Chapter 1: 1980-1982 Los Angeles. 1980. So here I am, just another teenybopper with long brown shoulder-length hair, wearing a pair of tight blue faded denim shorts, rolled up high, showing a lot of thigh, blue rubber flip-flops and a little white t-shirt, knotted at the belly, standing by the curb, hitchhiking with my thumb out, trying to get a ride down to Venice Beach, when this car slows down. I get inside and see it's Richard P., a famous black comedian behind the wheel. "Hey, sweetie, where you going?" It's obvious he thinks I'm girl from the way he's treating me, looking at me, but I'm not a girl, and I feel a little flutter in my stomach when he reaches out and squeezes my thigh. "Venice Beach..." I manage to reply. "Why? What's at the beach?" He looks me up and down. "I want to work on my tan." I blush for some reason. I can feel him gazing at my long bare legs. "Where are you going?" I ask him. "Home. I got a place in the Valley. It's big motherfuckin' mansion, really. You wanna come over? You can hang out by the pool. Work on your tan lines there. Then you don't have to worry about gettin' sand in your hair." I'm little nervous and scared, but he is Richard P., a world-famous comedian, so I feel like I'm safe to a certain extent, I mean, he's in the public eye, so what could go wrong, and how bad it could be? So, I said, "Yeah, sure, okay, thanks." And ran a hand through my hair. I was eighteen at the time. And a long way from home. So, Ritchie's house is really nice and his pool is really big. And so is his dick. He ends up fucking me in the cabana. I've never been fucked in the ass before. And I'm a little scared. And I'm not even sure I can take him inside 'cause I'm, like, really tight and this is all new to me. But we've been smoking a lot of pot and doing a bunch of blow, so that makes it a little easier to relax. "Get your ass up in the air, bitch!" He smacks me on the ass. It hurts a little. But it's exciting this game we're playing. Him treating me like a girl. And I guess I do look like a girl to some extent. I'm very thin and I have long brown hair. And I don't like body hair because I'm not a beast, I'm not an animal, I like to be smooth, and I am smooth except for a little patch of hair between my legs, and my little penis, barely poking out when I'm not excited, and then when I am, just three inches long. It's a good thing I don't see myself as being very manly, because then I'd feel, like, really inadequate. As it is, I've got a million other things to worry about because I'm really very shy, paranoid, insecure, neurotic and conflicted about who I am and what I feel, so it's hard for me to just relax and have a good time. But I'm also high as shit and that helps me get past all the crazy stuff in my head. So, I'm naked on the bed, on my knees, with my face buried in a pillow and my butt in the air, and then I feel Ritchie behind me, rubbing some lubricant into my asshole, pushing his finger in and out. I've never felt anything like that before. And it's weird, really weird. I'm tight and it hurts a lot at first. But then I finally relax. And when I do it doesn't hurt so much. In fact, it feels kind of nice him sliding in and out, filling me up, fucking me like a woman. I feel so weak and vulnerable right then... I feel like I can finally surrender and be who I really am. "That's right bitch..." He grunts and curses. "Tell me how much you like it!" And I tell him, "I do like it, Daddy, I like your big black dick!" Then he tells me I'm a slut, I'm a cheap worthless whore, and I have to agree with him, because deep down inside I feel like I really am a worthless whore, in fact, I'm his worthless whore, and when I finally admit that out loud we both cum at the same time. Then, for a while, I become part of Ritchie's household, one of his girls, I cook and clean, and take orders from his current-girlfriend, Monica, who likes to boss me around and tell me what to do. And that goes on for, like, six months. Ritchie has these sexual fantasies based on childhood traumas that he likes to, or has to relive and play out again-and-again, like he's a pimp and I'm a whore. It helps that I'm white and a boy, not a girl, because it flips the whole black-white power dynamic in, like, a really big way. And I don't care. I mean, I'm fine with letting him turn me into this white bitch whore who does what she's told, gets beat when she's bad, and makes him money when he snaps his fingers I jump up and put on something slinky, then we drive down to some sleazy bar or some swank hotel where he has me sit on a barstool until some guy comes up and tells me I'm cute and we chat for a little bit, laugh and drink, then I follow him out to the parking lot and give him a blow job in a car for like 20 bucks. Ritchie takes the money. He doesn't need it. And I don't care. It's all symbolic anyway; me surrendering to him and the guy at the bar, his cock, my mouth sliding up and down, sucking him until he comes in my face--it's all incidental. Like the money. It's just a way to show him how much I really care. And I do care for a while. Ritchie's nuts but he can be fun, and