You'll never make love in this town again Tales

That kind of sick stuff goes on every night in Hollywood, and that was the world I eventually sank into. Probably the lowest point for me was when I began to freebase cocaine. I lost myself completely then. It is a very bad drug, and you lose all sense of what is right or good for you.

One of the times I was basing, I decided I was going to be a madam. I knew a lot of people in the record business. Andy Howitt, who worked for Geffen Records, asked me to find some girls for Steven Tyler of the Aerosmith band. I got three girls I knew were prostitutes and the record company paid the girls through me and I got a couple of tickets to an Aerosmith concert. Tyler wanted the girls to get dressed up in bondage equipment and whip and tie him. After they whipped him, he'd whip them and fuck them.

Then the record company wanted to cut a deal with me to keep them supplied with girls. With the amount of base I was doing then, however, I was too fucked up to handle it. But I didn't have the heart for it anyway. Later I heard that Heidi was working with Geffen Records.

Each time I sunk lower—like being a madam and not just selling myself, but selling other girls—it hit me hard. I'd feel worse about myself and I'd get more and more messed up with drugs to deal with how I felt. I felt awful selling other girls, even ones who said they loved being a prostitute. To me, it was cheap, dirty sex. It wasn't real, it wasn't loving. It wasn't emotional. When I started to get free of drugs, I finally got free of prostitution.

James Caan :

"The first time I met actor James Caan was quite a while ago, before I was a hooker. Ronnie Caan, James's brother, invited a girlfriend of mine to a party at the Westwood Marquis Hotel. This girlfriend asked me to come along. The Westwood Marquis is an extremely elegant hotel as well as a big-time industry hang out. The number of show biz events held there almost equals the number of executives who check into rooms and grab an afternoon screening of a new secretary or starlet from the studio. It's quite a popular place.

I was in my early twenties then, and men were always after me. It felt good to be desired. I looked up to see James Caan about three inches away, grinning his famous half smirk, half smile. I recognized him immediately, and I smiled back. I was very young when The Godfather movies came out, but like millions of moviegoers I was still taken by James Caan's charm. It seemed like a fantasy come true when I became the object of this macho man's attention. In less than five minutes he was holding both of my hands and looking into my eyes. Then he did that quick double take of his, where he looks away as if to see if anyone can hear.

"Let's get out of this dump," he said. "You're too beautiful to be wasted on the masses." With that, I waved good-bye to my girlfriend and headed out the door for points unknown.

James Caan has a quality that, from my personal experience of men in Hollywood, is not entirely unique: he loves sex. Actually, it's more like he's obsessed with sex, but not intercourse. He's crazy about licking pussy.

Before I knew what hit me, I was alone with him in a hotel room sans my panties and, for lack of a better way to describe it, squatting on his face. The man went on for hours and hours. He just couldn't seem to get enough. There were times when I had to stand up, due to severe cramping in my calves. As I did this, he'd reach up for me and pull me down to my "birthing" position, oblivious of my need for medical attention.

My second "date" with Caan took place at Hugh Hefner's Playboy Mansion. He attended the function alone, and the minute he spotted me he grabbed my hand and led me into an unoccupied bedroom. After a few drinks from the bottle he brought along, he told me to "assume the position,' the one I knew all too well. Moments later there I was again, exhausted, legs cramping, looking down on this man who was drooling as he lapped me up.

I honestly don't know how he was able to breathe. He never came up for air. At one point I thought about placing a snorkel in the side of his mouth, or one of those tubes that clip under the nose and attach to an oxygen tank, just to make sure he didn't suffocate. For what seemed like forever,

I remained in my deep-knee-bend position, taking it like the groupie that I then was. What I found to be totally strange about James Caan was the fact that he never once asked me to lick him

Jack Nicholson:

"Tiffany, I'd like you to meet Jack Nicholson," Heidi smiled as she talked.

My knees became weak. I tried to keep my composure as he took my shaking hand. Another one of Heidi's girls, Peggy, walked by. Heidi grabbed Peggy by the arm, then grabbed me, and not missing a beat, she said, "Here, Jack. You can have them both, no charge."

Heidi meant sexually, of course.

Jack was a gentleman. As soon as I entered the house, he offered me a drink. He took my coat and told me I looked beautiful. It didn't take us long to make our way into the bedroom.

Jack called me again, and again. He told me he had enjoyed our first 'carnal knowledge experience" and he wanted more. How could I refuse?

I had been invited to his home for sex and cocaine., Did your cunt make you call me?" Jack asked a young woman on the other end of the telephone line. There was a beautiful young girl already partaking when I arrived. Jack had also invited a male friend. He frequently had at least one other man at his house, eager to share whatever Jack felt like sharing. The girl and the man were doing lines on a plate when the telephone rang. Jack often asked questions like this simply for shock value.

The girl on the other end of the line gave her reply. Jack later told me that she said something like, "Oh no, I'm calling you because you're such a wonderful man and I was thinking about you." To which Jack, still smiling, responded, "If your cunt didn't make you call me, why the hell are you calling?"

Maybe this was his way of asking a third female to join the party. That would have made it nice for Jack and his friend, but the girl snorting next to me didn't seem like she wanted to share the cocaine with anybody. Her head was buried in the plate as she continued to do lines. Jack hung up the phone and came back to the party.

"Girls, girls, the cocaine won't go away. It will still be here after we've had our fun." Jack was anxious to collect for his generosity. But the other woman couldn't get enough coke. Clearly, the last thing on her mind at that moment was having sex.

Jack was a wildman in bed that night. Then, when he was through with me, he began to slap me. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe I'd displeased him, but he hauled off and hit me hard. I kept my composure. He kept slapping.

Finally, he stopped. I wondered what that was all about, as I lay there staring at him. I looked at his weathered face and his lips as he gave that unconscious smacking sound he's famous for. His closed eyes opened to discover me staring at him.

"What are you looking at?"

"Jack, you look like the Devil." I knew I was playing with fire. He could have hauled off and hit me again over that one. Instead, he seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. I repeated my statement in the form of a question.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like the Devil?" "Yeah. Lots of people." He smiled.

Please share more, generous OP.

George Harrison :

"George Harrison was sitting in the corner of the library at this particular party, playing a song on the ukulele. Though I was a child during the Beatlemania days, I can still remember watching their movie, A Hard Day's Night, on television with my older sister. I knew my mom would have been especially impressed with the fact that I had met someone as famous as he, from her era.

George Harrison was not one for small talk. This living legend let his needs be known early into our introduction. His first words, cockney accent and all, went something like this, "Come upstairs with me, luv, and give me a blow job." I was surprised at his frankness. But I figured, probably like a thousand women before me, When will I have another chance to blow a Beatle?

I decided to comply. He was definitely not the most romantic man in the world, but I guess a guy like George Harrison doesn't have to be.

This superstar has probably had sex with hundreds, if not thousands, of young women all over the world during his stellar career. What I found strange, however, was that the entire time I sucked him off, he kept playing that damned ukulele. My mind was racing. Should I interrupt his strum with small talk? He was acting very matter-of-fact, as if he were transfixed on a rugby match and couldn't be bothered by what I was doing. As he reached orgasm, he ended the song with a grand strum.

But I wasn't prepared for what George did next. Without missing a lick (on his ukulele), he started in on another song! No "Thank you," no "That was great," nothing. I didn't have to watch him play for long, because he got up and started walking down the stairs, still fingering that ukulele. I wondered how many women he had done this to. He just took sex for granted. I was left standing there with the taste of him still in my mouth.

Warren Beatty :

"When I lived with George Santo Pietro, our next door neighbor, Warren Beatty, would visit often. When George was out of earshot, Warren would inevitably start telling me how beautiful I was and how much he needed to make love with me.

All the gossip about Warren Beatty and his obsession with women is true. He seems to go after just about every good-looking woman he meets. To my mind, it's a personality flaw or a sex hormone problem, though some may think of it as an enviable trait.

I'd suspected George was still seeing Linda Evans— she'd call, he'd leave the house, the usual. And now this. I'd been thinking about how to get back at George for a long time. There are very few ways a woman can get back at a man, but sleeping with his best friend is one. And although the idea of being with another man repulsed me, especially someone as old and out of shape as Warren, I made the decision to go ahead and do it.

I called Warren on the phone and told him I'd changed my mind. He knew what I meant. "Come over right away, Liza. I'm waiting for you." What I didn't know at the time was that he had company— Sean Penn, Madonna's ex.

I walked up the driveway and the maid was waiting for me at the large front door. She led me back into the living room, where I was surprised to see Warren and Sean sitting, both smiling. To this day, I don't know if Warren had thoughts about a threesome, but I wasn't interested.

After that night, Warren's relentless pursuit escalated to the point where he simply would not leave me alone. He actually began to beg.

Warren told me he couldn't sleep at night; thoughts of me took over. His lust for me was driving him mad. He had a hard time concentrating on a movie project he was doing. He said he never wanted anyone as badly as he wanted me. He even talked about love. He said he really thought he was in love with me.

Meanwhile, George continued to treat me badly. Besides the verbal and physical abuse and the sadistic sex, it was obvious to me that there was at least one other woman in his life. So, I finally agreed to meet Warren, partly for revenge against George, but also out of pity for Warren. The poor man had told me he simply couldn't function without me. I'd been there myself, I knew what unrequited obsessive love felt like. I decided to have sex with him that afternoon, .it my mother's house near Beverly Hills

Mom was expected home soon, so the pressure was on. I figured I'd greet Warren, we'd make small talk, have a Pepsi, and then head up to one of the many bedrooms upstairs. Even if my mom came home, she wouldn't know I was there, who I was with, or what we were doing. The doorbell rang. As I slowly opened the door, still lost in my reverie— bam. I felt like my body had been hit by a truck. I was being shoved across the room.

The wind had been knocked out of me and it took me a moment to get my bearings. I quickly realized that Warren Beatty had pushed me back and shoved me down onto a couch. He was all over me. Breathing hard, hands groping, he was an animal. I could feel one of his hands in my panties, his fingers roughly grabbing at me. He was hurting me.

The other hand was ripping off my clothes. His legs were entangled with mine. his close to two-hundred-pound frame was squashing the breath out of my body. The next minute or so is a blur, but within that time he had an orgasm. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Without a word, he put his pants and shirt back on, then combed his hair in the mirror—the same mirror I had only minutes earlier been gazing into, dreaming about the possibilities. He then opened the door and left, never to be seen again.

Shortly after Warren Beatty won his bet and got into my panties, I broke up with George and went to live back at home with my mom. Some time later, George Santo Pietro married Vanna White And so it goes, in Hollywood.

Rod Stewart :

It started when my friend Marcia and I—free spirits that we were then—had a threesome with Rod Stewart, whom we had met at a Hollywood party. Rod was eyeing us both, but he hadn't made a decision about which one of us he wanted. Rock stars are known for having one-night stands with any beautiful woman who strikes their fancy. They decide who they want, inform the girl, and the small matter of consent is a given, at least in Rod's crowd.

This particular evening Rod simply walked into the bedroom where Marcia and I were lying on a bed and decided to "do" both of us. "Girls, I can't decide which one of you I want. So I'm taking you both." We didn't mind. By now, Marcia and I had been with more than a few men together, though none of them as famous as Mr. Hot Legs. After this incident, Rod Stewart chose me over Marcia. The deciding factor? He liked the fact that I had natural breasts! He made fun of Marcia's silicone implants. I really didn't care what his reason was for choosing me, I was just happy about it. Marcia resented me for years, but I didn't care. This was the beginning of an exciting year-long relationship with Rod Stewart that even included the chance to sing backup on his records.

Rod was a wonderful guy in many ways, but in bed, unfortunately, he seemed to suffer from premature ejaculation. At the time I thought that one of the reasons he finished so quickly was that he was worried about his wife, who was waiting for him at home. He would suddenly change from that sexy creature who sang, "If you like my body, and you think I'm sexy, come on sugar, let me know," into someone who should be singing "The Ballad of the Minute Brigade".

We made love in many places—at my mother's house, in my bedroom or hers. We did it at the Record Plant recording studio, on the stairs, on the couch, and at his manager's house. Rod even took me to his own home once. His wife Alana was upstairs sleeping. Our affair lasted until one fateful night when I decided I'd had enough and didn't want to see him again.

od wasn't exactly a generous man, except perhaps with his cock. When it came to presents, forget it. That's why I was surprised one day when, after sex, he brightened up and said, "Wait a minute, dear, I want to show you something/' I watched as Rod Stewart's little white British buns disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, he returned carrying a shiny gold box.

With the excitement of a little boy, Rod began to open the present. My heart quickened with anticipation as I peeked into the box. Rod carefully removed the top and held up a beautiful satin and lace nightgown. He looked into my eyes, waiting for my response. "Rod, it's beautiful! Thank you for thinking of me."

I reached over to touch the gift. Rod pulled it back toward his famous chest. Without any embarrassment or reservation, he blurted out words I would find hard to forget.

"No! This isn't for you! It's for my girlfriend, Kelly Emberg. I just wanted to show it to you to see if you think she'll like it!"

In a whole year of dating and sneaking around, having sex with Rod on demand, he had never given me a single present, not even an autographed picture. I had given him everything he wanted, anywhere he wanted it, and in every position he could dream up. Now he stood before me, wanting my opinion on a present he had bought for another woman. Oblivious to my feelings, he continued to ramble on about how excited he was to be giving Kelly this gift.

That night, for the first time, I really looked at him. I noticed the wrinkles, the double chin, the pudge in his tummy, that ugly mole on his face. I finally took off my rose-colored glasses. He was actually old and ugly, I thought. And on top of that, astoundingly rude and insensitive.

He put the gown back in the box and reached over and grabbed me. He actually wanted to have sex again! That was the last thing I wanted. I made some excuse and left

Timothy Hutton :

Timothy Hutton was the first celebrity I'd ever really dated, I wasn't someone he kept hidden on the side. We went out for a while and I really liked him. He seemed so innocent, so introverted, so sheltered. But sometimes you can't judge a book by its cover.

Timothy took me to the gala premiere of Ordinary People. When we arrived, the cameras started flashing. I was flabbergasted. I had never been to anything so glamorous. There were movie stars, limos, red carpets, and all the rest that goes along with this kind of event. Timothy was a very hot actor at the time but he didn't act like a star.

Unfortunately, that exotic Hollywood premiere was not a sign of things to come. After that night, we rarely went out. Instead we'd stay at his house, leading the simple life. He was the perfect mate. I was the perfect girlfriend. I did everything right. But maybe I was too nice, because one day he decided to test my love for him. It involved those two things I've had a problem with all my life: drugs and sex.

This particular night, I thought Timothy was going to settle in and read—he was always reading scripts, looking for his next film.

I was surprised when, as we sat in his kitchen, he took out a Quaalude and asked, "Do you want to try a 'hide?" I thought about it for a second and said, "Sure, okay." He broke the Quaalude in half and smiled this little boy smile. In a slightly embarrassed tone of voice he remarked, "Steve will want half of this/' he said.

I was surprised. "Oh, is Steve coming over?" I knew Steve pretty well. He was a close friend of Timothy's. Whenever the three of us got together, Steve would act very jealous of me. I never knew if they were more than just friends, but after my experience with Jeff, I knew enough to have suspicions.

