Emergence of a Paradigm: Picking A Bone With An Old Friend

I once was once very chummy with a retired Pornstar.

Author's Note: I once was once very chummy with a retired Pornstar. She had been active, from the late-80's to late-90's, but lost her star when another Pornstar rose to prominence with the same name. No longer did it matter that she could steamroll a pack of beefy lesbians in delectably tasteless photo spreads. She hadn't polished Ron Jeremy's pipe and she never would. Even after she changed her name to that of a pricey sports car, her career in the sex industry was relegated to a column in a Hustler subsidiary.

But she was a wonderful personality, a spit-fire broad with an awesome intellect who could argue civil rights and marijuana legislation in the same conversation without ever making it seem for a second like she had digressed from the subject at hand. Which was usually my desire for us to collaborate on a feature-length film script about the industry.

The project in question was going to be called "Contract Girl," a brutal satire about an over-the-hill porn actress who is "blue-listed" from the biz and decides to become a contract killer who clips all the greasy scumbags who work in the fuck trade. Back then she was all about it, mapping out the playing field and drawing up plot points that would make the story authentic.

Unfortunately, during a pothole in our correspondence she finished her classes at University and became a certified physical therapist. This was her Dream and it had come true and my dream of making the king of all sex comedies no longer mattered. But I was fine with this. It had no effect whatsoever on her keen sense of humor, a sense of humor that she continued to share with me in colorful bursts of online letters that we exchanged thereafter.

Years went by and we lost touch, as is wont to happening when you deal with as many people as we do. But I never lost my fondness for those conversations and I trusted that she hadn't either.

Then, one dreadful afternoon, I got a MySpace message from some heavy metal enthusiast who said he was a fan of my old friend. He said she was in some vicious battle with an auto insurance company who wanted to dredge up as much filth on her character as possible, so that they could disgrace her and then rape her wallet.

My fighting hairs sprung up like goosebumps at the mention of some faceless group of money miscreants trying to slander a compatriot. But then the message went on that this fan, who somehow knew my old porn pal personally, was requesting that I take down the interview that I had conducted with her back when she was still an erotic columnist.

Now this was getting kind of dubious. After all, the car accident that my salacious acquaintance had been in had not left her without use of her arms. So why couldn't she write me an e-mail herself if she wanted me to help her out? The legitimacy and innocuousness of her "fan/friend" was immediately called into question. I told this man that I wouldn't remove anything unless the request came from "Gabby Cleavon" herself. That's the name we're going to give her, to protect the sick, sore, lame and probably innocent.

A new message was sent the following night from a girly-sounding MySpace profile, claiming that I was talking to Gabby and that she desperately needed to get as much negative sexual material about herself off the Internet as possible.

Journalism is all about fact-checking and sources, so I pressed her (or him). "How do I know this isn't some stalker fan who just created some spurious profile to euchre me into doing something I would only do for Ms. Cleavon?"

Maybe this was another case of me being too bold and too brash, like the time I published a lengthy screed attacking former pornstar Raylene for becoming a real estate agent, having a child and renouncing her career in porn despite maintaining financial connections within the industry to support her new business venture. I had been disrespectful and unfair in "A Handsome Profit" (the abovementioned column) simply out of resentment for the fact that my brother, a former-strip club bouncer, had been fortunate enough to have sex with Raylene while I never would. I committed a cardinal sin of professional journalism—I had put a piece out there that reeked of a personal bias and I have regretted it ever since, even if it is still one of the strongest chunks of prose to ever spill forth from my pen.

Was I committing a similar bit of scumbaggery by pressing Gabby to prove herself after enduring not only a near-fatal auto collision, but also the legal aftermath? My guess is that I was, because the next thing to pop up in my Inbox was an array of photos illustrating the scars and bruising from the accident she had been in. The physical therapist was going to need some physical therapy of her own.

It took time, even then, for me to relent. Particularly because I had posed a question in my previous missive that I thought only Gabby could answer. "What was the name of the project we were collaborating on and what was your role in its conception?" She replied by saying that she could vaguely remember me wanting to make some sort of porno and that, if memory served, I wanted her to direct it. This was completely erroneous which really chapped my ass when I considered how long and passionately we had exchanged ideas on the subject.

