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There was “Trained Teens 3,” the movie that helped me buy my first car, a red convertible that made me feel so L. My skin prickled as I remembered how I’d kept the top down so I could see the palm trees, even when the wind gave my skinny arms goosebumps. But then I couldn’t find a job doing anything else.It had been my ride to anonymous mansions in the Valley where the cold hands of spray-tanned dudes would slam my hips on top of their dicks. The endless rejection after rounds of casting calls for bit parts in TV pilots that never got picked up anyway mixed with a bank account that always seemed to be plummeting weighed heavy.Was “her” still me even though I’d spent the last 15 years decidedly being not her, trying to do more with my life than the eight months I’d spent, at 19 years old, playing a porn star? When the elders confronted me, having found out about my work, I stopped going.I became Wendy James shortly after, in the spring of 2003.She wrote terrible poetry in a paperback journal as the waves tickled her toes at Zuma.She was the kind of woman who let the colors of the sunset dictate her mood, happiest when the pinks and purples of the Santa Monica sky swirled into calm, after the day’s scenes had been shot and she’d tucked her checks into her bank account.s I left the gym to go to work, I opened my phone and tapped a little red notification dot.It revealed an XXX profile link that an internet troll had left on my personal Twitter page.
Two months later, when I became Wendy James, she bought and drove the red convertible that she earned with her work.
I pushed the pedestrian walk button at the traffic stop 12 times in quick succession. Before I hit the big red “Report” button, I paused and scrolled through the pictures.
They were mostly screenshots taken from films staring “Wendy James.” I laughed quietly as I read the titles linked to her page.
Each time he punched me, he knocked a piece of Wendy James out.“You’re just a hole.
Don’t forget you did that to yourself,” Manny told me, and I believed him.