Ordeal (12 page)
Authors: Linda Lovelace
Nine months later, after
Deep Throat
had made millions of dollars, Lou became slightly nicer to me. Chuck still made me go into his office, but now Lou’s attitude was different. Now, while I was doing it, he would put his hands on my head and pat my hair and then he would say, “Ah, that was good.” Unfortunately, I never could stand it when a man put his hands on my head.
Deep Throat
had made millions of dollars, Lou became slightly nicer to me. Chuck still made me go into his office, but now Lou’s attitude was different. Now, while I was doing it, he would put his hands on my head and pat my hair and then he would say, “Ah, that was good.” Unfortunately, I never could stand it when a man put his hands on my head.
This happened, all told, about a dozen times and each time lasted only a few minutes. Why the big rush? He seemed to be worried that his wife would come in unannounced. One day, just as I was starting to work on him, his secretary put a telephone call through. The only call allowed through was a call from his wife. Lou immediately straightened up in his chair and waved me away from him.
“Unh, yeah, I’m kinda busy,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
He was trying to carry on a normal conversation with his wife. I don’t know how it sounded to her, but to me it was very strained. Later, after hanging up the phone, he was unable to get back in the mood.
After a week of hanging around in New York, Damiano finally told us that they were ready to start filming the movie in Florida. We were to drive down there with Lou’s father, Tony Peraino.
I liked old Tony much better than Lou. Tony, then in his sixties, had a dress business in Florida. I got the feeling that there wasn’t much that he hadn’t seen and done, but I got this feeling not so much from what he said as from what he did not say. He was tall, heavy-set, gray-haired, and always smiling.
Tony did the driving and Chuck did most of the talking. Unsurprisingly, Chuck kept trying to interest the old man in me all the way to Florida. And when we stopped at a motel for the night, Chuck would invent elaborate reasons why I should go to old Tony’s room and knock on his door. This was just standard fun-and-games for Chuck but Tony wouldn’t go along with it. One morning, as we were beginning our drive south, the old man made his feelings clear on the subject. It was not a case of like son, like father.
“I must be getting old,” Tony began. “The way the world is changing, the things young people are doing these days. It’s too much for me to understand.” For once Chuck was listening, not talking. “You know, they say a lot of things about us Italians but one thing you got to admit, Italian men do not cheat on their wives. Not as a rule, they don’t.”
Chuck Traynor—his mother was a Traino—was completely quiet now. I had never heard anyone lecture Chuck on anything, and this was beginning to sound very much like a lecture.
“You know why that’s so?” the old man went right along, driving as smoothly as he was talking. “I’ll tell you why this is so. It’s because an Italian man, when he gets a good woman he don’t want to lose her. Me, I personally wouldn’t take a chance like that, if you follow what I’m saying.”
We were both following what he was saying. And he didn’t have to say any more than that. Chuck immediately stopped trying to push me on to the old man. I kept thinking of the contrasts between the two Perainos—old Tony stopping Chuck before he could even get started; the son, sitting in his office chair, unzippered, waiting.
I don’t think I’m kidding myself about Tony Peraino. I’m not claiming he never did anything wrong. After all, he was supplying the money for making the movie. And he knew what kind of movie it was going to be. But at least he had some values, some code of behavior. If I were to judge by the kind of people I’d been meeting, any values at all qualified a person for the priesthood.
Old Tony reminded me that not everyone in the world was like Chuck. I needed that reminder from time to time. I always had difficulty turning to other people for help; I imagined they’d all turn out like Chuck. Even now, several years after the fact, I get the feeling—and I can be walking down a quiet street in a sleepy village when it hits me—that there is something of Chuck Traynor in everyone.
Back then I had hardly any feelings left. If Chuck told me to go and do something, no matter how unspeakable, I went and did it. Things like that meant less and less to me. I believed without question that there was no alternative, no choice, no escape. I did a great many things with no feeling at all.
So when Chuck told me we were going to make the movie, I knew we were going to make the movie. To me,
Deep Throat
was just another eight-millimeter movie, only longer. I wasn’t looking forward to it. It was the next thing to do and it would have to be done.
Deep Throat
was just another eight-millimeter movie, only longer. I wasn’t looking forward to it. It was the next thing to do and it would have to be done.
Chuck was nowhere near as complacent as I was. He saw
Deep Throat
as a big step up, a chance to prove himself. Since we arrived in Miami several days ahead of the rest of the cast, he decided that he was going to coach me for my role in the movie. The movie company put us up at a motel on Biscayne Boulevard, unfortunately a motel with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. I say “unfortunately” because every day Chuck had me out in that swimming pool doing laps for hours at a time. I’ve never been much of a swimmer, mostly because I tend to fill up with water rather rapidly, but Chuck saw this as a challenge. As I splashed slowly from one end of the pool to the other, Chuck paced along the side of the pool, shouting instructions and criticism, just as though he were training me for the Olympics, not for an appearance in a porno movie.