In the end I felt shitty for prodding her and I asked my editor to take down the article that she thought would incur litigious wrath. No more slander. No more libel. And no more Gabby. This would be the last time I'd ever hear from her. I needn't send another message to know that this was the case.

Now, a month after the smoke has cleared, I realize why I was such a shit to her and her so-called stalker fan. Nostalgia is an important thing to me. After the drugs I have done and the experiences I have been through, my brain is a mess of scar tissue and deep pockets of confusion. So the memories I hold onto are precious, and I am heartbroken when I find that the occupants of my mind aren't nearly as beholden to these flights of fancy as I am.

I knew Gabby at a crucial time, when I was covering marijuana legislation with a friend and frequent collaborator who admittedly knew much more about the legal process than I. And, so, my conversations with the infinitely more knowledgeable Gabby were a boon to my burgeoning writing career...if you can even call it a career instead of an elevated hobby. And besides that, the only congeniality I had ever received from the sex biz, at that point, had been a few sweet words from some black chick who gave me my first lap dance.

The years that I was acquainted with Ms. Cleavon were special. This was before I met the third love of my life, before I met the girl with whom I would frolic like a leap frog and fuck like a praying mantis. Ergo Gabby was like a subtle dose of this or that, a filler of a void that I didn't even know I had. And the fact that she had a skull full of smarts was a real refreshment when held against the other relationships I had with female counterparts online. Back then I must have exchanged over six hundred erotic poems and virtual sex messages with a number of website colleagues and friends of friends. But Gabby could talk shop instead of simply rhyming. There was always a reason.

In the process of tracking down any websites that might have syndicated my interview with her, I remembered that I had written a sort of Love Letter about our friendship, one which I was fairly certain had been published by the same editor who ran the interview. After some digging I recently found that there is no trace of it. Which is nice, because now I can share the following without fear of her real name finding its way on to screens.

Her name might not be here, but her good nature and sassy spirit is more plentiful than a bag of dildoes:

The lust-filled crickets have the house surrounded and they are rubbing their forewings together at maximum velocity, chirping for their mates like a gang of Frat Boys on MDMA. Above them, the night sky is the darkest of indigo blue and nary a star dares glimmer until our backs are turned.

Another lonely and uncertain midnight hour, 12:56 to be exact. Only this time, things are different. Tonight I’ve got a special hat on my head and a funny feeling in my chest. Tonight I’ve got someone to talk to, if for only a few hours.

Tricia is on the phone with me. Tricia Ferrari, aka The "Real" Gabby Cleavon. Pornstar. Student. [Name Withheld] Magazine columnist.

I am playing with the furry brim to my new hat, a sort of pimp accoutrement for the modern-day Theodore Geisel. The sound of Gabby’s computer starting up is audible in my left ear as I pet my Dr. Seuss accessory and roll a cigarette.

Gabby and I are talking about the rupture of gelatinous material between vertebrae and the feel of nerve roots. The question of force to the base of the spinal cord arises and I start cackling like James Brown on Helium.

"It ain’t a laughing matter," she intones. "Adjustments are a very delicate thing. This accounts for everyone’s horror stories. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can fuck a person up for life."

"Hey, you don’t have to tell me twice," I assure her. "I think I have subluxation."

"Misalignment?"

"I don’t know, but it seems like I’m always walking to the left in public places. It’s impossible to get to a restroom before a line has formed. I’m always knocking into garbage pails and setting off car alarms."

"Maybe you should fly out," Gabby proffers. "I can give you some alternative medicine."

"No need," I reply. "I’ve got plenty of that. Probably won’t run out for another week. Then I’ll really have to start worrying."

While slipping the home-rolled smoke into my vest pocket, I realize that I have a stain on my leisure pants.

"What the fuck? Aw, shit!"

"Oh, boy! Don’t tell me someone’s coming."

"No, nothing like that."

"Bob?"