"Yeah, Steve will be over. As a matter of fact, he bought the Quaaludes for us."

I wasn't thrilled about Steve's visit. I had hoped to spend time alone with Timothy that evening. In between his usual script reading, I looked forward to making love.

"Liza, have you ever had a menage a trois?" "You mean two girls and a guy?"

He smiled, as if what I had said was a novel thought to him, but quickly responded, "No, two guys and a girl."

I was surprised. I felt weird. "No, I haven't thought about being with two men. And I don't want to either." When it finally hit me what he was talking about, I said, disbelieving, "Are you talking about you, Steve, and me?" "Yes, exactly."

'But, I'm not interested in Steve, I'm in love with you!" "Oh Liza, if you really loved me, you'd do it for me. Don't worry, it'll be cool. You're going to love it," he said with a smirk, obviously speaking from experience.

"Do you guys make love with each other?" I wanted him to validate my suspicions. "We've had scenes together." What the hell did that mean? I thought. I was getting pretty angry. "You mean you want me to make love with another man? I thought we had something special." "We do. It's just that I like to share." He paused, "You want to make me happy, don't you?"

I thought to myself, Liza, there are two ways you can deal with this. You can slap his face and leave, or you can teach him a lesson. I said, "Okay, fine."

Timothy grinned. Within ten minutes, Steve—the jealous Jezebel, the same guy who had given me looks that could kill because I was with Timothy—arrived with his hard-on in his hand.

Tim immediately told Steve, "She'll do it." Steve smiled. I felt like a piece of meat. I knew they wanted to use me. Both of them were walking erections.

Tim led us into one of the bedrooms. Steve and I sat on the bed as Tim turned to Steve.

"Liza gives incredible head—you've got to try it." I love giving oral sex. I know Timothy enjoyed my technique because he always used to tell me how good it felt when I did it to him. But just because I do some thing well doesn't mean I want to do it with just anyone. And I thought I was in love with this fool!

Suddenly Timothy, the actor, put on his director's hat and began issuing orders 'Everybody take your clothes off. I'll be right back." He headed for the bathroom, but before he reached the door he turned and smiled. "Don't start without me," he warned.

Great idea, I thought to myself. On impulse, I decided to do just that, start without him. I watched him as he took his pants off in a syncopated step, heading out the door. I didn't think I could feel any more disgusted with Tim than I already did, until I saw toilet paper hanging from his ass. I pointed it out to him and we all had a good laugh. As he finally passed the door-jamb just outside the bedroom, I jumped up and locked the door. Then I turned to Steve.

"Let's get two things straight," I said. "Number one, no oral sex. Number two, I don't even like you, but I'm going to fuck you just to teach Timothy a lesson."

Before long, there was banging on the door. Timothy was enraged. "Hey, let me in! What's going on! Open up this door! Right now! I can't believe you guys!"

While Timothy was pounding on the door, I was letting Steve pound me into the mattress. He wasn't a bad lover, but I had no feelings whatsoever for him. You couldn't tell that, however, by the loud noises I decided to make just to drive Timothy nuts: "Oh, baby, you should give Timothy lessons."

When we were finished, I opened the door and said to Timothy, "There, I fucked your friend. Poor baby, do you feel left out? What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased. Now I've had sex with both of you. Aren't you happy?"

Timothy was so mad that he started punching the walls. I told him I hoped he'd learned a lesson. At the time I felt like I had delivered some kind of justice. But the reality of the situation, of course, was that I was the one who got fucked.

After a year or two, Timothy ended up going out with a friend of mine, Nicolette Sheridan, the beauty from "Knott's Landing." Eventually she dropped him, too. I wonder if he also wanted her to do his friends.

Wow these people are pathetic. But still an entertaining read

Mr Sick F :

"Heidi Fleiss had one regular customer who was heavily into sadomasochism. I'll call this baboon Mr. Sick F.

The first time Heidi told me about Sick F. and the money he pays for girls, my mind went reeling. For three days with Sick F., I would come home with between ten and twenty thousand dollars. the limo pulled up to the strikingly ornate, white-stone pillared entrance of the exclusive hotel in Rancho Mirage.

I was greeted with the attention usually afforded a foreign dignitary. The hotel management considered Mr. Sick F. an excellent customer, and I'm sure he was. What he did behind the walls of his stately bungalow was apparently of no concern to them.

It was customary for Sick F. to have young ladies arrive in pairs. However, my partner-to-be, a domina-trix, had already been with him for a day before I arrived. Because of Heidi's briefing I knew what to expect on the monetary end, and I had been in the business long enough to suspect the money would not come easily. But I was completely unprepared for the extreme pain, humiliation, and degradation I was about to attempt to endure.

When I was introduced to Mr. Sick F., I studied the man before me. He was small in stature, but had the assertiveness of a CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He looked me over, then spoke "Tell me your name."

"Linda." I thought about using another name so he couldn't find me at a later date, but decided to tell him the truth. The real truth was that I was scared. Since accepting the assignment, I'd heard rumors— very bad rumors.

"Linda, I'd like you to meet Sunday." Mr. Sick F pointed to another girl in the room. She was beautiful. Short red hair, green eyes, and four-inch stiletto heels that supported the longest legs I'd ever seen. She stood with one hip jutting out. "Hello." I looked into her eyes. Though she was wearing a black rubber bodysuit, her voice was gentle and soft, unlike her ominous appearance.

Mr. Sick F. continued, "Sunday will be disciplining you over the next few days. She's skilled at delivering pain and the most severe forms of punishment."

Sunday smiled. Mr. Sick F. went on, "You know you've been bad, don't you? You slut! You're so ugly, you don't even deserve to be here. I told Heidi to send someone beautiful. Look at you, you whore. You shouldn't be allowed to be in the presence of Sunday or myself. A slave like you deserves to be beaten."

It was a mind game. I knew it. I'd been told I was beautiful from my earliest recollection, at the age of five. And since that time I'd been told by more men than I could remember. Mr. Sick F. was just playing a degradation game. He excused himself and went to the bathroom.

Sunday walked over to me, gazed into my eyes, then whispered into my ear, "Don't worry, Linda, I won't hurt you too badly. I'll try to go easy on you." I felt relief, if only for a moment.

When Mr. Sick F. returned, he began to give detailed instructions to Sunday. He let her know, in no uncertain terms, how he expected my punishment to be delivered. Then it started. As she worked me over physically, he worked on me psychologically. For the first time in my life I could understand how people could be beaten to the point where their spirit is broken and they willingly become slaves.

The entire experience was not unlike the scenes in the movie Pulp Fiction From my desert experience with Sick F., I realized these things happen every day.

After hours of emotional and physical torture— there was no need to pretend I was in pain, it was all too real—we finally took a break for something to eat. I was weak, exhausted, and hurting. Mr. Sick F. insisted that Sunday and I enter the dining room wearing summer beach cover-ups with slits up the side and no underwear.

My beaten buns were exposed at the back, along with a hint of my barely exposed pussy. There was a small red spot on the upper front of my dress, the result of a bleeding nipple, raw from the nipple clips placed there by Sunday. Mr. Sick F. insisted they remain in place and not be removed for dinner. After a moment of embarrassment, the maitre d' delicately informed us that there was a dress code.

"Mr. Sick F., I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that we have a dress code. The girls are lovely, don't get me wrong, but I believe our patrons may find their attire a bit distracting, to say the least.."

At this point, a strange thing happened to me. I could feel myself beginning to lose my will. I knew that if I didn't do something about getting out of there, I might lose it entirely. When Mr. Sick F. got up to go to the bathroom I asked Sunday, "How long have you known him?" "A couple of years."

'You've been doing this for a couple of years?" I couldn't believe it. "Sure. I started out in your position and eventually worked my way up to dominatrix." "How many girls have you worked with?" "Dozens." "Doesn't it have a permanent effect on their psyche?" "Maybe. But the money's good."

She seemed pleased with herself, and went on to brag, "I'm picking up my custom Harley Davidson next week." "You make a lot of money?" "Sure. I bought my own house from this client alone." "You own a house?" All I could think of was how much she'd been through to have made enough to purchase her own home. "If you play your cards right, Linda, you can make a lot of money. Let me give you a tip; scream more. He likes that." "You told me you'd be taking it easy on me." "Honey, I have. He likes it much rougher. But I figured, you're new. I have to break you in." "Sunday, I can't take this. It isn't worth any amount of money."

Sunday saw Mr. Sick F. approaching "Shhhh! Here he comes." She continued in a whisper, "You're giving up a good John, honey. Take it from me, it gets easier and easier."

She was wrong. Before long, I'd had more than enough. Luckily, I was paid daily. So when the time was right, with three thousand dollars in my pocket, I split back to L.A. I was as broken a woman as I'd ever been.

As a repeat "object of his affection," I don't know how Heidi stood the abuse from this man. Every time Heidi told me she was going out to Palm Springs to see Mr. Sick F., I felt sorry for her. I also felt bad for the younger girls who were regularly sent this client's way. They were in for a sadistic experience far greater than that administered by the most base of pimps, sociopaths, and sickos.

I thank my lucky stars I'm not in the business anymore and do not have to associate with men like Mr. Sick F. People with fetishes get sicker and sicker. As time goes by, the sadistic acts they need to get their kicks only escalate.

Several years ago my friend Cheryl Bergoff, who has since married actor Rob Lowe, introduced me to Jack Wagner. At the time, Jack was an actor on 'General Hospital Now he's on "Melrose Place." Anyone who knows who he is will tell you he's absolutely gorgeous, the drop-dead-in-your-tracks kind. We were introduced at a Halloween party and hit it off immediately.

By the end of the evening, however, he acted like he never wanted to see me again. I would have felt hurt, but earlier Cheryl had told me the rumors about his sexual orientation—it seemed he wasn't only attracted to women.

The next time I saw Jack, some weeks later at a restaurant, he kept looking at me. Eventually he came over to my table. He told me how gorgeous I was and asked me out on a date. At first I was apprehensive. Then I figured that maybe he was on the fence about his sexual orientation, and I ought to help with his decision.

Jack picked me up at my home. From the moment he arrived, he seemed to be excited to be there.

"Liza, you're so beautiful. I can't believe I didn't call you after we first met." He was so charming. He almost sounded believable. And then the inevitable, 'Ive got to have you, Liza. Let's go back to my house so we can make love."

Why is it that most men only want to have sex? What happened to the good old-fashioned custom of courting and falling in love? I was thinking about asking him to take me home, but instead I thought, I've been around, what's one more fuck? He sure was a hunk. We left the bar in a hurry and drove over to his house.

As soon as we walked in the door, Jack proceeded to light candles all over the house,I looked up to see a five-foot-high picture of a beautiful, nude woman, her hands modestly covering her private parts.

We did make love, though I wondered why I bothered to go through with it. In the morning, he took me home in his Jeep.

I ran into him about a month later and he invited me out again, this time for a dinner with his producer. I believe he wanted a pretty girl on his arm. It always alleviates rumors of one's sexual orientation to bring along a gorgeous babe.

I went on the date, and again he gave me mixed messages. This night, however, I did something I hadn't done before—I looked past his appearance and I studied his behavior. I noticed that he couldn't stop glancing at himself in the mirror.

That evening, back at his house, Jack sang one song after another to me. He also played his recorded songs, one after another. I eventually found it tedious. I don't mind listening to one song or maybe two, but I've never wanted to make a career out of being a professional audience. He expected me to be intrigued with everything about him. Keeping up with the "ohs" and "ahhs" and adoration was a full-time job I didn't apply for.

When morning came he drove me over to my friend's house, where I was doing a photo shoot. As I got out of the car, he told me he had a surprise for me.

Jack ran to the back of the Jeep to get the present. With a smile, he helped me out of the car, holding something behind his back. I strained to peek. Can you imagine the look on my face, the shock, when he held up a color poster of himself!? He had a cocky look on his face as he took out a felt tipped pen and autographed it for me, right there on the hood of the car. What an egotistical creep!

We kissed good-bye and as I walked into the condominium complex on Wilshire, I dumped the poster into a garbage can. We never got together again.

By the way, Jack eventually married the girl in the five-foot nude picture on his wall. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell them both congratulations!

Don Henley :

The third girl was waiting for us in front of Don Henley's home. Very matter-of-factly, the three of us strolled up to the front entrance. Pam rang the bell. As soon as Don opened the door, we knew we were "on"—our act kicked into gear.

Don gave us drinks. Within fifteen minutes we were all parading around .....

"Bend over, all three of you. Over here on the couch/' he ordered. We obeyed. We all lined up in a row and we gave great reaction performances as he swung his bat into each and every one of us, one after another, after another. A few strokes with me and he was out. Within a moment or two, Pam was up at the plate and he was giving her a long drive to left field.

After several more swings, Don was on to the third girl. From one to another to another, over and over and over. Among the three of us women, there were times when our eyes met. We exchanged looks of resolve, each silently hoping (against judgment born of experience) that the evening would not last too long. This, however, was not to be.

We were next directed into the bedroom, where he proceeded to take us on again, one after another. He was tireless. Pam and I would just as soon have been painting our nails or reading a book, but you could never tell by our reactions.

After several hours, Don finally nodded off, exhausted. As usual, we had been paid up front. So, careful not to wake him (I'd made that mistake one previous evening, and lived to regret it when I was stuck there for another two hours), Pam and I quickly dressed and made our exit. We said good-bye to "girl number three," and Pam drove me home, each about a thousand dollars richer.

Don is married now, to a beautiful young lady. Though I normally might feel a twinge of jealousy at anyone finding marital bliss, in this case she can have him.

These stories are great. How did I miss this book?

The world of heterosexuals is a sick and boring life.

I remember reading this book years ago when I was still in my 20'.s and finding it very salacious. Thanks for taking me back OP.

Tracey Ullman had a character based on Madam Alex called Madam Nadja in her HBO show years ago. She'd say things like "I won't have a girl with a sloppy bush!" She wouldn't get out of bed just like Alex. She had a talking parrot and a black book. Too funny.

So who is Mr. Sick F.? I also find it funny how this "Liza" expects courting and gifts when she's a hooker.

To be continued...

R19 I think sick F is Don Simpson a bigly producer who died on his toilet.

OP - thank you for the lovely Christmas stories.

What a haughty arrogant whore.

Vanna White :

I was twenty years old when I met Vanna White of "Wheel of Fortune" fame at the Playboy Mansion. Since it was overflowing with beautiful women then, it was no surprise to find Vanna among the guests; Our first encounter included some mild flirtation but ended when she departed with her boyfriend, an actor who later died in an airplane crash.

But just a few weeks later, when I was again invited to a party at the Playboy Mansion, I found out. I was a little high this particular night. I was having a good time mingling with the guests—rock stars, centerfolds, a potpourri of Tinsel Town bigshots. In my peripheral vision I saw a beautiful, blonde, statuesque lady. I recognized Vanna instantly. She was on the arm of her boyfriend. When I glanced her way, she looked up and her eyes caught mine. ......Vanna whispered in my ear, "Will you come home with me?"

I looked over at her boyfriend and another man who was with them. I didn't know what she had in mind, and the four of us left When we arrived at Vanna's lovely home, we kicked back and listened to music. Vanna, her boyfriend, his friend, and I made small talk.