Deep Throat
as a big step up, a chance to prove himself. Since we arrived in Miami several days ahead of the rest of the cast, he decided that he was going to coach me for my role in the movie. The movie company put us up at a motel on Biscayne Boulevard, unfortunately a motel with an Olympic-sized swimming pool. I say “unfortunately” because every day Chuck had me out in that swimming pool doing laps for hours at a time. I’ve never been much of a swimmer, mostly because I tend to fill up with water rather rapidly, but Chuck saw this as a challenge. As I splashed slowly from one end of the pool to the other, Chuck paced along the side of the pool, shouting instructions and criticism, just as though he were training me for the Olympics, not for an appearance in a porno movie.
After our training sessions, Chuck would try to impress upon me the importance of
Deep Throat
to our lives. This was about as close as we ever came to having a conversation.
Deep Throat
to our lives. This was about as close as we ever came to having a conversation.
“We’re getting rid of the flab,” he said one day. “These people don’t want flabby people in their movie.”
“Okay.”
“What you don’t fucking realize is that this is the best thing ever happened to you. Not just the bread. It’s—there could be other movies after this one. Bigger movies. This is our big fucking break and you better fucking see that. And this time you better look like you’re into it. Just this once would you mind trying?”
“Okay.”
“You know something else?” he said. “This is the biggest thing
I’ve
ever pulled off. Think about it. Where would you be without me? Without me, you’d never have learned a fucking thing. You look at it that way, I’m the one who taught you everything. I’m responsible for all this.”
I’ve
ever pulled off. Think about it. Where would you be without me? Without me, you’d never have learned a fucking thing. You look at it that way, I’m the one who taught you everything. I’m responsible for all this.”
“Yes, Chuck.”
eleven
When the cast and crew arrived from New York several days later, we all made our headquarters at the Voyager Inn on Biscayne Boulevard. The crew consisted of Norman, the sound man; Juan, the cameraman; Harry, the gaffer, and several others. The “actors” consisted of two men and two women from New York, some others from Florida and, to be sure, Harry Reems.
I continued to get along with Harry just fine. One reason Harry Reems became a porn superstar—I suppose the male superstar of pornographic movies—is that he appears to be fairly intelligent and he has a good sense of humor. Harry’s strongest appeal to me, however, was the fact that Chuck did not like him at all.
Chuck constantly referred to Harry Reems as “that asshole,” and Harry pretended that Chuck did not exist. Every time Harry had a chance to speak with me alone, he’d tell me he could make me a star, that I should join him in making bigger and better porno movies. The implication was always there: Harry would take care of everything once I got myself away from you-know-who.
In the days before the actual shooting, I worked harder than I ever had before in my life. Whenever Chuck let me stop swimming, he had me memorizing the script. Memorizing my lines was not a particularly difficult feat. The movie opened with my looking for my girlfriend. I think my first line was about as complicated as, “Helen?” In
Deep Throat
the lines were strictly secondary to the action; what made the movie successful was not what was said, but what we did.
Deep Throat
the lines were strictly secondary to the action; what made the movie successful was not what was said, but what we did.
That first day of shooting, everyone was in a good mood. Director Gerry Damiano was happy to be away from his shouting matches with Lou Perry. He spent much of each day constructing new verses for the
Deep Throat
theme song, and he was so light-hearted and full of energy that his mood became contagious.
Deep Throat
theme song, and he was so light-hearted and full of energy that his mood became contagious.
For the first time in many months I began to feel better. It had been a cold and dreary January in New York, but it was warm in Florida. Now, with the movie being shot, Chuck wasn’t able to get me involved in any of his other ventures or adventures. Sure, I was still his personal prisoner, but I was only going to have to fuck one person, Harry Reems.
I use that word—“fuck”—because it fit the act. What I was doing then had nothing whatsoever to do with making love. In my mind there is a world of difference between fucking and making love. I think that “fuck” is an extremely ugly word and with that in mind, I use it here.
At the beginning of the movie there was none of that at all. In fact, the first day we set up the outside shots, what they called the “exteriors,” around the motel swimming pool. The mood of the previous few days carried into the actual shooting. The crew members were all in high spirits, telling jokes, playing pranks, goofing on the director and, somehow, despite all this, taking some pictures.
Something was happening to me, something strange. It had to do with the fact that no one was treating me like garbage. And maybe it was just the chemistry of being part of a group. For the first time in many months, I was thrown in with other people, other people who weren’t perverted and threatening. I became
part
of a group. I began to ease up.
part
of a group. I began to ease up.