"It’s just bong water, I think. Maybe a blotch of gouda. I don’t know." Pouring some water on my pant leg, "Let’s get back to this subluxation jive, Gabby. My mental impulses are holding up and Lord knows they’ve been through worse. Still, something seems kind of askew."

"Still in therapy?" she asks with a genuine note of concern in her come-hither voice.

"Mental? Yeah. But only for another two months and then my sessions are up. Free clinic. No insurance. How ‘bout you?"

She seems taken aback by the question. "Me? Am I in therapy?"

"School, are you still taking the classes or did you get your degree yet?"

"Still working on it. I knew it would be a lot of work to go to school to be a physical therapist from the very beginning, Bob. No point in doing something that doesn’t take effort, right?"

"Damn straight," I reply. "Broaden your horizons, babe. Hell, it worked for Asia and Jasmine."

"Look," she says. "Not to change the subject, but are you sure you’re all right?"

"I’ll be fine, I’ve suffered things more hellish. If it gets to be too harsh, I’ll send for you."

Tricia/Gabby grows silent and, for a moment, I think the line is dead. Then I realize that my salacious phone buddy is snacking on something.

"Is that chocolate?" I inquire in a faux-authoritative tone.

"Yes," she admits reluctantly, devouring another piece.

"You churlish sow!" I exclaim. "I hope you saved me some. I’ve got terrible air pockets in my stomach tonight."

"And how would I get Bon-Bon’s to you at this hour? Air Mail? Or should I slip them through the phone?"

"Bon-Bon’s?"

"Yeah, gourmet ones," she tells me. "From Lille or Burgundy. Some cute little place in France."

"How did you score those? I want the name of the website."

"I didn’t order them. I got them from a friend by accident. See, a mutual friend of ours was arrested a few days ago for alleged hooking or something and this loopy woman I’ve known for several years heard about it through the grapevine.

"Thing is, she got her sources mixed up or something because she thought it was me. So she sent these chocolates to my house and addressed the package to [name withheld]. Apparently, she thought the person who would be receiving the letter was this mutual friend’s hubby and that he would put them on ice for when she’s finally paroled."

"Frightening," I say, and now I know I need that home-rolled cigarette.

"This woman’s stupidity? Yeah, tell me about it."

"No, the goddamn bogus laws in this country."

"Don’t get me started. Prostitution should be legal. If a mature woman who’s got it all together wants to do something with her body, she should be free to do it. She shouldn’t have to ask for permission and she certainly shouldn’t have to be locked in a cell with murderers and deviants because of it."

"So much for suffrage and burning bras, huh?"

"Exactly," Gabby replies, her voice cracking with emotion. "These women perform a service and the classy ones know what they are doing. They care about their clients and the quality of the transaction. It’s all on the level."

"Oh, no doubt," I say, rolling another cigarette for later. "It’s just like marijuana, the big green no-no. The neo-Cons put a ban on smoking in NYC and try to tell us what chemicals are regulated, but every one of them attends Happy Hour at Patty O’ Callahan’s every Friday night while their wives are home beating the kids. It’s a terrible mess."

* * *

The conversation was winding down and I knew it. Never discuss your true concerns with a friend. If you care about them (or yourself) at all, then you know what a buzzkill it can be to address what’s really eating you. Keep the heavy topics for the podium or the pulpit.

Suddenly, we both sounded exhausted. Gabby was letting her hair down by the sound of the butterfly clip that hit the receiver. As we spoke, the both of us walked around shutting windows and turning off lights.

"I should get going, I’ve got a deadline tomorrow."

"Yeah," I said. "Me too."

"Yeah, but you are writing for yourself. I’ve actually got a column to hand in."

"Good point, then I should probably hang up immediately and get that much-needed sleep."

"Let me know what the doctors at the free clinic have to say about your coccyx," she demands.

"Naturally."

I assured her that I would take notes on my sacrum and give her the full report the next time we spoke. I then thanked her for the bikini chromes she had sent me earlier in the month and bid her a good night.

Gabby and I haven’t spoken in a long time. When I finally get her on the wire again, she’ll be hearing all about my new cervical pain.