Vanna's boyfriend announced that he was going to take his friend home. She seemed to be waiting for this opportunity, and as soon as they left she suggested we retire to her bedroom "to rest."

When Vanna's boyfriend came home, he didn't seem surprised to see us in bed. Vanna suggested he join us, but , I wasn't ready for a threesome. They understood.

George Santo Pietro :

George Santo Pietro, owner of Santo Pietro restaurant, was with me. He was an older man, forty-seven, and at the time I was barely out of my teens. We lived together for two years. George had been seeing actress Linda Evans before he began dating me. He was rich and, at first, like a father figure to me. He bought me anything I wanted, including a car and lots of clothes.

We lived in the same neighborhood as Don Henley and Warren Beatty. but while we were living together he was still seeing Linda Evans. As a matter of fact, he was so low in the fidelity department that he even tried to fuck my sister.

Another thing this Italian rogue had going for him was that he was a good lover, one of the best I had had at that point in my life. He was virile and had a great body and—usually—I loved being with him. There was, however, one particular kinky thing he did in bed that makes me shudder to this day.

At the time I was so in love, I would have done anything to please him. And I did.

Often, before we had sex, he'd lead me into his steam room. He would fill an enema with coffee and hot water. He'd then put it up my butt while we did "sixty nine"—he licked my pussy and I sucked on his cock. All the while, he had this hot coffee enema shoved up my ass. When the pain got too excruciating to describe, I begged him to let me go to the bathroom, but he wouldn't let me—not until he climaxed

The first time George did this to me, I was so caught up in loving him that I tried to think of it as interesting. But when he did it a second time, I admitted to myself that it was really unbearable. I told George that I didn't like the ordeal at all. I think that turned him on even more because he insisted on doing it. The more fervently I protested, the more frequently he subjected me to this torture.

Unbelievably enough, it wasn't these hot-coffee enemas that finally drove us apart. George Santo Pietro was someone I thought I loved and whom I thought loved me, so I hung in there. I put up with verbal and physical abuse as well as this perverse and sadistic sexplay. I had too little respect for myself at the time, and I wanted love too desperately. We only broke up when I finally realized that he had been cheating on me during the whole relationship.

Looking back, those painful sexual encounters were something I wish had never lived through. I cringe in horror when I think of how many sweet young women this man may have forced his sadistic ways upon, including Vanna White.

Do any of these women know how to get up and leave?

I'll call him Ron, which is not his real name, because I later learned that he's in the Mafia and is not who you'd consider to be a good person. We dated for about a week. We never made love; he was always a gentleman. We'd watch television, have dinner, and just keep each other company.

He was handsome, wealthy, and treated me with the utmost respect. It seemed almost too good to be true. He lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills.

Occasionally Ron talked about his former girl-friend. She was a Playboy Playmate, which made me a little jealous. He mentioned that they were both into "mild sadomasochism/' He talked about what fun they had doing it. For some reason, I didn't put George Santo Pietro's coffee enemas in the category of sadomasochism, but they certainly weren't fun. So I wasn't sure what he was talking about.

One evening, Ron turned the television down and said, "Let's do something different." I figured he was talking about having sex for the first time. I said, "Sure." We began to undress each other. He took off my bra and panties and began to caress my body. I felt safe. I trusted him. But the next thing I knew he handcuffed me to his bed with leather restraints, all the while telling me how much I would love it.

After he tied me up, he said, "If things get too rough for you, just say the word cat and I'll stop, OK?" I nodded. I was too stunned to object. It had all happened so quickly. Next, he secured my ankles to the bottom posts of the bed. I couldn't move my hands or legs. I wasn't prepared for what came next. He pulled out a hood, the kind that slips over an entire head and has zippers for the mouth, eyes, and nose. The hood also had a chain around the neck. I was beginning to get nervous. As he put the hood on me, he told me to relax. He assured me he wasn't going to hurt me. I tried to relax.

But then he began beating me, slowly at first. Each time he hit me he screamed out things like, "You fucking cunt. You deserve to be punished. I'll show you, you whore." The beating soon escalated into a full-force violent beating.

At that time, I didn't consider myself a whore. I was a young girl with a pretty heavy past and I'd turned a few tricks, but I'd never experienced anything like what he was doing to me.

When he took out a spiked leather cat-o' -nine-tails and started flailing the thing at me, pounding me and making me bleed, I screamed, "Cat, cat, cat, cat!" He didn't stop. He just kept viciously, relentlessly attacking me. I could hardly breathe through the mask. He had unzipped the nose area only, so my screams were muffled.

He kept breaking vials of Amyl Nitrite and putting them by my nose to breathe. He also breathed the intoxicating fumes from the crushed vials himself. I knew he could tell I was shouting, "Cat, cat, cat." But the son-of-a-bitch never let up. Only when he had an orgasm while beating me and screaming obscenities at me, did he finally stop.

By the time he took off the hood and restraints, I was shaking. I was black and blue and hurt so badly that I couldn't even stand. I lay there bleeding and in shock.

He beat me so severely that I should have been hospitalized. Later I thought about going to an emergency room, but at the time the only thing on my mind was revenge. My opportunity soon came. This sick fuck was apparently so turned on by what he'd done that he asked me if I wanted to do it to him.

With all the Amyl Nitrite he'd given me and the pain I was in, I was really messed up. Lying, I said, "Yeah, I really like it. I think it's fun!"

I then tied his arms and legs to the bed, just like he had done to me. I put the mask on him, leaving just enough of an opening in one of the zippers so he could breathe. Then I went nuts on him. I put Ben Gay all over his balls and his ass and started whipping the shit out of him. I put all of my strength into each attack. I stood over him and used my entire body when I delivered the blows. I was doing this for revenge, but he was loving it. He sure wasn't yelling, "Cat/'

Do you have any idea how much Ben Gay burns when applied to sensitive areas? He had to be in extreme pain, at least as much as he had subjected me to. I realized that there was no way I could ever put him in jail for what he had done to me, because I allowed it to happen. I looked at him writhing in pain from the open wounds and the Ben Gay. I said to him, "You'd better watch who you have sex with when you do things like that."

I decided to do something I don't think I would have done under any other circumstances—I left.

I spent the next three days at my mom's house. When she asked about the wounds I told her I had fallen down a flight of stairs. Raising her eyebrows, she said it must have been a very long flight of stairs. I told my sister Robin the truth, though. She just shook her head and helped to nurse my wounds. Robin witnessed so many of the things that happened to me. She felt frustrated that she was powerless to help me save me from myself.

On the third day, this guy called me. I was terrified. I thought he was going to kill me for leaving him like that. But instead, he was calling to ask me on a date! The guy was loony. He actually said, "What you did to me really turned me on. I wasn't found for three days, when the maid came to clean up the house!" He loved the entire ordeal. He couldn't stop calling me. I told him he was a fucking maniac. Obviously, I never saw him again. I felt lucky to be alive

David Crosby:

The following story happened several years ago with David Crosby, so in all fairness I must tell you that I'm not sure about his behavior today. I can only hope that maybe after his liver transplant and drug rehabilitation, he has learned some manners. Back then, however, he made it to my Top Ten Jerk List.

My friend Mario lived in a beautiful home on Mulholland Drive. The view of Los Angeles was spectacular, and he always threw the greatest parties. A music producer, Mario seemed to me to be a wealthy band groupie who loved to have famous people attending his parties. I've met musicians from the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springstein's E Street Band and many more at his parties. One night, in the middle of an impromptu jam session and strumming a song I didn't recognize called "Wasted On the Way/' I met David Crosby.

I'm too young to be considered a baby boomer, so I had no idea who this frizzy-haired, bald-headed, very pudgy old man was. Judging by the attention paid to him by the other people at the party, however, it was obvious that he was somebody, and that he thought he was almost godlike. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the fuss was all about.

I wasn't into his music at all, but I was interested in the cocaine he had. Drugs interested me a lot then. In this case, though, I knew early on that my interest in him didn't go past the drugs.

Eventually the cocaine ran out and he offered to drive me home. I figured, why not? The drugs were gone. There wasn't any real reason for me to stay around this party. I jumped into his Corvette and off we went.

He took a left at Beverly Glen, heading into the San Fernando Valley instead of going to the right—the route that would have taken us to my home in West-wood. I asked where we were going and he casually told me he had to pick something up at his hotel in Encino. He assured me it wouldn't take long, and that I could wait in the car.

As we cruised down Ventura Boulevard, he began groping my thigh. He wasn't a gentle man. In fact, he was rather harsh and abrasive. I took his sticky fingers and put them back on the steering wheel. He didn't push. I felt relieved.

He parked and got out of the car. He walked to the front entrance of the hotel, stopped, and then turned back toward me. When he reached the car, he motioned me to roll down the window. "Why don't you come in with me?" he suggested. "I'd rather wait, if you don't mind." "I do mind. Somebody might see you here, recognize my car, and tell my wife. How about coming in for a minute? I'm in room number 204. Just follow behind me, act like we're not together, and I'll let you in." After a second he added, "Remember, don't look at anybody. Especially the guy behind the desk. He knows me and my wife."

"All right, I'll follow you," I said. "But please don't take long. I really want to get home." He nodded.

I followed him into his room. He picked up the telephone and called somebody. I think he wanted me to believe that he really had important business to take care of, he hung up. He then turned to me in a very matter-of-fact manner. His fat face turned red and his tiny lips puckered together as he delicately queried, "So are we going to fuck, or what?"

I thought to myself, I'd rather fuck Pee-Wee Herman. A stunned silence followed as I collected myself and said, "Of course not."

he stared at me and in a very intimidating manner said, "Look, babe, I didn't drive all the way out here for nothing!" "I told you no, and I mean it." I was firm. "Do you know who I am?" he shot back. "Yeah, some fat-faced schmuck with frizzy hair." I then repeated my request to be taken home.

He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the hotel room, down the hall, and through the lobby. The check-in clerk's mouth dropped wide open when he saw this rock icon dragging a young girl through the lobby and out to the parking lot. "Get in the car, bitch. You're going home."

David Crosby threw me into the Corvette, revved it up, and screeched out of the parking lot. We sped down Ventura Boulevard at 85 miles an hour. I was scared. I was praying a policeman would pull us over, but it never happened. "Where did you say you live, bitch?" He was very hostile and degrading.

I proceeded to give him directions as he raced over Coldwater Canyon, through Beverly Hills to West-wood. I was terrified as he took each hairpin turn in the canyon and careened into the oncoming lanes. He was driving like a madman.

When we arrived at my house, he didn't open my car door. He just stared straight ahead. I was shaking as I let myself out. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and took off, almost taking me with him. I jumped out of the way, and the passenger door slammed shut with the forward thrust of the car.

The next morning a friend of mine called to tell me that David Crosby had just told him, "I gave that little cunt a good scare. You should have seen her, the fucking bitch."

Like many guys in this town who expect sex just because they are celebrities, David Crosby has a hard time with rejection from a woman.

Dennis Hopper:

My girlfriend Susan, also a prostitute, had been with Dennis Hopper, famous for his roles in Easy Rider and Blue Velvet. She knew just what he liked I was a bit nervous as I got ready to go with Susan for our gig with Dennis Hopper.

We rang the doorbell. The door opened, and standing there was Dennis Hopper. The look on his face was like that of a little boy opening a package at Christmas. He greeted Susan as though she were a long-lost friend, hugged her and lifted her up.

"Hi, Susan, you look great. Who's your friend?" "Her name is Linda. Do you like her?" "I'm speechless. C'mon in."

Once the small talk was over, Dennis asked coyly, "What did you bring to wear?" Susan reached into her bag and took out a blue lace bodysuit. Dennis nodded his approval. "Got anything else?" Dennis looked over at me as Susan rifled through her bag. "I'm wearing mine already," I said. "Shall I take off my dress?" "Be my guest."

Dennis put on some music and Susan and I paraded in front of him, walking back and forth, taking turns teasing him and dancing to the beat.

Susan and I made what appeared to be mad, passionate love to each other. after glancing at a watch on my wrist and noticing his time was up, I gave Susan a subtle signal. Dennis never touched us. He only liked to watch.

We packed up to head out the door, each of us clutching $250 in crisp, green bills. Not bad for one hour's work. As my fanny passed by his gaze, Dennis asked us if we wanted to join him for lunch at a trendy restaurant off of Main Street in Santa Monica. We were flattered that he invited us. We were also very hungry.

"Sure, Dennis. We're game/' "We'll be joined by a producer friend of mine. I'm sure you won't mention what just went on," he said, smiling. Dennis introduced us to him as old friends

Dennis must have liked our show, because he paid for a repeat performance some time later—but sadly, it didn't include lunch.

R21 Mr Sick F is Not the producer Don Simpson .

Don Simpson is mentioned in another extremely sadistic sick story also in the book , at R33

Don Simpson :

Don Simpson, a producer known for his work on Top Gun, Flashdance, and Beverly Hills Cop, lives in a house on Stone Canyon in Bel Air. When Don opened the door, I was surprised to see how handsome a man he was, in a rugged sort of way. He had a flat stomach, a very sexy belly button, and a sexy hair line that goes from his chest to his navel. The tight blue jeans that he wore were obviously chosen for the way they flatter his masculinity.

Simpson offered me a drink and talked very tenderly to me, which was not a sign of things to come. He told me he wanted to "get into my brain' and find out where I was coming from. I must admit I was taken with him, though there seemed to be a lot of psychological manipulation going on. He was very charismatic and seductive. Within a couple of hours we were in his viewing room, looking at some of his homemade video tapes. Out of the corner of his eye, he monitored my reactions as I watched.

The first tape showed Don interviewing one beautiful actress after another, after another. With each young actress, he had the same story—that he was interviewing them for a part in a movie he was making. By the end of each interview, each actress ended up having sex with him. I'm sure none of the women knew they were being videotaped. It was obvious that these girls were hoping to get a part in his movie. They were in the home of one of the most famous producers of our time, and every single one of them thought she had a chance for her big break. So off came the clothes, and each big break was actually Don's.

The third tape Don showed me that night involved a dominatrix dressed in black leather who was torturing a beautiful young girl. Both women were prostitutes, but what Don and the dominatrix did to this girl should have gotten both of them thrown into prison. Instead, it ended up in his video collection. Who knows what happened to the young girl. In the video, she was bound and tortured, tied up in bondage apparel, in-eluding a large rubber ball strapped to the girl's mouth so she couldn't scream.

She was then led to the bathroom. The dominatrix, a prostitute I recognized named Patricia Colombo, forced the girl to lean over a toilet. With her head dunked in the water, the girl was told to drink. At the same time, the dominatrix had a black, twelve-inch dildo strapped to her body. She fucked the girl with it, and also put another specially designed tool up the girl's ass. Don Simpson, meanwhile, was standing over the toilet pissing into the bowl as the girl drank. It was sick, sick, sick

Don called this way of "turning out" girls and exploring every conceivable sadomasochistic fantasy sexual healing. He said he was determined to "heal" people with this method. Somehow I fell under his spell. I don't even know how. At the time, I thought it made perfect sense. He had me thoroughly convinced that I was participating in his sexual healing by introducing him to girls and by participating in the S&M practices myself.