The first scene called for me to be sitting beside the pool in a bathing suit while an actor dove into the pool, swam across it, and splashed some water on me. One of the crew members did something funny—I can no longer remember what—but everyone started laughing, and I was laughing along with the rest of them.
I was laughing along with the rest of them
. And I thought my face would break. I hadn’t laughed, really laughed, in so long that my face had to carve new smile lines. That thought struck me as funny, and I laughed some more; then I just let it all come out.
. And I thought my face would break. I hadn’t laughed, really laughed, in so long that my face had to carve new smile lines. That thought struck me as funny, and I laughed some more; then I just let it all come out.
We laughed a lot that first day of shooting while we were doing the poolside shots, the walking-down-the-street shots and the knocking-on-the-door shots. And no one was asking me to do anything I didn’t want to do.
That night, back in the motel room, I was still feeling fine. The entire crew was in the very next room having a party. They were drinking, smoking pot, carrying on—and the sounds of partying came clearly into our room. There was only one person who was not having a good time. Chuck. Throughout the day he had gotten more and more sullen; now he was staring across the room at me with low-burning hatred.
I had to get away from him and that intensity. I went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, and took a shower. When I went back out into the bedroom, nothing had changed. The party in the next room was still going full blast, and Chuck’s expression was the same.
“What’s the matter now?” I asked.
“You cunt!”
“What is the matter?”
“Your smile!” he said. “That fucking smile of yours. You were so busy smiling all day—well, let’s see you smile now. Why don’t you smile for me now?”
“What do you want from me? What’re you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your fucking smile. You walk around smiling all day like some idiot Mona Lisa. Smiling at the crew. Smiling at Damiano. Smiling at that asshole Reems.”
“You told me I should look like I was into it.”
“I didn’t tell you to go around
smiling!
” Chuck was yelling at me now, and I realized that the party sounds from the next room had stopped. “You don’t have to smile like some idiot. And
laughing!
What was that all about? I didn’t see anything to laugh about. Why was everyone laughing around the pool?”
smiling!
” Chuck was yelling at me now, and I realized that the party sounds from the next room had stopped. “You don’t have to smile like some idiot. And
laughing!
What was that all about? I didn’t see anything to laugh about. Why was everyone laughing around the pool?”
“It was just something funny.”
“It was just something funny.”
Chuck loved to mimic me. “
What
was so funny? I didn’t see anything that was funny. You think this is funny now? You cunt, you think there’s something funny going on now?”
Chuck loved to mimic me. “
What
was so funny? I didn’t see anything that was funny. You think this is funny now? You cunt, you think there’s something funny going on now?”
“What’re you talking about?” Suddenly I was screaming back at him, angry, too. Oh, that was some day, the first time in many months that I had been able to feel laughter
and
anger. Just feeling anything again felt good. Even the anger felt good and I let it all out.
and
anger. Just feeling anything again felt good. Even the anger felt good and I let it all out.
“First you yell at me because I look too sad, and now you yell at me because I’m smiling too much!
Smiling too much!
You ought to see a doctor, Chuck, you really ought to. Because you’re crazy.”
Smiling too much!
You ought to see a doctor, Chuck, you really ought to. Because you’re crazy.”
“I’m not the one who is going to need a doctor.”
I was going to be in for it now. Talking back to Chuck was a major offense. My only hope was the men in the next room. It had grown as quiet as a tomb in there; they had to be hearing everything that was being said. For the first time, help seemed at hand.
“And I know why you’re so mad,” I said.
“Shut up!”
“You’re mad because it’s like you’re losing some of your power.”
“Cunt!”
The first punch sent me crashing over backwards onto the bed. The minute I had said that about his losing power, I realized it was the truth. He knew it was true, too. The presence of other people diminished him and diluted my fear of him. It gave me courage.
And this is what made him go insane. Most often when Chuck beat me, it was in the manner of someone training an animal—cold-blooded and methodical and to make a point. Not this time. He went berserk. He picked me up off the bed and threw me against the wall separating us from the crew.
“Stop!” I was screaming as a way of getting the attention of the men in the next room. “Please stop! You’re hurting me!”
He tore my bathrobe off in two pieces. I wriggled away from him and went down to the floor. By this time I had learned that the best way to handle a beating was to roll myself up into a tight ball on the floor—protecting my breasts and my stomach from his boots. When I was curled up that way, most of his kicks hit me on the legs.
This happened enough so that today my legs are still a mess. Not too long ago, I went to see a doctor in New York about having the surface veins removed from my legs and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He said, “My God, what happened to you?”
Well, this was what happened to me. This beating and many others like it.