we do a lot of drugs together, snorting coke, smoking grass, and I get to lie out by the pool in a black string bikini working on my phenomenal suntan, drinking gin and tonics as the sun rises in the sky, living the Hollywood life that I imagined when I was back east... look at me now... a beautiful girl by a swimming pool in Los Angeles. This is success. I've achieved my dream. So now what? It just gets deeper and deeper for a while. Ritchie buys me sexy lingerie and pretty dresses. He fucks me in the ass and tells me to suck his dick. And I spend a lot of time getting high, looking in the mirror, admiring myself, trying on different clothes. I'm blonde now. And I've got red roses tattooed on my lower back. Ritchie gets mad all the time. He's unpredictable. He's got girlfriends and wives. And drug friends who come by. It's all a blur. Faces. People. Bodies. When Ritchie gets mad, he hits me, he slaps me, he calls me a stupid bitch, a worthless whore. He loses control. He's filled with rage. It all goes back to Peoria, Illinois, where he was raised by his grandmother, a tough, hard-bitten woman who ran three whorehouses with an iron fist, where his father was a pimp, where his mother was a whore who fucked and sucked-off white men for a few dollars a pop... while little Ritchie watched, crouched down, peeping at a keyhole... it fucked him up... and he took it out on me... and I didn't care because I felt like I deserved all this... I deserved to be turned into a woman, dressed up like a slut, pimped out like a whore... because I was a whore... that's what Ritchie told me over and over while he fucked me in the ass. I had curly blond hair and red lips and I was wearing a black bra and black satin panties pulled down around my thighs and black high heels. I probably weighed 140 pounds but my butt looked big in the mirror as he fucked me from behind, he said, "Now you're the butt of the joke... not me..." And I'm okay with that because I really don't have a whole lot of ambition... I mean there's nothing I want to do... I mean Ritchie has plenty of money and plenty of drugs and I don't have any plans or goals or anything... so I'm not real threatening and I feel like that's what Ritchie needs right now... a white boy he can turn into a girl and punish for all the bad things white people did to his mother... so I'm like a sexual surrogate that he can use to work out all this negative shit while I suck his dick and he tells me I'm his white ho bitch. So that goes on, like I said, for almost six months. But then Ritchie gets bored. He wants a new play toy. And I'm like trying to figure out who I really am. A girl? A boy? Both? Is there anything inside me? Any genuine thoughts or feelings that matter? Or am I just a ghostly apparition in a tight black corset and spiky high heels? Women hit on me. Guys hit on me. Marlon hits on me at a party. Ritchie doesn't care. Marlon's fat and gross but he's famous, so I'm flattered. Only later do I learn that Marlon will fuck anything. A tube-steak. A watermelon. It's all the same to Marlon. Anything wet and juicy will do. So, I guess I'm a likely candidate. "Sit on my lap." Marlon instructs me. He's too big and fat to move. So, I scoot over and sit on his lap. By that point he's so far gone... so anti-Hollywood... he could very well be Col. Kurtz. He's in his own world and there are no rules. Marlon does whatever he wants. So there I am in my little white pleated skirt and my pink tube top and my white plastic heels with my ankle bracelet and my false eyelashes and my belly ring and my pinkie ring and my dangly earrings and my platinum blonde hair falling sharp and straight and my big red lips and, well, of course he wants me... I want me when I see myself in the mirror, I nearly swoon... So, he has me unzip his pants and suck his dick at his house in the Hollywood Hills... and I have to say his dick isn't all that big, or maybe it just seems that way because he's so fat... but he doesn't care. He cares even less about himself than I care about me. He's sick of Hollywood, he's sick of fame... he knows it's all a ridiculous joke... and he just lets himself go. Like he'll fart in my face when I suck his dick, then he lubes me up with a tube of butter like he did in that movie but he falls asleep before he can fuck me in the ass... he's an old man, really... and he's totally burned out... but I like him for some reason... when I look at him I see like all these other faces... roles like dreams that he played when he was younger... and that's whose cock is in me now... as I ride up and down... bouncing up and down... I can feel him getting harder, I can feel him explode... he gives a little Navajo war cry as he comes... he's still interested in native American rights and causes... and then afterwards he's pretty nice... we eat blueberries and whipped cream, mashed potatoes and cheese burgers and vanilla ice cream in bed... then he smears the ice cream all over my ass and fucks me again. Marlon was incorrigible. This is all in 1981. That was the year I met M. Marlon introduced us. He took me out to M's place. A huge fairytale estate near