By the end of our relationship, Don had me convinced I should ignore my body and any pain I might be subjected to or subject others to, per his instructions. He also told me something I remember word for word, something that seemed strange considering how he treated women. He said "You women have no idea of the power of what you've got between your legs." It seemed odd. I looked around the world, particularly in Hollywood, and it was what men held between their legs that seemed to be the prerequisite for power.

One particular night, Don Simpson was with dominatrix Patricia and me and something possessed him to call Heidi for a third girl. When the third girl arrived, she took one look at Patricia—dressed in patent leather boots that came up to her mid-thigh, a leather studded bustier, whip, and mask—and swallowed hard. It was obvious she wasn't the S&M type. She was a virgin to these perversions, and you could tell she was scared.

Don took this innocent-looking girl upstairs to his bedroom and before too long we could hear her screaming. Patricia and I walked to the top of the stairs and listened. Don apparently heard us, threw open the door, read us the riot act, and told us to wait downstairs. About an hour later, the young girl came downstairs in tears, obviously shaken up.

Don paid her the thousand dollars and told her to leave. I could tell by the look on her face that she was questioning what price she had paid to make her rent that month. She now had wounds to heal and horrific memories that would last a lifetime. After she left, Don had an evil smile on his face. He told us that he had 'turned her out"—beaten her, screwed her, and introduced her to S&M for the first time. It gave Don a good deal of pleasure to take a naive young girl and do this to her.

Don Simpson's serious bondage games were like something out of Marquis de Sade. He was responsible for many destructive elements in my life and the lives of many young women who, lured by the chance to make a lot of money, enter the hell he presides over. People like Don Simpson have the luxury of being able to do to young women things that most men would go to jail for.

He gets away with it because he can afford to pay for the privilege and because the atmosphere in Hollywood condones if not encourages it. And he gets away with it because women like Madam Alex, Heidi, and me are willing to go the distance to provide men like him with what they want.

Other powerful men are also into "toilet sex," and other producers take advantage of their position of power over actresses, but I have never heard of anyone as bad as Simpson.

Don Simpson gave me more than an education, he gave me a new, perverse set of values, and messed my mind up for so long I'm still recovering from his psychological programming. What he called sexual healing was nothing more than raping my mind and body while telling me my mission was to ignore the pain.

The last time I saw Don Simpson, he was talking about how much he hated Heidi Fleiss. I think they had a disagreement about money. He said he wanted to have her taken out into the desert and killed. Shortly after this last encounter, I heard that I was added to the list of people he wanted to have "taken care of." That might have been more merciful than what he already had done to me.

[quote]Do any of these women know how to get up and leave?

Is this a same woman or multiple women, I can't tell?

R35 It's not the same woman, there are four women (Robin, Linda, Liz and Tiffany) telling their stories in this book

It was my pick for our monthly book club.

The James Caan story is hot.

If most of this shit is true, these fuckers and Hollywood need to be swallowd up during the next big one. Dennis Hopper is the only one who sounds like a decent guy.

Bob Evans :

"I've been in many mansions and estates over the years, but to this day I believe Robert Evans's enclave is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Formerly owned by Greta Garbo, the secluded estate is like a palace in an oasis in Tangiers. It is elegant, tasteful, and simply exquisite.

When we arrived, the butler opened the door...... I studied a photo of Ali MacGraw, whom I recognized from the movie Love Story. I wondered who the man in the picture with her could be. He was stately and disarmingly handsome. Suddenly I looked up, and standing before me was that same man, older, but still striking. He had a deep suntan and wore a white shirt with white pants and white shoes. He smiled an irresistible smile as he slowly undressed me with his beautiful dark eyes.

"Tiffany, who do you have here?" Bob took my hand and kissed it. "This is my friend, Liza. She's beautiful, isn't she?" Tiffany paused for a moment, waiting for Bob's response. He was too busy looking at me. She continued, "I knew you would like her, Robert. She's sixteen years old." Bob's smile got even bigger and his eyes widened

The three of us spent the next two hours coking up and devouring Quaaludes at a nearly inhuman rate. Bob had pharmaceutical quality Quaaludes, far more potent than the kind you buy on the street

We were all very messed up. Bob seemed so horny at that moment that I believe a lampshade would have looked good to him. As is often the case when men do large amounts of cocaine, however, the brain may say yes but the little pocket soldier refuses to stand at attention. Since he couldn't partake in the festivities, Bob resorted to the role he had played a dozen times in the past, that of producer. He began to direct the action with instructions like, 'Tiffany, you touch Liza here," and "Liza, you lick Tiffany there."

In the middle of our performance, Robert seemed to be struck by a brilliant idea. Asking us to stop, he looked at Tiffany and, eyes half closed, almost too whacked out to know what he was doing, poignantly asked her the following question: 'Tiffany, would you please piss on me?"

And so right there, in the middle of this magnificent bed, I watched as Tiffany pissed all over Robert Evans. And I do mean all over him. Suddenly I lost it and became very, very ill. I began to heave uncontrollably and couldn't make it to the bathroom in time. I vomited on Bob's newly pissed-on bed and all over his beautiful Afghans. I finally managed to make my way toward the John, while poor Bob trailed along helplessly behind me.

With that, the evening came to an abrupt end. I was so drunk and messed up on drugs that Bob ordered Tiffany to escort me home. I vaguely remember him handing Tiffany a large sum of cash.

On the way home, Tiffany told me that she was a prostitute and that she had been paid for her services for the evening. She also collected a fee for having brought me along.

I met Bob Evans one other time. I was dating Allen Finkelstein, and he brought me over to Bob's house. Jack Nicholson was there, and we all watched movies together in the screening room. If Bob recognized me from that earlier night, he never let on. Perhaps he was as embarrassed by it as I was

Rich has-been men hire prostitures for crazy sex!!

YAWN

OJ Simpson and Nicole :

Nicole and I first met when she was living with O.J. and I was dating my ex-husband, Mark. Mark and O.J. were friends, and Nicole and I soon became friends too. In those days I thought Nicole and O.J. were very much in love, even though both Nicole and I knew O.J. was never faithful.

But there were things that bothered me. I was over at their house on Rockingham one time when Nicole wouldn't come out of the bedroom. O.J. said she had cramps and she didn't want to see anyone. He went ahead and had a good time with his guests. She never mentioned anything about it later. It seemed strange at the time.

Nicole and I drifted apart for several years after I left Mark. But when Nicole decided to leave O.J. the first time, I got a call from her. She said she had missed me and wanted to talk. We met for lunch. She told me about the times O.J. had beaten her. And, she revealed that the time I remember her staying in her room during a party, she hadn't had cramps. She had been badly beaten by O.J. and makeup wouldn't cover it. She told me the fights usually started when she would accuse him of cheating on her. His response was to beat her up, like it was her fault. After hearing about the beatings she suffered, I hated him. I encouraged her to leave him

I had gotten into real estate to supplement my earnings from my acting career. Nicole wanted me to help her find a place to move to when she left O.J. I found a nice house on Gretna Green, and she thought it was perfect. O.J. didn't want her to have the house and balked at signing the lease. I marched over to Rockingham and told him, "Nicole is entitled to a domain for your children. She should be staying here, and you should be moving out. She's doing you a favor and she's not asking for much." He signed the lease, but from then on he really hated me. O.J. doesn't like to be confronted.

After that, Nicole and I became closer and closer. She seemed to flourish. It was as if a weight was lifted from her shoulders when she was away from O.J.

The last time I spoke to Nicole was the Thursday night before she died. We had talked about going out dancing that night but I was too tired, so we ended up just chatting on the phone. We talked for a long time. She told me she was angry at O.J. over some IRS problem and she said that he was going nuts and was obsessed with her.

On the morning of her death I got a phone call from my dear friend, Debbie Chenowith. She said, "Robin, do you know?" What?" I said. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled. "Why?" I didn't have a clue what she was talking about. she said. "She is dead. She's been killed." "Are you sure?" I still couldn't believe it. "Robin," she said firmly, "Nicole was murdered." "Oh, my God," I blurted out. "He did it." As the days and weeks went on, I dealt with my grief over the loss of my friend and watched the circus of the century they call a trial. All I could think was, Why couldn't he let her be free? Why couldn't he let her go?

I haven't talked too much about Nicole until now, until this book. Her story fits with the stories in this book because the book is about what happens to women in this town. It is the story of what happens to women in a world where men have so much power and women have so little—Hollywood. It's a book that exposes many famous men in Hollywood who have used and abused the women who came into their lives.

It's about a town where men marry a woman from a good family, someone they can have on their arm at social functions, someone to raise their children. And then those men routinely screw hookers at lunch, have affairs, and joke with the guys about tits and ass. It's a book about a big men's club.

That men's club is a dangerous place for beautiful women. Some lose their spirit and their self-respect by sleeping with too many men for the wrong reason. Others lose their health and their looks from years of drugs and alcohol. And others, like my bright, strong, and kind friend Nicole, lose their lives.

Does the story upstream suggest that Tim Hutton is bi? I've always had a mad crush on him.

[quote]It's not the same woman, there are four women (Robin, Linda, Liz and Tiffany) telling their stories in this book

There are at least four books written over the years by various combinations of Madam Alex and Heidi Fleiss girls. I remember one was called Once More With Feeling. There were others. It was shocking how they used the real names.

One book discussed Jean-Claude Van Damme's bisexuality and how he loved anal sex - giving and receiving. He'd be fucking a female whore's ass while a male friend was fucking him simultaneously.

Marcus Allen :

y sister hung out with some of the O.J. Simpson crowd, and one time when I was out with her I met Marcus Allen. He frequented the Daisy on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, the same establishment where O.J. Simpson met Nicole Brown, who was working as a waitress there. O.J., Marcus Allen, and Al Cowlings were all regulars at the Daisy whenever they were in town. When Marcus Allen was signed to the L.A. Raiders, he began to pursue me hotly.

Marcus and O.J. have always been competitive with each other, and I think Marcus wanted a tall, long-legged, beautiful blonde just like the one O.J. was courting. For whatever reason, Marcus was so hot for me, he simply wouldn't leave me alone. He'd make passes when he saw me, ask me out, and call me at home. I wasn't interested. But the worst part was that when I'd turn him down, he'd accuse me of being prejudiced.

"Liza, what's wrong with you? You don't like black men?" No, Marcus. I'm just not interested."

"You can be straight with me. What do you have against black men?" "Nothing, Marcus. I'm just not interested in you."

The truth was, I didn't care what color his skin was, he simply didn't appeal to me. And I resented him bringing race into it. For me, there just wasn't any kind of chemistry.

But when I said no, it only seemed to make Marcus try twice as hard. He was relentless. So I did something I often do to get a guy off my back: I fixed Marcus up with a girlfriend. My friend, Nicolette, liked the idea of dating a football star. And besides, she was beautiful. It worked. Nikki and Marcus dated for some time. She liked him, and I thought he really liked her.

From time to time, the three of us would go out. On one of those occasions, after a night of music and dancing, Marcus invited Nikki and me to come to his condo in Brentwood. Marcus directed me to the guest bedroom. He and Nikki disappeared into the master bedroom next door.

As my head hit the pillow, I couldn't help overhearing Nikki and Marcus having sex. It was loud and passionate, and just as I was beginning to wonder how I was going to get any sleep that night, the sounds stopped— they'd only lasted a few minutes. Relieved, I fell asleep.

The next morning, when my bedroom door opened, I expected to see Nikki. Instead I saw this great big, tall figure looming over me. It was Marcus, and he was stark naked! I started to scream, but he held his finger in front of his lips in a shushing gesture. I stopped.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he whispered. I just thought you'd like to take a look at my—"

My eyes moved down to where he was pointing. I was in awe. There before me was the largest appendage I'd ever laid eyes on. It hung down to his knees, and I swear it looked like a redwood tree.

As Marcus stood there smiling and pointing, presenting himself, I took a deep breath. "What do you think you're doing?" He continued to smile. He was accustomed to rejection, at least from me. "Hey, I'm just making an offer." He touched it.

"I'm sorry, Marcus, but number one, you're with my girlfriend. Number two, if I wanted to be with you, I would have done it by now. Number three—" He cut me off. because I'm black, isn't it?"

I was taken aback, "Marcus, I'm not interested. Now get out of here." We heard Nikki stir in the next room. Marcus slowly turned toward the door, his penis waiving in the breeze as he left.

Minutes later I could hear them having sex in the other room. Again, it only lasted a couple of minutes.

It wasn't until Marcus dumped Nikki that she and I had a heart-to-heart talk. I told her what had happened. She wasn't very surprised. She went on to tell me that Marcus had a little problem staying erect, at least with her. Apparently the extent of their intimate moments was exactly that—mere moments. She was disappointed in his infidelity, but she didn't really miss him. She'd had better.

R44 Jean-Claude Van Damme' second wife outed his homosexual affairs after the divorce

Don Henley :

I had met rock star Don Henley, then with the Eagles, through George Santo Pietro. After George and I broke up, I went out with Don for a while. He is one of the worst cocaine addicts I have ever seen. I liked hanging out and sometimes sitting at a piano and singing with him, but I hated how he smelled. It wasn't that he didn't bathe, it was just that he had done so many drugs and had drunk so much alcohol in his life that the smell came out through his skin.

Early one night, after we had been dating for a while, my sister dropped me off at his recording studio. When he saw me, he said, 'Liza, I have a big surprise for you/' "What?" I asked. I was pretty excited. "I'm not going to tell you. I want to show you."

We went back to his house, did some lines of coke, and he gave me a gold Cartier watch with diamonds on it. It was beautiful. I thanked him, but he quickly told me that that was not the surprise. What has gotten into him, I thought. "Let's go shopping," he said. I jumped in the car with him, anticipating that we were headed to Neiman Marcus or Saks. Unfortunately, we ended up at Circus Circus, the popular sex store.

I'm not a big believer in sex toys, dildos and the like, but Circus Circus has it all. To me, it was a big joke. But Don was like a kid in a candy store. By the time we left, he had picked out a vast array of erotica, including dildos and massage oils in several flavors.

It was not ten minutes after we arrived back at Don's home that the doorbell rang. Don ran to answer. When the door opened, five girls came in, all young, all prostitutes. I knew two of them. Don said to me, "This is your surprise'

He immediately started an orgy with these women, and I was left to watch. I began to wonder why I was there at all, until he said, "Liza, go get the bag of toys we just bought."

When I came back, I saw that one of the women was having a hard time with the whole scene. Don and the other girls were just ignoring her.

By now I was feeling that I, too, had had enough of Don's surprise. He was paying these prostitutes a thousand dollars each, and he expected me to join the party for free. I approached the girl who looked freaked out and said, "Let's get the fuck out of here." That night, she told me this was her first prostitution job. She was a drug addict and she needed the money for drugs. I told her to get out of prostitution. She'd really regret it.

I later found out that she took my advice. That was the one good thing that came out of my experience with Don Henley: I helped convince one woman not to sell her body.

Despite repeated phone calls in the following weeks for me to go out with him again, I decided Don Henley was a mind fuck I could do without

Gawd, heterosexuality IS sick and boring!

Girlfriend makes a loooong series of poor choices. She keeps making excuses for why she didn't choose better.