“Help!” I called out. “Oh, God, please help me!
Someone,
help me!”
Someone,
help me!”
Help did not come. Chuck was still in a frenzy, kicking hard at me with his boots while I squeezed myself into a tighter and tighter ball. I held my breath, waiting for the men in the next room to build up their courage and come to my aid. I
knew
they would. They knew I was in trouble. In the past I had always been surrounded by strangers, and I didn’t expect that a stranger would help. But these men were not strangers. We had just spent a long day together. We had kidded with each other, laughed at the same jokes, behaved the way friends behave with each other. Where were they? Why didn’t they come?
knew
they would. They knew I was in trouble. In the past I had always been surrounded by strangers, and I didn’t expect that a stranger would help. But these men were not strangers. We had just spent a long day together. We had kidded with each other, laughed at the same jokes, behaved the way friends behave with each other. Where were they? Why didn’t they come?
Before then I wouldn’t have yelled at Chuck and I wouldn’t have screamed for help. That would always mean a worse beating for me. But on this day, I was willing to take that chance. But no one came. The beating went on until Chuck finally got physically tired and stopped.
After the beating, I lay curled on the floor while Chuck turned on the television set. I wanted to get up and go back into the hot shower, but I knew I’d have to ask permission first. And I wasn’t up to that. As I lay there on the floor, Chuck was walking around, whistling, feeling chipper, back in control. Finally, I surrendered.
“Chuck, can I go to bed now?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”
I dragged myself over to the bed and fell into it. Chuck was watching a war movie. There were still no sounds from the next room. I guess my screaming must’ve ruined their party. There were at least a half-dozen of them. They could have handled Chuck. But no. No one did anything until the next day. And then what they did was to try to conceal my bruises.
The next morning, I went into the motel cafeteria for breakfast. I was wearing shorts and large bruise marks had already formed on my legs. Chuck was making a phone call when Gerry Damiano came over to speak to me. His eyes went right to my legs.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” he said. “What’s that all about?”
“What?”
“Those bruises all over your legs, what’re they all about?”
“They’re just bruises. I can’t talk about them.”
“Well, I can,” he said. “Those bruises happen to be very important to me. We’ll do what we can to cover them up, but they’ll show up in the movie. I mean, one reason you got this job—believe it or not, Linda, this is the
main
reason —is that you looked so fresh and young. So innocent. How innocent are you going to look with those marks all over your body?”
main
reason —is that you looked so fresh and young. So innocent. How innocent are you going to look with those marks all over your body?”
“I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“But what brought it about? I wouldn’t have guessed that Chuck was going to turn into the jealous type.”
“That’s not it. It’s not because he’s jealous.”
“Well, we better be sure about that,” Damiano said. “If he is jealous, what’s he going to be like later on when the scenes are coming down between you and Harry?”
“I don’t think he’ll do anything else,” I said. “He doesn’t care what anyone else does to me. I think the reason he beat me up was I was having too good a time. He says I was smiling too much.”
“I’m not sure I follow that.”
“If you ever figure it out, explain it to me.”
When I got to the set, I could feel the difference in mood. No more jokes. No one seemed able to look me in the eyes. One of the other girls on the set had makeup with her and together we painted over the bruises. But the camouflage was not perfect. If you saw the movie, you must have seen the huge black-and-blue marks on my thighs and legs.
Later that morning Damiano sent us out to buy a nurse’s uniform. As the director was giving Chuck the instructions, I was joined by Norman, the sound man. Norman was quiet and shy and always seemed to be hiding out behind his sunglasses. He started speaking to me out of the side of his mouth, rapidly, his eyes on Chuck all the time.
“Look, Linda, we had no idea how bad it is.”
“You didn’t?”
“If you need help, just let me know. I mean, if there’s anything any of us can do, just give us a signal.”
“What can anyone do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “We could help.” He sped up the talk as he saw Chuck and Damiano winding up their conversation. “I mean it, just let us know. We heard what was going on last night. And I just want you to know I’m here.”
I could see that much. He was here. I didn’t say a word but I know what I was thinking: sure, you’re here now but where were you last night? Where were you when you were needed? Where was anyone? It was nice, and it may have been brave of him to offer help, but it was too late; the corpse was being thrown a lifesaver. It was an offer that couldn’t be accepted, because it was an offer that couldn’t be trusted. He was just saying words with nothing behind them.
Does that sound too hard? Maybe so. But I am tough on people. Most people don’t know how hard I judge them because I don’t say anything. All I do is cross them off the list. Forever. These men had their chance to help me and they didn’t respond. If someone is your friend—really your friend—they don’t let a chance like that pass by. When someone needs help, that’s the time to help. Not the next day. Not when it’s safe.
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