Santa Barbara where M. resided like the phantom of the opera... surrounded by colored lights and carousels... giraffes and roller coasters... costing like a billion dollars a day but he didn't care... M. lived in his head, not in the real world... he was like Gatsby... part of a great American tradition of extraordinary men and women who recreated themselves in Hollywood... M. liked to play dress up and so did I so we hit off right away... two girls in a china shop... knocking over the knickknacks... M. wanted to be delicate and petite like me... but he was over six feet tall with big hands and feet and there was nothing he could do about that... though he pretty much changed everything else about himself... he wanted to be like a porcelain doll so he bleached his skin... and he wanted to be a beautiful girl so he changed his face... he got a new nose, new lips, new eyes and a new chin... and because we were best friends forever (for a moment) he bought me a pretty new face too... which was very nice of him... although for a little while we were both like The Invisible Man, sitting poolside, our heads wrapped in white surgical gauze... me wearing black Chanel sunglasses and a black bikini, reading fashion magazines, working on my perpetual tan... pool boys painting my toenails pink... elephants grazing in the background. M. didn't want a tan. So, he wore a long white diaphanous caftan and a big straw hat and sipped Chablis while our faces healed. Then a few weeks later we had a big coming out party, a little debutante ball, where we danced around to his songs and drank champagne, admiring our new faces in a wall of mirrors... M. dancing for me, grabbing his crotch. Then we went upstairs into the bedroom where there was a big painting of M. dressed like a king wearing a crown. We got into bed and even though he's much bigger than me he wanted me to be on top... his legs were spread over my shoulders... it was a little weird... because I'm usually on the receiving end... but M. wanted me to be the aggressor so I tried my best. I pretended I was Ritchie... I thought about Ritchie fucking me... and that got me excited. "You stupid little fucking bitch..." I fucked M. while Ritchie fucked me in my mind. It was a real role reversal for me... being on top, being in charge... and it didn't come naturally... but that's what M. wanted, so I guess in a way I was still being told what to do... and that got me excited. There were mirrors everywhere and I could see us fucking in the mirrors and it was kind of funny 'cause I was the brown-skinned suntanned one and M. was the milk-white pale-skinned one... and we were both smooth and pretty as two teenage girls making love to each other and that was hot (like my new friend Paris says every other second) so we got off on that... the image of a brown girl and white girl making love in a mirror... even though neither of one us was what we seemed to be... it was all upside-down... but that's what made it so much fun! So, M. and I had a little fling that summer. It was all on the down-low because everything M. did was on the down-low... people saw how he changed his face and what he did in public... but they didn't see how he really lived... how he spent his time in private... dressing up in corsets, mincing and kissing... Miss M. was quite innocent and delicate inside... but sometimes Mr. M. came out and that could be a little scary because Mr. M. was ruthless and knew exactly what he (yes, he) wanted... but that was okay with me because, well, I'm pretty receptive to other people's needs and desires, and if Mr. M. wanted to be Miss M. and they both wanted me to be part of all that... well, I could strap on a dildo and act like a boy if I had to... But when he was Mr. M., he liked me on my hands and knees wearing a frilly pink baby doll nightie that barely covered my ass... "You white girls are all the same..." Mr. M. would spank my butt cheeks, making them bounce and jiggle. And I would emit little gasps of pleasure. By then the Viagra would've kicked in and he'd be hard. "You need a real black man to make you feel like a woman..." That was one of his more twisted fantasies. M. liked to pretend he was a dominant black man. Like his father. He'd stick his tongue in my mouth, squeeze my tits, and throw me down on the bed. I really liked that game. I liked it when he looked me in the eyes and told me that he owned me and he could do whatever he wanted to me... then he'd ejaculate in my face and make me lick the cum off his fingers... "That's right, honey, lick it all up..." he'd growl in a baritone. Then afterwards he'd feel bad, he'd be remorseful, his voice would change, get higher and softer and he say he was sorry, he didn't know what had come over him. "It's okay. I don't mind." I'd nibble on his earlobe and he'd giggle like a girl. Miss M. again. I guess everybody's complicated. So, for a while we were inseparable. But then, like everything in Hollywood, that got old and tedious. M. became obsessed with something else (a record). And I went to Mexico where I met some Columbian drug dealers at a hot spring and one of them took an