Matt Dillon :

"Linda, that's Matt Dillon," she said excitedly. "Get out." "No, really, Linda. It's Matt Dillon, the actor. I just saw him on television in a rerun of My Bodyguard." "He's awfully cute." "Only if you like perfection."

Before long, Matt walked over and sat down on a lounge chair next to ours. In a slow, southern drawl he said, 'Howdy, young ladies. Where are ya'll from?" "Los Angeles." "That's where I live," he replied. "We know who you are," Paula added. Matt smiled, "You sure are pretty women."

We asked him about the southern accent. "I'm in character. We're shooting a movie here called Target and my character is from the South." As we chatted, you could almost see the wheels turning in Matt's head, deciding which one of us he wanted. Apparently taking the divide-and-conquer tack, he asked me if I wanted to take a sauna.

Trying to keep my cool, I gave a sly smirk to Paula, slowly got up, put on my bikini top and followed his lead.

Matt Dillon didn't have any idea who I was or why I was there. He never asked me one single question. He just walked tall and I followed. Once inside the sauna, he pulled me close to him. We kissed passionately. How many women, I wondered, make love with movie stars just because they get the chance?

Thinking back on it now, I don't know how he wouldn't have known I was a whore. I was very, very good at what we were doing. I'd had a lot more practice than most women my age. But he never seemed to suspect it. He didn't use protection, and I wasn't about to ruin the moment to insist upon getting some. When we were done, I walked back to Paula with a smile on my face. I was gloating. After all, Matt had chosen me. Then Matt started looking at Paula the same way he had just looked at me before we fucked in the sauna!

He asked us both to go out dancing with him that evening. By the end of the night, Matt had taken off with Paula. According to her, he made love with her twice, once that evening and again the next morning. I guess she had something I didn't—she was one up on me.

Neither one of us ever heard from Matt Dillon again. Apparently he thought we were college girls on vacation. Little did he know, if he had to pay for what he got for free, it would have cost him several thousand dollars.

Of all the people I've made love with, movie stars seem to be the most egotistical. And the more famous they are, the less inclined they are to pay for the service.

Actors who are inclined to pay for sex often don't want straight sex like Matt Dillon did. Actors and other clients who hire prostitutes are more likely to want kinkier stuff such as fetishes or various forms of sadomasochism.

I must say that I was a big part of Heidi Fleiss's downfall. It's true that I was one of the lead witnesses in the case against her, but I feel like she asked for what she got. I was only one of many people she screwed. Instead of licking my wounds, rolling over, and playing dead, however, I turned state's evidence against her.

It began with me drag-racing in Beverly Hills with a suspended license. I'll never forget the blue lights flashing in my rear-view mirror. My heart sank as I pulled over. My unpaid traffic fines and failure-to-appear warrants were about to land me in the Beverly Hills Jail.

The evening had begun with me dressing in a sexy, tight fitting, low-cut leopard print dress for my hot date with Keith Zlomsowitch.

My first call was to Keith Zlomsowitch. Lucky for me, he was home. I asked him to get in touch with Heidi Fleiss and explain my situation. I figured Heidi would help me get out. I'd done a lot for her, and besides, isn't that what madams are supposed to do— help their girls get out of jail? I settled into the modern stainless steel holding cell with three other inmates. I'd be out of this place in no time. Heidi would make sure of that.

But no one came to help. The next day I was transferred downtown to the Sybil Brand Institute for Women, part of the Los Angeles jail system. I had been chained with four other girls during our first transport. Still dressed in my sexy leopard dress, we were put in a black and white police bus with twenty-eight men. The men—many of them murderers and rapists—were, thankfully, behind a glass partition.

Once in the jail I was subjected to the usual strip search, which includes bending over, spreading my cheeks and coughing in order to dislodge any hidden drugs. A couple of the girls in the slammer had intentionally gotten arrested so that once they were inside they could retrieve condoms filled with drugs that had been shoved way inside each other's asses. They intended to sell them to incarcerated women. Their pimps had devised the plan. I felt lucky that I had Heidi, an advocate who wasn't interested in exploiting me the way these low-class whores had been.

I was connected, I was in a different league. Heidi would make sure I got out of this place ASAP. Right? Wrong. The only thing Heidi did for me was to tell Keith, 'Tuck Tiffany." Fuck Tiffany. Those were two words Heidi would live to regret having said.

Meanwhile, I had learned that another of Heidi's girls, Judy Geller, had been talking to the police about Heidi. She was bitter because at the age of thirty-two she was considered too old and wasn't getting requested by clients. She was not a happy camper and she deeply resented Heidi, by now a very wealthy and arrogant madam to the stars. Judy would eventually be one of the most important prosecution witnesses against Heidi. After Heidi's sincere concern over my well-being, I decided I'd participate in her downfall.

After I got out of jail, Judy put me in touch with two men from the Beverly Hills NARCO administration vice squad, Sammy Lee and Steve Miller. We talked. Before the police were through, Heidi would not be selling drugs or bodies for a long time

The problem with this book comes from the moralizing of expensive whores. Yeah, we get that you are bored with being desired and have a few limits. Duh. I fucked Sean Zevran and he loved my dick. He pretended to, nah he did:)

The stories are kind of interesting in a junk food way but the reader must provide their own insight, except with men like Don Simpson or Jack Nicholson about whom much more stuff is known. JN destroyed Lara Flynn Boyle with drugs, mind games, power trips and pimping her out to other men. Destroyed her beauty, confidence and AMBITION. It's fair to assume she was willing. There are no victims here.

But thanks OP. Nice of you to post some old whores' recollections about the proclivities of rich and famous men. What a surprise that they pay for what they want! No whore like an old whore with bills to pay.

I'm enjoying the excerpts. Keep them coming OP!

I feel like I need a shower after reading this thread.

These women are basically retarded.

They are drawn to relatively easy money.

They think that by fucking famous people they are famous adjacent, important.

Where's the gay stuff?

It's celebrity gossip.

They keep whining that women have no power in Hollywood, or Los Angeles, when I'd say that *beautiful* women have little power there. There are so damn many beautiful women chasing after the successful men there, that yes, there's a sexual power imbalance.

Yet, that's where these gals choose to be, in a place where their beautify gains them nothing but a cash for services rendered, or the chance to be used and tossed aside by celebrities. If they were smart as well as beautiful, they'd go to Silicon Valley and marry a tech billionaire.

I'm sorry, but these women are just stupid, vacuous, self-victimizing vaginas for hire.

True. But the gossip in their stories is still interesting.

Ick at them using the term "making love" to describe they're work as prostitutes but then again, quite sad if they don't know the difference.

I thought the same thing r63. But I think it's a form of protection in addition to self deception. It's easier to describe yourself as "making love" to thousands of men rather than a whore for hire.

OP, if I remember right the book includes a John Ritter story? But I don 't remember the details.

It's like reading about those old rock groupies, but sadder.

MORE!!! Please, Master.

R65

John Ritter :

When I met an actor named John Ritter—the son of the cowboy, actor, and singer Tex Ritter—I was living where I live now, in an unsafe neighborhood. But helping me with any of my problems never occurred to him. He was primarily interested in telling me his own. It began with an innocent flirtation..........

When I dropped him off, John said he would be back in L.A. in a couple of weeks. He promised to call. I honestly didn't expect he would. He didn't know that I was a prostitute and still doesn't know unless, of course, he's reading this book. He just thought I was a beautiful woman who happened to be attracted to a famous television star. This was true, but the fact that I was an extremely high-priced call girl was also true.

I was surprised when he actually did call a couple of weeks later. He was interested in more than finding out how my modeling assignment went. He never mentioned going out together sometime. He only said, "Can I come over and see you?" It was morning. I agreed.

When John arrived he was wearing the same New York Mets baseball hat and sunglasses he wore the day we met. He seemed pleased to see me, but the first thing he asked was, "Is this neighborhood safe?" I told him it wasn't. But like most men, he wasn't concerned enough to ask me anything about myself or why I lived in this neighborhood. He was only concerned with what I could do for him. Within thirty minutes, we were both nude.

Our lovemaking started out like any other. Then, however, we went from the usual, to the unusual, and beyond. What made this experience so different for me was the amount of time we were together having pure, hot, jackhammer sex. Minute after minute, hour after hour, it went on and on and on. John was like a hungry animal who hadn't made love in a year. He took over my body and gave it an extraordinary workout, the likes of which I'm not sure I've ever known. Nothing had ever been as unrelenting as this.

John apparently believed I was a struggling actress and that I was thrilled to have an opportunity to take care of the sexual needs of someone who had "made it." giving me all he had. He entered every opening in my body that I would allow him to. He had no idea of the value he was getting for free! For what we were doing together, professional that I was, I should have made several thousand dollars at least—and more for overtime.

Finally, after nine hours of thrusting penetration in every possible position, he was through. We lay still on the living room floor. John smiled that little boy smile and told me he was hungry. He would have been quite content for me to have taken care of his dietary needs as well as his sexual ones, but the last thing I was about to do was cook for him. I was exhausted, and besides, I didn't have any food in the refrigerator. I suggested we go to a nearby Denny's.

Denny's was filled with characters John Ritter might have wanted to portray in an acting role, but in real life it was obvious that he didn't want to associate with this kind of riff-raff. After a few minutes of paranoia about whether or not we were safe to even be here, he asked, "This is the kind of neighborhood where people get killed, isn't it?" He finally calmed down, and after a little small talk about his upcoming television project, he began talking about his wife.

He said he was having a lot of trouble with her because she had found out about his mistress. His wife had told him that if he didn't get rid of the mistress, she'd leave him. He told me that he was still in love with his wife, an actress named Nancy Morgan. Meanwhile, he said, his love for the new mistress was making him feel like that song, 'Torn Between Two Lovers." In the end, though, his children took priority and he wanted to stay with his wife.

He dropped me off and headed over to pick up his children. Within an hour or so, my doorbell rang. It was John. He had dropped his kids off and was now back for more! I couldn't believe this guy's stamina. When he was through—this round lasted about ninety minutes—he stuck around for a little while. He seemed lonely, or maybe he just didn't want to go home

When John left, he didn't even say, "I'll call you sometime." I thought I'd never hear from him again. Then I ran into him one day on the set of a television show he was shooting. I had been hired for a small part on the show "Hearts Afire." I would never embarrass someone by speaking first to them in public, just in case there was someone else around who knew of my call-girl history.

This self-imposed rule particularly applied to the movie stars I knew. So when I saw John on the set, I didn't say a word. It took a while for him to recognize me, but when he did, he walked over and said, "Tiffany?" Then he hugged me and acted like we were long lost friends. At the end of the day, he took me aside and whispered in my ear, "Can I come over to your house later?' I told him yes, and within the hour he was knocking on my door once again, dick in hand.

This time our lovemaking session only lasted two hours. He managed to fit in a lot of positions in that relatively short amount of time, and we added a new venue to our repertoire—the bathroom sink When the hot sex was over, he once again talked about his wife, his kids, and that mistress. He soon said good-bye (this time no Denny's invitation), and left.

After being his sex object, counselor, psychiatrist, and acrobat, it would have been nice if he'd have at least called me sometime to say, Hello, ,, 'Thanks/' or at the very least, "What did you say your last name was?" Oh, well. After all, it does take two to Mambo

[quote]After being his sex object, counselor, psychiatrist, and acrobat, it would have been nice if he'd have at least called me sometime to say, Hello.

Steal his underwear and ponder why you never became princess. When you are paid to fuck, so will someone else. Hello.

Billy IdoI :

I was walking down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills with my girlfriend Nikki, when suddenly a very plain, dark-haired man in his early forties approached us. The first words out of his mouth were, 'Would you like to meet Billy Idol?" Nikki and I looked at each other. It sounded intriguing. We listened as he explained, "You're really beautiful girls. I'm personally handling Billy. I'm his producer. I'm sure he'd love to meet you. Can you come with me?"

Nikki and I talked for a moment. She was a fan of Billy's, although I couldn't care less about him. After discussing whether or not we had anything better to do, we decided, "Why not?" So we and the producer drove to Billy Idol's suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Billy Idol has very poor eyesight. When we were introduced to him, he searched for his glasses so he could take a good look. It was obvious to us that he had been up partying for several days. His appearance was nothing like his music videos. He was shabby and disheveled, his hair was all matted and he seemed to be drooling.

Billy kept staring at me. Nikki was beginning to get upset—she was the one with the crush on this guy, not me. I really didn't care. After several minutes of silence and some intense staring and drooling, Billy mumbled something inaudible. I finally said, "What?" He tried again. I thought he said, "I want some hot chocolate."

None of his hangers-on moved. He repeated, "I want some hot chocolate." Still nobody moved. So I took it upon myself to order some hot chocolate for him from room service. As I walked over to the telephone, Billy staggered into one of the bathrooms.

We waited for the hot chocolate to arrive. After a while, I decided to see what had happened to Billy. The bathroom door was open ever so slightly. I knocked. There was no answer. I began to speak to him through the opening. "Billy? Are you all right?"

"Come in, love," he said softly.I didn't know what to expect as I pushed the door open and stepped in. I was agahst at what I saw. Standing in front of the mirror, with a small rubber tube wrapped around and a syringe sticking into his arm, was Billy Idol. He had just shot up and had left the needle in. It was obvious that he was riding on a heroin high. His moon eyes looked at me and in a perfect British accent he said, "I'm fine, dear."

I'd seen people shooting up before, but I'd never shot up myself. The whole scene makes me really uncomfortable. I've known girls who are hooked on needles, and they have horrible bruises on their arms and ankles from their never-ending search for new veins to assault with poisons. I smiled at Billy and nodded as I backed out of the door.

I quickly found Nikki and told her that I wanted to leave. She was reluctant because she was hoping to get better acquainted with her hero. I hated to burst her bubble, but this guy was bad news. As we were making our way out the door, Billy emerged from the bathroom smiling. He seemed to be listening to a fifty-piece orchestra that only he could hear.

"Thank you, dear, for ordering my hot chocolate," he slurred. Not missing a beat he added, "Can I have your telephone number?" Nikki was livid as I gave him my number. I did it just to be polite, but I would never go out with him. I've done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I would never go out with someone who shot up

The following day Billy called several times, asking me to go out with him. I told him I was busy, and I never heard from him again. I felt sorry for him, but thank God I had enough sense not to be drawn into that scene. What I was already into was bad enough.

Whenever I pass the Beverly Hills Hotel, order hot chocolate, or watch Billy Idol on MTV, I can't help but think of him as I remember him—standing in the bathroom with a needle in his arm.

Thanks for your contributions lately, OP. I am really enjoying them since DL is void of true gossip these days. I'd like to see pictures of these whores; the narrators make themselves sound like modern day Cleopatra's that no man can resist.

Yeah I second that. Are there any pictures of these woman around?

It's not gossip. It's some old book, written by a sexless ghost writer. Either make the accounts salacious or put them in context. The book is true but unsubstantiated. These whores won't reveal themselves. See the face of Heidi Fleiss and believe that much worse is true. The four women were high paid whores who brag of beauty but have nothing to offer but snatch and ass and access, supporting only their desire to be close to powerful men. Prostitutes with no excuse but lazy greed. Man or woman it IS gross when they TELL. Don't tell. You seem a ratfuck fool to remain anonymous. So many old groupies never got paid for 15 years of gangbang, shitting on tables, cocksucking, girl on girl and constant on their knees dedication. Paid their own pathetic way most of the time. So Buck up Bitches & OP. These whores chose to fuck these men for money and drugs and access. Sorry means never having to say you sought love.