instant liking to me... Ah, Mexico. It was 1982 by then and I was feeling like I wanted to be a boy again and have some kind of boy adventures. So, I cut my hair and let it turn brown again. I wore t-shirts and blue jeans. But for some reason people kept treating me like a girl. They called me, senorita by mistake, or maybe it was on purpose. I think I gave off a feminine vibe. I mean, I was trying to walk and talk like a guy. I even had a little bit of wispy facial hair on my upper lip and cheeks, though it didn't really grow in too much. I was trying to look tough. And get in touch with my masculine side. But people still laughed and muttered, maricon and puta when I walked by, which made me feel bad and self-conscious like they could tell what I was thinking and feeling inside (I wanted to dress up like a girl, I wanted to be weak and delicate... though I didn't know why). So that made it hard to convince myself that I really was a boy. I mean, I was a boy, I had a little thing between my legs... but I felt so mixed up inside. And to hear people call me puta only made it worse. So, I went to the hot spring to relax. There weren't many people there that day. The sun was high in the sky. I put my clothes in a locker and went outside wearing a skimpy white nylon bathing suit that stretched tight over my bottom and compressed my genitals in front so I looked like a girl down there. I also wore black Gucci sunglasses and white rubber flip flops. I had a bottle of suntan oil, a big white terrycloth beach towel and a paperback romance novel in my shoulder bag. I put my bag on a padded recliner and got into the pool. The water was hot, fed by underground springs, and supposed to be medicinal. A pool boy came by and I ordered a margarita. My hair was long again and dark brown by then. I thought I looked like a rock 'n roller, but because I was so thin (except for my ass, which had always been a little too big and rounded for a boy) I looked more like a flat-chested teenage girl. And now, thanks to all the cosmetic surgery M. had bought me, I had a small, pert turned-up nose and big plump lips. But I still thought of myself as a boy inside, though I didn't look like a boy to anyone else, I still thought I could be one if I really tried. I mean, I did have a little thing between my legs. And that's what made a boy a boy, right? Anyway, it was nice and quiet there at the hot spring... and I was a little drunk... when these guys came in and ruined the whole relaxed vibe I was feeling. They were big and dark and hairy, wearing gold chains around their necks, smoking cigars, and laughing too much. They noticed me sitting in the water, sipping a margarita, and one of them said something in Spanish, then all the others laughed, and I suddenly felt very exposed and vulnerable. I wanted to slip under the water and swim away like a mermaid but I had to sit there in the water with my bare shoulders, face and long hair exposed to the sun and those big hairy guys who were still laughing at me. Then one of them came over and said, "What's your name?" in English. "Epiphany." I looked up at him. He was big, thick, and barrel-chested, with a black mustache and black hair greased back, wearing a loose black linen shirt, white pants and sandals. His name was Marco and it turned out he was, like, a big-time cocaine smuggler for the Medellin cartel which was scary and fun. He had millions of dollars, bales of money and pallets of cash stashed in banks, buried in the ground, filling houses and self-storage units in Miami, Los Angeles, Cali and Cartagena. The drug money poured in so fast it didn't seem; it became surreal; people lit cigars and wiped their asses with hundred-dollar bills. There were stacks of money and piles of blow all around Marco's hacienda in the hills; it was a place he'd rented for a few days or weeks or months. Time didn't really matter to Marco. He just wanted to have fun. So, there were always lots sexy girls in skimpy bikinis and lean brown boys in Speedos lounging around, getting high, swimming in the kidney-shaped pool, sunbathing, having a good time. And there were always men with guns, brutish bodyguards wearing sunglasses, enforcers in Armani suits with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. Marco didn't like my wispy facial hair. He said it made me look too much like a boy. I said, I was a boy. He said, no, not really. And it was hard for me to disagree when I looked in the mirror, I saw a lanky feminine figure, thin but soft, with pouting lips, high cheekbones, a pert upturned nose and big blue eyes too pretty for a boy. "You should be a blonde," Marco decided. "Like Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface." Of course. I could see that. I pictured myself as an icy blonde in a slinky sky-blue beaded gown. Yes, that's me. "Don't you think?" He cupped my chin, lifting my face up until my eyes met his. "I guess..." I murmured softly. And so that's how I became Marco's 'girl' for a while... he paraded me around like a pretty pet poodle... dressed in sexy clothes... and I just sort of gave up on the whole idea of me being a boy anymore... I mean, just look at me. I'm five-foot-seven. I weigh 130 pounds. I have a big round bottom. And big brown areole. I mean, everyone says I'm feminine, so why fight it? What am I trying to prove? What's the big deal? Marco said, "I think you need female hormones." And so, I started taking my girl pills every morning when I sat down for breakfast (just grapefruit, toast and fresh squeezed orange juice for me because I always have to watch my figure). Today, Marco's sweaty from playing tennis. He's shirtless, wearing white shorts and sneakers. The black hairs on his chest glisten in the morning light. I'm wearing a little lilac-colored slip... barefoot... my long blonde hair falling down to the middle of my back... After his coffee he tells me to follow him into the bedroom where I know what he wants and I do it, riding up and down on his cock until he comes in me; then I shower and he goes off to work; in the afternoon a nurse stops by to give me my shots; once a week she injects female hormones into my buttocks which are getting bigger, I can tell, I'm starting to jiggle here and there. Marco likes to squeeze my tits; he likes to see them bounce. The next few weeks turns into months. I meet his buddy Pablo Escobar, who doesn't like me very much. Latin men, in general, don't like effeminate types. I guess we scare them on some level because we're sexy and they want us but they hate us (at the same time) because we're not who we appear to be, it's a trick, a deception. And they don't like that because they're men, tough men, hard men, real men, right? But we undermine all that because we show them it's all just smoke and mirrors, really... So anyway, Pablo's not a fan. He disapproves of me and Marco. He says we're too public. In other words, it's okay to fuck me in private, but it's not okay to bring me to his house. I understand. People are hypocrites. But after that Marco is chastened. He's clearly crossed a social line that he didn't see because we're both high-as-shit all the time, strung out, rich and reckless, and what seems natural and normal to us is clearly too much for Pablo and the gang. So, after that Marco is, like, a changed man. And he says I have to go. Pablo says, don't worry, he'll take care of me. So, of course I'm worried because Pablo is a ruthless drug lord and he doesn't see me as a girl, he sees me as me as a problem. "Don't worry, muchacha, we'll make sure you get home where you belong." He laughs and pats my ass. Then he squeezes my face, pushing my cheeks together, like he's my uncle but his eyes are dead black holes and I'm, like, "Thanks, Pablo, but I can get home on my own..." And he's like, "Nonsense, my boys will fly you back to America. It's the least we can do for a friend of Marco's..." Then he casts a sly side-eye glance at Marco who's looking down, not looking at me. "Right, Marco?" "Yes, Pablo, of course, Pablo," he replies, still not meeting my eyes. And so I get on a plane and they fly me to some deserted airstrip in Arizona or New Mexico or someplace where there?s nothing but desert all around and I?m, like, toting a big Chanel bag, wearing a little pink plaid dress and big chunky heels, pretending I?m clueless, but feeling like a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach because I?m sure they?re gonna shoot me, slit my throat or do something equally terrible and then leave me there to die in the desert, food for the buzzards. But instead they just offload a few tons of cocaine, moving it from the plane into a big panel truck, and the truck driver gives me a lift into Sedona, Arizona where the sun it setting, crimson and gold, and I?m suddenly overcome, overwrought, overwhelmed by everything, my life, my fate, people in general, and I just give up. I sit down on a curb, sobbing softly, wishing I was someone else, a happy boy, or a happy girl with a happy life. Then someone says, "Are you okay?" And I look up and see one of my heroes, the great but crazy actress Sean X., best known for playing a sexy android in a classic sci-fi movie that changed my life forever when I saw it, I wanted to be a sexy android just like her. "Oh, my god! I must be dreaming! I?m your biggest fan!" I sob and laugh at the same time. "You?re, like, my biggest hero! I want to be you!" "What?s your name, sweetie?" "Epiphany." I sniffle. "And why are you crying, Epiphany?" "I just broke up with someone... and, well, I?m kind of overwhelmed by life at the moment... and I don?t know what to do or where to go..." "Where do you live?" "I don?t know..." I blink back tears. "I guess I don?t live anywhere right now..." "Are you looking for a job?" Sean smiles at me. She?s wearing tight Gucci jeans, cork-heeled sandals and a white peasant blouse that falls off her shoulder revealing a black bra strap. She?s backlit by the sun and she looks so beautiful to me with her raven hair piled high and her hazel eyes flashing in the fading light... that I almost can?t speak for a moment. "Yes, I?d love a job!" I finally manage to blurt and nod my head, enthusiastically. "Well, good." Her laughter is light and careless. "Come with me." She leads me down the block