Here's an old thread.

Wikipedia's entry lists their real names.

Some of the writing reads like fanfiction to me. I say this as an upscale LA whore myself. Then again I've never been paid $10k for a couple nights work.

Not using protection is just unbelievable, though. You NEVER have unprotected sex with a client, especially not at your first meeting. I think some of these women may have been on the sugar baby side of the industry. I don't know any hoe who calls what they do 'making love,' btw. Ew.

r76 that book was published ages ago. IIRC, a lot of the stories pre-dated the AIDs era. Not that it's not stupid for STIs generally, but it's a bit different.

r39 Dennis Hopper was a POS who beat his partners--allegedly, of course.

These girls are dense.

A lot of it is unflattering to the writers. And just because the writers reference extraordinary reactions to their beauty, doesn't make it false. You put very good looking people in an area with many very wealthy people.... good looking people will get propositioned. A lot. Rich men are brazen.

[quote]Does the story upstream suggest that Tim Hutton is bi? I've always had a mad crush on him.

The "Steve" in the story is probably Tim's fuck-buddy Stephen Dorff.

r76 Fanfic sound makes sense; it's also pretty pr-friendly after all. Nothing really that embarrassing, and it makes it sound like the entertainment industry consists nearly exclusively of straight, relatively normal men; haven't read the book, but from the excerpts it also kinda sounds like the bis in Hollywood are usually straight-bis.

And in the media, interviews and books like these they always talk about beautiful this, beautiful that, and totally overrating the looks of the people; and at least from pictures and movies to go by, people generally did not look good in the 70s, 80s, 60s, and the 90s weren't that good either. Also difficult to find a good-looking woman in an old painting, statue or photograph; I guess women tended to dress and be more homely in former times, before like the 1940s. Sluts are also often very short, which is detrimental to one's looks.

R75 This related old DL thread is about another book written by other call girls (whores)

Here's a picture of one of the women who wrote the book, Liza

liza was stunning! Anything on Mick Jagger in that book? He was one of Heidi Fleiss's customers.

R84 There is no specific story about a Mick Jagger' encounter in this book. but he and Charlie Sheen were mentioned in this part :

"I had this feeling one night as I headed over to Heidi Fleiss's new home in Benedict Canyon for a birthday party she was throwing for Mick Jagger. I entered Heidi's house at 1270 Tower Road in Beverly Hills, and for just a moment I almost forgot that I was one of the highest paid call girls in Beverly Hills.

I glanced around the room at the many Hollywood deal-makers who were there. A producer was busy talking with the guest of honor, Mick Jagger. Mick was in fine form for a man his age. A lot of Heidi's regular clients were milling about, including Charlie Sheen.

Charlie spent a lot of money with Heidi. Why not? He could afford to indulge, with his riches from hit movies like Platoon, Wall Street, Navy SEALS, Hot Shots, and The Three Musketeers. Charlie disappeared with one of his regulars, a girl who told me that he always gave her a tip on top of the standard two thousand dollars a pop.

I don't know if it was because Charlie was good in bed, if it was the money he paid her for her services, or if it was the fact that Charlie was so famous, but she always had a smile on her face.

I tried to keep track of Jagger just to see if he would be partaking of the treats. Knowing Heidi, she'd probably be offering up at least a couple of girls to him on the house. We all knew that anything we did for Heidi, she'd repay in kind later.

Mick was still surrounded by a combination of Hollywood power brokers and hookers. Then I caught the eye of a very famous star, the man known as The Joker, Jack Nicholson.........

A little money and fame will bring out the narcissism and depravity already lurking in most men.

So, "making love" for these hookers means to be physically and mentally abused by famous men?

One of the authors said that she was making thousands per night, but she lived in a bad neighborhood. How is that possible? I don't think she mentioned being a drug addict. Once the madam took her cut, she should have been making at least, what, $7K per customer, plus tips. Help me out.

Raise your hand if you'd have done the same, if you were young and hot.

Get hot coffee enemas?

Matt Lattanzi :

"The word was that Matt was an excellent lover, and that his lover and future wife, Olivia Newton-John, had discovered him while filming her monumental flop, Xanadu. I can only imagine how gifted Matt is as a dancer, and apparently it didn't take him long to cha cha his way into Olivia's sheets. The buzz was that he was a gigolo.

The next day Matt called my girlfriend, Betsy Russell, who is now married to Vince Van Patten (one of the sons of actor Dick Van Patten). Matt asked Betsy to bring me out to his home. He wasn't married to Olivia at the time, but he was living with her. When Betsy called, I couldn't get dressed fast enough. I knew I wanted this man.

It was a long drive to Olivia Newton-John's home, along the coast, past the Malibu Colony. When we arrived Matt greeted us warmly and offered us some Dom Perignon. We made small talk for a few minutes and then he looked me in the eyes and said, in the sexiest voice I had ever heard, "I want to make love to you."

Matt reached out, took my hand, and led me toward the bedroom. I looked over my shoulder at a very perturbed Betsy. Whatever she had in mind for the evening, it wasn't going to happen. Because we came in her car, she was sentenced to a night of listening to our passion as she tried to sleep on a couch in the living room. She could have left me but she didn't, and for that I am grateful.

Matt made me feel like a bride. Compared to other men I had been with, he was so loving and tender. . As I entered Livy's boudoir (Matt called Olivia "Livy"), I was taken with the beauty of the platform-raised canopy bed.. We climbed up the steps. He laid me down and then proceeded to make love to me like I'd never been made love to before.

For about an hour, we made passionate love. During the course of this erotic feast he went down on me. I had an orgasm, the first of many that evening.

Matt made me feel like no other man had ever made me feel, and brought me to the height of sensual pleasure When it was over, we were both exhausted.

After a little nap, we went in to check on my patient girlfriend. Betsy could see we were in love and needed to be together. She assured us she was fine, so we went back to the bedroom and made love again. The most perfect evening in my life ended as we drifted off to sleep in each others arms—in Livy's bed.

"Wake up!" Matt was shaking me. "Come on, wake up!" I was groggy. I wanted to sleep. But he relentlessly jerked me until I woke up. "You have to go now. Livy will be home soon."

"When will I see you again?" I asked "I don't know. But you've got to get out now. Liv's on her way from the airport." I slowly began putting my clothes on. The baby oil was still on my body. I told him I wanted to take a shower. There isn't time. You have to leave right now."

It was so hard for me to comprehend that this man, who had said and done everything right the night before, was shoving me out the door. Thank goodness Betsy had spent the night. I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't stayed.

Thinking about seeing Matt at the acting class in two days kept me from getting too depressed. I didn't have his phone number. I didn't know how to get in touch with him. The night of the next class, when I thought my heart couldn't sink any lower, I learned that Matt had told Vince he was dropping out. I was a basket case over this rejection.

Matt went on to marry Olivia and have children with her. I saw the two of them together at a restaurant once. Matt couldn't take his eyes off me. Olivia knew something was up; she seemed upset with him.

Such aggressive cluelessness. Making love? In love after just meeting some guy? Wondering why each and every stranger she had sex with didn't want to make her his wife after knowing him a couple of hours? No insight, no self reflection. This isn't even juicy fiction.

"This was before i became a prostitute, I returned from a trip to New York with my sister and couldn't stop talking about a man we both had met by the name of Victor. He was a very attractive well-groomed, and exceedingly charming man. I guess I had a crush on him Victor told me that he worked for one of the richest men in the world, Adnan Khashoggi. I would soon learn what Victor did for Mr. Khashoggi, but I didn't know at the time.

A short while later, I received a phone call from Victor inviting me to Las Vegas for a week. He said he wanted me to meet his friends and his boss. He promised it would be fun and said not to worry about the expenses—his boss would take care of them. I was excited.

The next day a limousine picked me up and took me to the airport. It was the first time I flew first class. When I stepped off the plane in Las Vegas, a chauffeur was waiting for me. He was holding up a card that read liza/khashoggi. People were looking at me as if I were someone important.

We arrived at the hotel. Adnan Khashoggi had an entire floor for himself, his bodyguards, and his entourage. I was led to my own suite. I gasped when I entered the room. The ceiling was fifteen feet high, the drapes were velvet, the furniture exquisite.

I heard a knock at the door. It must be Victor, I thought. I opened the door, expecting Victor. He was there, but standing next to him was a short, stocky man wearing a button-down collar shirt. To look at him, you would never guess that he was one of the most influential and wealthiest men in the world. The little wisps of hair on the top of his head were neatly in place. There was something self-effacing about him, like a kid who was about to open a present he wasn't quite sure he deserved. Adnan was very sweet and respectful as Victor introduced him to me.

"Liza, I'd like you to meet Adnan." Victor smiled, quite pleased with himself. "Hello. Nice to meet you." We shook hands.

After some small talk, Adnan gave me an envelope and said, "Here is ten thousand dollars." Surprised, I said, "Why are you giving me money? I have my own money on me." Victor interjected, "Just take the money. He wants you to go and buy a nice dress."

I turned to Victor, angry and disappointed, and said, "I'm not a prostitute. I don't want the money."

Adnan smiled at me, amused, and said, "Come and see me when you are dressed." Then he tossed the money on the floor and walked away with Victor. After he was gone, I scooped the money up and counted it. It was ten thousand, all right.

Victor called a few minutes later and asked me to cooperate. "He has a crush on you. Just have dinner with him. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

I got dressed and went over to Khashoggi's suite. We talked for a while and he seemed really nice. In fact, he was one of the nicest, most generous "Johns" I would ever meet. He handed me a bottle of blues— pharmaceutical Quaaludes—and a two-gram bottle of coke. He told me to go buy a dress and meet him for dinner.

When I left him, I took three of the Quaaludes and went shopping. Then I went back to my room and passed out. The Quaaludes were much stronger than I had realized Dinnertime came and went. Adnan's people pounded on the door, but I was out cold. Finally, Victor came in. He roused me a little. I was groggy. I guess he thought that raping me would wake me up. He pulled down his pants and tried to fuck me.

I resisted as well as I could. He tried to get me to give him head, but in the drugged-out state I was in, that didn't work. Finally he gave me some coke, hoping it would wake me up.

He told me I had no choice but to "do" Adnan now because I had spent his money. Furious, though my anger was somewhat numbed by the drugs, I said, "Why did you set me up? I'm not a fucking prostitute!" I don't know how he replied, but I know I hated him. He was a fucking pimp who had completely betrayed me and used me. He even betrayed his boss by trying to rape me. And he certainly didn't give a damn what happened to me.

Finally I pulled it together enough to walk, and a bodyguard brought me to Adnan's suite. He soon led me into his bedroom and the next thing I knew, he lifted the caftan he was wearing, exposing his erection. Even as sedated as I was, I knew what was expected of me. And it was one thing I did well— I serviced him. He seemed very satisfied. When it was over, he directed me to the bathroom.

"Now, go take a bath. I want you clean." Then he added. "When you are finished with your bath, look under your pillow."

I went to the bathtub, poured in some lavendar bubble bath, and climbed in. I was angry, disgusted, and humiliated. I wanted to be clean, too, but it would take more than a bath to restore me.

After the bath I came out and looked under the pillow. I picked up a matching bracelet, earrings, and ring, all glittering with exquisite diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.

The next day I left the hotel without telling anyone. Victor called me when I got home and asked what happened to me. He said Adnan had wanted to say goodbye. He liked me and wanted me to fly to Geneva to stay with him. Victor sent me the ticket, but I cashed it out.

That was the last I saw of Adnan Khashoggi and his pimp, Victor. Khashoggi admittedly was a very generous man. But the high price he pays, the expensive gifts he gives, the royal treatment his women receive, seduce all too many young, beautiful girls into becoming hookers. Innocently and foolishly, they believe every trick will be as profitable and relatively painless as Khashoggi.

I know because that is what happened to me. Khashoggi, my second trick, may have been the most glamorous, but all it did was lead me further down the path of self-hate, shame, and self-destruction. In the years to follow, when I wasn't dating a man who could supply me with drugs, when I needed money to support my growing habit, I would turn to prostitution again and again.

Matt Lattanzi. Geezus, he was instrumental in making me gay. My cum rag dripped from my fantasies of him. I'm so envious.

Yes we need more lovemaking and 'servicing' stories. Wake me up when the ass rape begins because powerful men always want to ass fuck whores. As the gays know this act is meant to humiliate. Liza doesn't mention condoms or birthcontrol either, spoils the romance of her high class encounters. She does look like Lying Eyes was written for her though. Pretty one.

Even these excerpts are so depressing to read, the girls letting themselves being used over and over and over, and never seeking a situation where they'll be treated better, or realizing there are other ways to interact with men.

You know what's even more depressing? A generation of Kardashina-worshipping idiot girls who think this lifestyle is glamorous!

This is slit-your-wrist d e p r e s s i n g.

That's why I think there is a grain of truth to all of this. If you wanted to embellish to get rich, wouldn't you say you were living the high life? Who would come out of the woodwork to counter you? If you were lying, why not say you lived in a beautiful condo instead of a rathole in the murder-y part of town? And being humiliated over and over. IDK

"My mother answered and handed the receiver to me. " Linda, It's for you. He says his name is Michael Bass." I thought for a moment and vaguely remembered that he was the boyfriend of a friend of mine named Pilar, also a model. I had been to his mansion once to visit her. He had said hello for a moment and then he was gone, so I really didn't remember him very well. I took the phone.

"Hello. 'This is Michael Bass, Pilar's friend." "Oh, yes. How are you? "Fine. Great news. How would you like an all-expense-paid trip to Paris?""Are you kidding?" "No. I'm taking some models to Paris to do some shows. One of the girls dropped out and I thought you'd be perfect!"

"You want me to model in Paris?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I looked over at my mother. She seemed a bit suspicious, but my joy soon overcame her reservations. I listened as Michael explained that five girls had been chosen to go to Paris on a modeling assignment.

One of them was my good friend, Pilar. He then told me I would make ten thousand dollars for two weeks' work. I was beside myself. "Is it runway modeling?" I asked him, holding my breath. "It is," he replied. I was so excited. Since I didn't have a modeling agent then, I told him he had to get my mother's consent. I handed the phone to my mother.

Thinking the offer sounded too good to be true, she must have asked him thirty questions. I guess he answered all of them correctly because she seemed to be leaning toward letting me go. She looked over at me in a questioning way. I nodded eagerly.

"I guess it will be all right," my mother said, "on one condition. I want to hear from her every day. I want to know how she's doing." The next day a black stretch limousine picked me up at my family's home. I greeted Pilar. We were so caught up in our excitement, it took a few minutes before I noticed the other three girls in the car. Funny, I thought to myself, these girls are rather unattractive. They don't look like models at all.

Michael Bass was also in the limo. He's really a nerd. More than unattractive, he's actually downright ugly. And he has no personality to speak of. I couldn't understand how he could get someone like Pilar to be his girlfriend.

I tried to make small talk, but none of the girls would communicate with me. They looked sad. The youngest seemed to be about sixteen years old. The other two weren't much older. Usually models are beautiful, skinny, and tall. These girls were anything but.

Except for our excitement, the limo could easily have been on its way to a funeral. This was the first moment I had an inkling that something might be wrong,

Michael told us his company was footing the bill. He wanted us to look good because he would be taking us out a lot. No complaints here—I'd never seen such beautiful clothes in my life. At one point, I told Michael that I wanted to call my mother. He assured me he would take care of it. He walked over to a phone booth and dialed. After a few minutes, he gave the high sign, as though all was well.

When we returned to the hotel, we each had our own room on one floor. Pilar stayed with Michael in his suite, but she visited me often. We'd talk to each other and laugh. We were both so excited to be modeling in Paris We had been there two days when it happened. Someone knocked on my door. I opened it slowly. There in front of me stood a tall, thin Arab man, dressed in his native attire. He pushed the door open, smiled and entered the room.

"Michael sent me." He stood there, waiting for me to do something "What do you want?" I said "You," he answered. "I'm here so you can take care of me." "What?" I was shocked. I quickly got his point. I thought of the first time I had been to Paris, to "take care of" a Saudi Arabian king. "I paid a lot of money for you. Now, you take care of me." He sounded menacing. "I'm not a whore. I'm a model. Get out of here. "A model?" he laughed. "Call it whatever you wish. Come here."

I didn't move. He started toward me. I backed up to the wall. I was terrified. This man was six feet two, and a lot stronger than me. I looked around the room. My eyes fixed on a lamp. I prepared to grab it. As his hot breath got closer, I started to scream. He grabbed me and put his hand over my mouth. I bit his hand, hard What are you doing?" he yelled. "I paid good money for you!"

I grabbed the lamp and held it up, ready to smash him with it. "Look, I don't know what Michael told you, but I'm here to model. Now get out of here!" The man was stunned and, I believe, embarrassed. He left.

Minutes later, Michael stormed into my room. I was shocked—I hadn't realized he had a key. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he shouted at me. "Why didn't you sleep with that man?" "What are you talking about? I'm not a prostitute! I didn't come here to sleep with anyone. I'm here to model!" I was as angry as he was.

"Do you really think I'm going to pay you ten thousand dollars to model?" He was yelling. "Are you kidding? What makes you think you're worth ten thousand dollars? You've got to be crazy. You're lucky I even brought you here." I'd heard him talk to Pilar in the same degrading, belittling tone after we arrived, but I never expected him to lay into me the same way. You can't do this to me!"

I ran to the door and opened it. Standing in the doorway were two big Arab men. They wouldn't let me out. I was livid. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "I'm going to call my mother. I'm getting out of here."

I didn't feel I could trust him, but I also couldn't resist the lure of the dream that I so desperately wanted. Maybe he would come through for us with a modeling job, I thought. I didn't want to face going home and telling my friends that I didn't get to model in Paris.

Michael stood there while I hurriedly packed my bag with all the beautiful clothes from the shopping spree. Then he took me back to his room, where he instructed Pilar to pack. He called the other girls and told them to pack as well. We all met downstairs and a limo was waiting for us at the front of the hotel. We got into it and were driven to another hotel on the Champs-Ely sees.

This hotel was small and decrepit, nothing like the Hilton. There was a burly, unkempt man in his fifties behind the desk, smoking a cigar. Michael got two keys from him. Three of the girls were taken to one room and Pilar and I were taken to another. Michael carried our bags to the room and told us he would be back tomorrow to take us to lunch.

The musty room had two narrow beds with one sheet on each, complimented by small, hard pillows. There was no furniture to speak of, just a chair and a television in the corner. Pilar and I looked at each other. She had tears in her eyes. I went to the telephone and grabbed the receiver. I wanted to call my mother to tell her how I was. The man at the desk answered. When I asked for an outside line, he hung up on me.

I decided to go down to the lobby to find a phone. I told Pilar I'd be back, opened the door and walked into the hallway. As I turned to my right I saw one of the bodyguards I had seen at the Hilton. I gasped. I turned to my left, ready to run. There was the other bodyguard. Both of them directed me back into the room.

Pilar and I cried We woke up the next morning to the sound of a key in the door. Slowly it opened. One of the bodyguards put two trays on the floor. Breakfast. Only it wasn't the fresh orange juice, croissants, and flowers served at the Hilton. Our fare consisted of tea and lumpy oatmeal. It was as though we were in prison. We didn't eat.

That afternoon Michael showed up, as promised. He assured us he would be getting us our modeling assignments soon. He told us that we shouldn't be upset about the bodyguards, they were only there to protect us. He gave us Qjuaaludes and waited for them to kick in. I told him I had to talk with my mother. He picked up the phone in the hotel room.

"Give me an outside line." Michael dialed a number. "Hello? I'm calling to let you know that Linda is fine." I was groggy, but I lunged towards the phone. By the time I got to it, he had hung up.

Once sufficiently drugged, Pilar and I were escorted by Michael to a bistro for a bit to eat. After we finished eating, the Quaaludes were wearing off enough for me to be able to confront him.

"Michael, I want to go home." He was indignant. "Who the hell do you think you are? We spend all this money on you, take you shopping, give you everything, and you think you can just take a plane home without repaying a penny? Not until you earn back what you owe me." He looked over at Pilar. "And you owe me, too!" Michael must have drugged our drinks, because the rest of the time we spent at the bistro was a vague blur.

The next thing I remember, Pilar and I were walking through the doorway into our room. We weren't feeling well and went to lie down. We were very high, but not so high to have missed the fact that everything was gone—our bags, the clothing Michael had bought on that whirlwind shopping spree, our passports, our money. All we had was the clothing on our back. I went for the door. The bodyguards were still there. Pilar and I looked at each other. We knew we were in deep trouble.

I was scared for myself and particularly for Pilar. She was bulimic and didn't weigh more than ninety pounds. She had been mentally battered by this man and was as weak as anyone I'd ever seen, both physically and emotionally. The phone rang. It was Michael. He wanted Pilar to come to his room.

Pilar didn't come back for hours. I paced the floor. It was dark outside. I looked out the window. We were on the second floor. It must have been about a sixteen-foot drop to the street. A couple of times I yelled out to people walking by, but none of them spoke English. They waved to me, as if I was just saying hello Abruptly, the door opened. It was Pilar. I was shocked when I saw her. She was bloody and dazed. She had been badly beaten.

"Pilar, my God, what happened?" One eye was almost shut. Blood was pouring out of her nose. Her arm was bleeding. She could hardly talk. Catching her breath, tears falling into her mouth, she stuttered, "I. . . there was . . . was a man . Michael wanted me to have sex with him."

"What did you do?" "I wouldn't." "What happened then?" "They both beat me." "Oh, Pilar. What are we going to do?" "I don't know. The man had a suitcase filled with money. It was under the bed, open. I don't think they know I saw it. Liza, he had a gun." Terror took over my entire body and mind. I knew I had to do something. Pilar was in no shape to help herself. I was on automatic pilot; my fight-or-flight response took over. I grabbed the two sheets from both of our beds and tied them together. I tied one end of the sheet to the handle on the window and threw the sheets down toward the street below. I looked over at Pilar. She was a mess. I don't think she realized what I was doing. I went back over to her and held her shoulders.

"Listen. I've got to get help. I promise I'll be back." With that I went to the window and, wearing only a bra and panties and praying the sheets would withstand my weight but too terrified to care if they didn't, I made my way down to the street below. The end of the sheet was seven feet off the ground. I jumped. As I landed on my side I heard a crack. My hip and my knee were both injured. Painfully I stood up as best as I could and limped down the street. I wasn't even wearing shoes.

People looked at me as if I were crazy. At that moment, I probably was. I remembered having seen a disco about a block away. I ran into the disco and begged for help. The manager—thank God—spoke English. He gave me a coat to wear and took me in the back. He let me use his telephone, and I called an attorney friend of mine in the United States, collect.

For the next two hours I waited while my friend called the FBI and the FBI called Michael Bass. My friend finally called me back. "Listen, Linda," he said. 'The FBI has called him and told him that if he doesn't return your clothes and passport and put you and Pilar on the morning plane to Los Angeles, he will be facing serious charges "What should I do?"

"Go back to the hotel, but have someone accompany you." "Are you sure it's safe to go back?" Terrified, I remembered the gun Pilar had seen. "Yes. This guy knows he's in trouble if he doesn't do as he was told by the FBI."

After thanking my friend, I told the disco manager what had happened. Fortunately, he agreed to accompany me back to the hotel. When dawn came, we both went back to meet with Michael.

Pilar was curled up in a ball on the bed. My friend was right, Michael was going to cooperate. As a matter of fact, he insisted on traveling back with us. I thought about the other girls. After checking into the second hotel and saying good-bye, we never saw them again.

During the entire flight, Michael apologized and begged me not to press criminal charges. But the moment I got off the plane I went straight to the FBI.

The FBI was excited to have me as a witness. They had been after this guy for a long time. But to this day, they haven't been able to bring charges against him Pilar backed out of testifying. My lawyer tried to convince me that it was futile to go after Michael. He said that Michael's lawyer would try to make me look bad, make it seem like I was a prostitute, which would have been devastating for my modeling career.

When he finally refused to help me and insisted I drop the case, I figured he took the $50,000 Michael had offered me not to testify.

Michael Bass never paid for what he did to me, what he did to my friend or to the other young women who disappeared. As far as I know, he is still in the business of brokering young girls—telling them they will be going to Europe on modeling assignments, then turning them into white sex slaves

I feel compelled to put my life on the line to write about him. If I wasn't successful in getting a court of law to put him away for his crimes, at the very least I can warn other young girls so that they won't fall prey to this sex-slave con game or others like it.

Sometimes I think about those three lonely souls in that limousine on that cold day in February. I wonder if they ever made it home...

This isn't juicy gossip, most of this is human trafficking.

Jeez, if you'd had an experience like that, wouldn't you think "To hell with modelling and the high life, I'm getting a REAL job!"?

"before I started to get my life together, I had one more fling—and almost lost my life in the process. I met a man, whom I will call Don Dolores, through two people: my pimp, Al Black, and an ex-boyfriend, Kenny Austin, son of the then-head of Warner Bros. Records.

Don really helped me get even more addicted to freebasing cocaine. It's the same drug that comedian Richard Pryor was using when he caught on fire and burned a good portion of his body. I can understand how it might have happened. I've been there.

Don and I were both completely drugged out back then. I guess he was happy to have found a woman to share his life and drugs with, so he asked me to marry him. In my drug-induced haze, I couldn't imagine a more perfect union. I accepted.

Don is one of the heirs to a very big cosmetic company. But he has been basing for so long that he's simply bonkers—more than one slice shy of a full loaf. From the first date with him, however, when he brought out the biggest stash of dope I'd ever seen, I was so impressed that I couldn't have cared less about his personality flaws.

One major problem is that he's paranoid from the drugs. Determined to get to people before they get him, he has bodyguards protecting him twenty-four hours a day. Another quirk is that he often dresses up like a woman. But he could have had a sex-change operation for all I cared; the only thing that mattered to me were the drugs.

Three months before our wedding day, we drove down the Royal Palm-lined Beverly Hills streets in his Rolls Royce, house-hunting.

That night was one of many nights he let his hair down, so to speak, and got into his cross-dressing fetish. "Do you think I should wear the pearls or the ruby necklace, dear?" Don would take on a woman's voice when he was "coming out" for the evening I rummaged through his jewelry box and pulled out some divine pearl-and-ruby clip earrings. "Try them both," I suggested.

I stood there smiling, wondering how something as absurd as this could become standard fare in our relationship. "Take some pictures of me, darling. I love looking at myself." He handed me the Polaroid camera and told me the correct angle from which to shoot. I snapped seven pictures and handed them back to him. After oohing and ahhing, he tossed them into the top drawer of his dresser.

Don Dolores couldn't make love—he was too strung out. I believe he had had this affliction for years. The truth is, we were both badly strung out. One day, while I was with Don, I went over to my parents' house. My sister, Robin, was there. She looked at me in horror. I was twitching, my motor functions had disintegrated from the drugs. I had also lost a lot of weight. Robin was determined to make me see what was happening to me.

She took me to a mirror and stood next to me Look at us both, Liza. Who looks sick and who doesn't?" She looked normal. I looked like a skeleton. It shocked me. I started to cry and couldn't stop crying.

Robin took me to a rehabilitation clinic and checked me in. After a while I started drying out and finally began to breathe sane air here on planet earth. Until then, I was definitely off with Don in another orbit.

During my absence, Don Dolores decided that I was out to get him. He hired a hit man to take me out. The hit man came to my parents' home, where my brother, a martial arts expert, kicked the gun out of the assailant's hand. Sometime after that, I made the trek over to Don's house and began a four-hour ordeal, trying to get through to his thick, freebase-damaged brain that I hadn't done him wrong.

I'm here today because I was able to convince Don that he had the wrong girl. I told him I was away drying out, so I couldn't have been out to get him. Fortunately, I resisted getting back into freebase hell that night, and once again I walked away with my life.

"Prostitutes have to be pretty good actresses. They must pretend to actually care about their trick. They often have to serve as therapists, surrogate mothers, wives, or lovers. Some of my performances have warranted at least an Emmy nomination— particularly the time Madam Alex wanted me to play the role of a soap opera star. I was so convincing, I almost believed it myself.

It started in Madam Alex's Beverly Hills apartment. She later told me about the conversation she had with my client, a wealthy Saudi prince. "What's your pleasure today?" Her voice was mature and deep, but unmistakably feminine. "I want an American soap opera star, Just make sure she's blonde and works on an American television soap opera. My wife would kill me if she knew. She's addicted to these things. But what the hell, that's what makes it exciting, knowing my wife is probably a fan of the young lady. As I shall be as well, once I've had sex with her."

"I have just the girl. She's beautiful, blonde, with long legs, and class up the wazoo." "Good. How much?" "How long do you need her?" "One evening. Dinner with business associates, then a nightcap. And maybe a little something in the morning to get my day started right." 'That will cost you six thousand dollars, plus transportation.' The Saudi prince agreed and plans were made.

When Madam Alex called me on the phone, I knew something special was about to be offered. She had a smile in her voice. "Hello, Liza? "Hi, Alex." "I've got a special assignment for you." "Not the sadist in Palm Springs, I hope." "Not him. I have a Saudi prince in Dallas. He wants a soap opera star. I thought of you right away." "Me? I'm flattered." "Sure. You can pull it off. You've got the diction, the Newport Beach breeding. You're a natural." "I studied acting, you know." "I know. That's why I'm calling you." "When is the date?" "You'll take a plane to Dallas tomorrow afternoon. A limo driver will meet you, and you will be escorted to his hotel. First class. This one should be fun. When you're through, who knows, you may want to get back into acting and audition for a real soap."

When I landed in Dallas, handsome man approached me. At first I thought he was the limo driver, but he turned out to be my John, the Saudi prince. I thought to myself, this is going to be easier than I thought. I wouldn't have to act with him. We picked up my baggage, and once outside he handed it to his driver. We entered the stretch limo, and in a very professional manner my prince gave me my evening's instructions.