to an old blue pick-up truck. "Get in." She opens a side door for me and I climb inside. Then she starts the truck and we drive down the street, rolling past a series of pretty little stores selling expensive summer clothes, turquoise jewelry, Ben & Jerry?s ice cream, Mexican food, native American antiques and modern art. "Where are we going?" "My place." She glances at me. "I need an assistant to help me with stuff. Do you think you can do that?" "Yes, absolutely!" I smile, happily. I was tired of men by then and so was Sean. She?d been through a lot in Hollywood, where a lot of men (big, fat, rich, white, black, thin, young, old, stars and body doubles) tried get in her pants (which was par for the course if you?re an attractive woman in Hollywood, or anywhere in the world for that matter). Big-shot moguls wanted to fuck her and promised her various nebulous parts if she?d just spread her legs a little wider. Just play along, baby, arch your back, wear a cat- mask and purr for me, baby... But she mostly said, no, to those advances which meant she didn?t get a lot of those big juicy parts she thought she deserved. So, she went public with her allegations (or let?s just say her ?alleged? allegations) and that pissed off a lot of people who dragged her name through the tabloids. "Take that you nasty bitch! That?s what you get for not playing the game..." So, Sean had a lot of baggage by the time I met her. Me too, but I didn?t care what people thought of me, or did to me, not really. I mean, like, why should I care what happened to me? I was just a few pounds of flesh after all, crawling around this nasty world full of nasty people who needed to get off no matter what the cost... and for some reason I felt like I deserved their abuse (I don?t know why) I craved it (I don?t know why) but I needed to be punished for being me... and all my sins... But not Sean, no, she didn?t deserve that public abuse. She just wanted to act. But the old white men who controlled the studio gates didn?t like her attitude, no, not at all. They wanted their pound of flesh. And if they didn?t get it, well, fuck you. Next. So, Sean got pilloried in the press. She was portrayed as a crazy bitch. And written off by all those flabby moguls who wanted to get their dicks sucked. And so, she left Tinsel Town for a plush adobe abode in the desert where she still harbored dreams of Glory, Academy Awards, Big Parts and Stardom! She was, as I said, tired of men by then. But I?m pretty harmless for the most part unless you jab me with a stick, then I?ll arch my back, hiss and bare my teeth like most feline creatures when they?re threatened. But I?m usually just a kitty-cat. I like to play with balls of string and pretty girlish things, not bare my claws, unless I have to. So, there I was in Sedona, Arizona, and Sean said to me, "This is your bedroom." A little nook, more like a maid?s room just off the kitchen, clean but nice with a view of cactus and red buttes in the distance. Then she put me to work as her personal assistant, answering phones, keeping things straight, cleaning, dusting, and doing whatever else she needed. And I liked it right away. I liked helping her. It took me back to my childhood, helping mama around the house. Be nice. Be good. Do what you?re told. I enjoyed being her personal assistant, her secretary, her subordinate. And Sean liked it too. She was tired of overbearing white men who thought they were the center of the universe but weren?t because, well, let?s face it, this is just one tiny planet in a very big universe where questions of color don?t really matter to anyone except for a few very small-minded, very needy people who get scared in the face of all that infinity... but that?s just fear of death, fear if life talking... Me, I don?t care about any of that... black, white, male, female... and all the other distinctions that come between us because I know I?m meaningless, I know I don?t matter. So, I posed no threat to Sean. And she enjoyed my passive nature. She needed to be in control. And I needed to surrender. So anyway, Sean had her way with me and I was happy to let her do so. Ass up. Mewling like a bitch. She took me from behind. With a blue rubber dildo that came in the mail. And I was content to let her take me that way, to tell me what to do and to order me around like I had no thoughts and feelings of me own. I think it made her happy to be in charge for once after all the macho bullshit that she?d been through in Hollywood. And she was in charge?she definitely was the boss. And I was happy, too. I liked doing her dishes. I liked painting her toenails. It was kind of meditative standing at the sink, wearing blue rubber gloves, staring out the window at the desert tundra, washing red ceramic plates and silverware, y? know? But then I got restless, as I always do (I was only nineteen and I wanted to see the world) and I thought maybe I should go back east, back home, say, hi, to my parents, live in New York City for a while. It was 1983. And there were lots of very interesting people doing lots of very interesting things downtown in the East Village and Soho.