"I've got some work to do before dinner. My penthouse suite has several rooms. Choose one and make yourself comfortable. Be ready for dinner at eight o'clock."

When we arrived at the restaurant, the maitre d' behaved as if he was greeting the President of the United States.....seated, were four well-dressed men ranging in age from early forties to mid-sixties. Their eight eyebrows collectively raised as I stood before them. The prince introduced me and each man gently shook my hand.

The evening seemed to be going well. Every man was impressed with "who I was." All of their wives, it seems, were addicted to the soaps. I laid it on thick. I fabricated stories about how I was discovered and how long I'd been going to cattle calls before my big break. I talked about my agent, my manager, my business manager, and my attorney, and I lamented at the small percentage that was left over for me after they all took their cut.

The only hitch came when, after telling them I worked on "All My Children," one of them commented on the fact that I lived on the opposite coast from where they shoot that show. I picked up the slip like a pro.

I fly for the shoot and come home on the weekends." "You must get tired of traveling," one of the men queried The prince jumped in, "Lucky for me, she still has time to visit."

The prince picked up on this and changed the subject. "So tell me, Linda, what is your character doing over the next couple of weeks?" "I'll never tell. I'm sworn to secrecy." I lied, of course. I didn't know. "You can tell us," Harry chided. "You wouldn't want me to lose my job, would you?" I said, sweetly. "Of course not," the prince chimed in. "Let's ask Linda questions she can answer." Saved by the bell. "So, Linda, who is your love interest on the show at the moment?" It's, uh, Chad this week!"

At this point, I didn't even know if there was a character named Chad. Luckily, I would be on the plane before the airing of the next episode of "All My Children."

By the end of the evening, I'd managed to win the heart of all four guests, including my host. He was very proud to have brought along a "girlfriend" of such lauded Hollywood stature. Toward the end of the evening, I had an aching feeling in the pit of my stomach, wishing I could really have been the successful actress I was pretending to be. It felt so good to have the respect and admiration of these successful men.

They all treated me like I was someone special. If they only knew that they were really talking to a high-priced hooker from Beverly Hills, with a cocaine habit and a madam. Sure I was an actress, but not the kind they thought I was. My acting took place in a bedroom or an expensive hotel suite.

The prince said good-night to his guests and we were whisked off to his hotel in the limo. There, the prince took off my clothes, and then his own. Like an old "Lawrence Welk Show" rerun, it was over in the time it took for Mr. Welk to say, "And-a one, and-a two". The champagne bubbles didn't even have a chance to pop before he was thanking me for my time and making arrangements for when he wanted me in the morning

The morning brought "And-a three and-a four," and that was that. Before I knew it, I was on a flight back to Los Angeles. As I stared out at the blue sky and white clouds, my mind drifted to the Marilyn Monroe movie, The Prince and the Showgirl Only in my story, I didn't get the guy. I never do

Glenn Frey :

"Of all of the Johns I've been with, the only one who was memorable or who I would have done for free was musician Glenn Frey, formerly of the Eagles.

On this assignment I was wearing a short green silk dress and a modest amount of makeup. Madam Alex liked me to dress in a simple, elegant, and provocative style that reflected my Newport Beach breeding. I rang the doorbell and he answered

"Linda, come in," Glenn said, smiling. He was obviously pleased with what he saw, and Glenn looked beautiful to me as well. It was clear that he took good care of himself. There was a quiet confidence about him; he wasn't flashy or arrogant, like some rock stars I'd been with, or drugged up and strung out, like many others. He was very respectful.

For a prostitute, having sex is usually as matter-of-fact as washing your face. And as a rule, I'm very professional. I had learned not to get emotionally involved with a John. But tonight was different for some reason. I was so nervous, I was almost shaking. My heart took over and I got lost in the desire to believe this man really cared about me, that I wasn't a hooker for hire but a girlfriend who'd come to spend a relaxing evening

The evening began like a date. Glenn asked questions about my life and my childhood. We didn't talk money—that had been taken care of by Madam Alex. And though I knew that my part of the evening's take would be five hundred dollars, this time I wasn't passing my time thinking about how I would spend the money.

After a while, we started kissing, "Linda, would you like to come to my bedroom?" "Yes." What a shock. No John ever asks.

"I want to be gentle," he said, as he lay my body down on his king-sized bed. Our lovemaking lasted all night. We'd work each other up and down with little rest in between....

I later stopped by Madam Alex's apartment and collected my fee. Apparently Glenn enjoyed the evening, because he requested me an additional four times over the next several months. These were "command performances" of the highest caliber.

But I made the mistake of getting emotionally involved. I fell in love. I wanted him to be my boyfriend. Each time we said good-bye, he gently kissed my lips and I was left with a reality often experienced by prostitutes—I was for hire and he was only a John To this day....

Did Glenn write that?

'This is Stanley. I'm back in town. Can you meet me for a drink?" "How did you get my number?" "From your boss." How much would it take for you to show me a good time?" "Three hundred dollars." Stanley smiled, paid the bill, and within a few minutes we were in the elevator on the way up to his room.

From the moment he opened the door, I should have suspected something. The room didn't seem lived in. It was too perfect. The bed was neatly made and the bathroom was spotless, as if nobody had been there. If I had been more aware and not so fixated on that three hundred dollars, I would have gotten out of there faster than it took for Stanley to proposition me. But instead I took the money, put it on the dresser, and began to do a sensuous strip tease.

Stanley seemed pleased with my slow-motion delivery. But as I reached back to unhook my lace bra , he suddenly flashed a badge. In minutes the room was filled with undercover officers. I was busted. My life was never the same again. Though I plea bargained for a lesser offense, the arrest is still on my record. It reads "prostitution," even though I was promised the incident would be "taken care of." They obviously didn't keep their promise. So what else is new?

I came to Hollywood fresh out of high school, with scholarship to UCLA in hand and with hopes of a career as a successful attorney. Somewhere along the way I lost my dream, and more important, I lost my self-respect.

I share my stories today from a Los Angeles County halfway house in Sylmar, California.

In Hollywood, people want you when you're young and beautiful. But as the looks fade, so do the good times. I've been with CEOs of successful companies. I've dined and slept with princes and movie stars. I've shared their money, their secrets, and their sexual fantasies. And I would trade every single memory for a normal life.

when sex is a condition for anything—a job, love, acceptance—the act will simply make you feel bad. It will start you down a road of self-loathing and guilt.

Drugs and alcohol have, of course, been my nemesis. They took over my life before I realized it. Finally, I wasn't true to myself. As a young student, I had goals and dreams. I also had boundaries and limits. But I compromised my integrity, and it didn't work. Instead of the easy money I made leading to the fulfillment of my dreams, it only led to more compromises and eventually to abandoning my goals altogether. I betrayed myself. I lost the strong sense of self I once had. I lost my confidence in myself. Sitting here in jail today, it is very clear to me that the ends don't justify the means. More often, if you take the wrong means to reach a goal, you will sabotage the end you desire to achieve.

These women are just wastrels.

Hollyweird...and the beat goes on

She said that one of her pimps was the son of the head of Warner Bros. at the time. Many actors were prostitutes not because of the flexible hours while auditioning, but because that's how Hollywood recruits outsiders (non family). Hollywood is a cesspit.

Rumor has it that Candy Spelling and various other Hollywood wives started out this way.

They were the smart ones, the ones who made an exit plan and had the people skills to keep their straight man from walking away the moment they'd had their fun. And who didn't get on drugs.

I have heard dozens of these stories throughout the years of living in NYC, and LA. Hundreds of women do this, and I've met plenty of them, including women that worked for these two dames, mentioned upthread.

In the 80s, 90s, and early 00s, these girls were making top dollar. By that, I mean $1,000 to $1,500 an hour. Yes, an hour. I had one neighbor in NYC, who was being flown all around the world for her "services". She eventually moved to LA, and I saw her on a TV commercial not too long ago. Late thirties. Wants to be an "actress".

Most of these girls were addicted to coke. Some got into heroin, and by the late 90s, some of these girls were into meth, or popping pain pills. The ones that made great money were usually either very young, or stayed away from hardcore partying. Several of my friends ended up having "incidents" where a John went crazy, and beat the shit out of them. I remember one in particular who got her ass kicked by a very well known CEO of a high profile company. Her madame ended up securing a large amount of cash for the girl, so that she would not go to the police or the media. As soon as her bruises healed up, she promptly paid a visit to BMW of Beverly Hills, and walked out with a brand new Beemer, fully loaded, and fully paid. Dumbest move ever. I couldn't believe it. The rest was spent on clothes, makeup, and drugs. No amount of financial advice coming from me changed her mind. Blew her cash, just like that.

Some of these women went on to marry one of their Johns. But, most, just became addicted to drugs, and mismanaged their earnings, with nothing left to show. Out of the number of women who I know who did this, only one of them saved up and actually invested all of her money, while living in a tiny single, driving a Corolla. She wasn't the prettiest escort I had ever known, but she sure was the smartest. Very bright girl. Always reading, learning a new language, and a huge penny pincher. She ended up buying herself a very nice house in Northridge (pool and 2 car garage), and went back to school, and eventually got her law degree, and aced her bar exam. She's in her early 50s now, and has settled down with another woman who she met through work, who is also an attorney.

Another one who I became pretty chummy with, went in the opposite direction. She's now in her early 40s and completely broke. She's advertising on Craigslist for $200 a "session", and looks like a hardcore meth addict. Scabs on her face, a huge scar over her left eye, just awful. This girl was drop dead gorgeous 10-15 years ago. Just breathtakingly beautiful. She called me right before Christmas and asked me for some cash. I gave it to her, after all, it was Christmas.

Hurray for Hollywood!

r2 I wonder if Scott Caan loves to suck cock as much as his father loved to lick pussy. Wow, that would be very hot.

Dull stories, and terribly written ones at that.

[quote]As soon as her bruises healed up, she promptly paid a visit to BMW of Beverly Hills, and walked out with a brand new Beemer, fully loaded, and fully paid. Dumbest move ever. I couldn't believe it. The rest was spent on clothes, makeup, and drugs. No amount of financial advice coming from me changed her mind. Blew her cash, just like that.

That makes sense. If they resented how the money was made, they would not appreciate the value of it and they'd carelessly spent it.

^they'd spend it

R117's comment is better written and more interesting than the book excerpts. (Faint praise I know, but I enjoyed your post). If you' ve got more, we'd love to hear it.

Seems like one of these "type" of girls will be the ultimate role model for success after the swearing in....

Ditto r122. Tell us more r117.

I still say these stories have a ring of truth to them. Details like the head of a major production company's son being a pimp, the bait-and-switch human trafficking scam that no one was talking about, at least in the media, at the time this book was written, and the degradation of earning like $300 - $500 per trick at the end. These are things a fantasist out for a buck wouldn't likely add.

Who is and what is story about Jeff mentioned in the Timothy Hutton story at R8?

[quote] He soon led me into his bedroom and the next thing I knew, he lifted the caftan he was wearing, exposing his erection.

Welcome to politics, honey.

I'm enjoying the excerpts. Keep them coming OP.

Love this thread. More please. We haven't had some gossip here in a long time.

I read this book when it came out and I remember just thinking after I was done that men were garbage, especially rich, white men and yes I'm a white guy.lol

These sex stories are pretty tedious. Rich celebrities hiring whores to have sex (and some of them are SO kinky!) with them....ho hum. It's all really lame and gross. And it may or may not be true. The stories sound like they were all written by the same person, which is highly suspect. I don't think this book made much of an impact. I don't think many people believed much of it.

I believe it. Well, I'll reserve judgement about the women's supposedly stunning beauty - Liza is certainly beautiful, but I suspect the reason why all these men were pursuing them isn't solely for their beauty but because they were hearing about them from their buddies and they wanted the same notch on their bedpost. I mean, the Janice Dickinson thread has stories similar to this one, and she was a name in her own right. She also names many of the same men. It's all disgusting, nobody uses protection, and I can't imagine the variety of STIs they must gave had.

r130 I don't think a few drug-addled career sex workers are going to be able to string together coherent prose. They probably had a ghostwriter who interviewed them, then wrote the book.

There may be general truth to the stories, but it always amuses me the details that people "remember" ten or fifteen years after the events... especially if they are addicts.

Yes r130, I was thinking the same. It could be written by one person (or hired ghost writer), but even if written for a buck, they sound like someone's true tales. It's like someone strung a bunch of overheard stories together.

Bump!

What strikes me is what's missing. If there were about gay sex, we'd have details on cock and ball sizes, taints, asses, taste and quantity of loads, etc.

[quote] The girl on the other end of the line gave her reply. Jack later told me that she said something like, "Oh no, I'm calling you because you're such a wonderful man and I was thinking about you." To which Jack, still smiling, responded, "If your cunt didn't make you call me, why the hell are you calling?"

I don't care how famous Jack Nicholson was at the time, that was simply no way to talk to Quinn Cummings back in 1978!

. . . and then there is the book's tale of ONJ and her then boyfriend's "Key Parties."

The book also outs ONJ's claim of meeting her Boy Toy on a film set: ONJ actually picked him up while he was hitchhiking in S. CA.

She loved him, r139. She honestly loved him.

The world of heterosexuals is a sick and boring life.

When you have money and fame, you can have anyone.

Even Trump confessed that on his Access Hollywood tape: “women let me do anything to them.” I’m sure this is what Melania did.

I agree with the poster who said that the book is lacking in cock and body details. Perhaps they didn't write about that, because, then, the accounts would be easy to disprove. If the writer, for instance, said some guy was 8" and cut and thick, and he could prove that he is not, then the whole book is debunked.

Is there a gay version of this book? I'd rush to buy "You'll Never Have Gay Sex In This Town Again."

R83 That link does not work. Do you have another pic of her?

[quote] What strikes me is what's missing. If there were about gay sex, we'd have details on cock and ball sizes, taints, asses, taste and quantity of loads, etc.

R136, you sound desperate and depraved. Were masturbating while typing that? Don't try so hard.

Try harder, R146, and use subject nouns.

r147=silly queen

I can’t (or maybe I can) believe how whiny these bitches are. Yes some of the famous men sound like truly disgusting human beings, but moaning that some of these celebs didn’t ask them how THEY were or about THEIR life? There’s a reason for that honey, you’re a fucking whore!! If you want a real boyfriend maybe get into another business?

I do NOT believe the OJ/Nicole story one bit.

Interesting what people will do for money. The sex trafficking story is terrifying. I’ll bet many of these women end up dead.

"I’ll never forget the time Heidi sent me to Carrot Top’s van down by the river. I showed up not knowing what to expect from the words FREE CANDY painted on the side, but when I opened the door, I found Henry Kissinger inside teaching Pat Nixon the lindy. Soon Pauly Shore showed up on a Schwinn, lugging a Mexican piñata filled with chocolate dick pops, which we spent a merry hour whaling away at with pool cues. I have to say Pauly had some weird kink going on – anal insertions with Pez dispensers, jerking off to Paula Poundstone HBO specials – but it wasn’t until he suggested a game of bobbing for apples in herring salad that I realized that once again my mind and body had been irretrievably scarred."

This is why I just roll my eyes every time these Hollywood people start chanting about #metoo, or how "woke" everyone in the entertainment industry is. Please.