Now that James Frey got his ass ripped in half for fabricating most of his memoir (maybe he can stop the bleeding with wads of the money he raked in last year), I feel it's important that I, as a writer who makes her living through the telling of her own experiences, finally come clean about a few things:
First -- and please forgive me for this, because I know how important this tidbit of history is to my image -- I never actually, not in the literal sense, anyway (or any sense, for that matter) ... Jesus God, this is hard for me to admit ... I was never really a teenage prostitute to the stars. I kinda sorta was ... OK, I never was. There, I said it.
One time, once, I gave a hand job to Rod Stewart in a bar in Manhattan Beach when I was 15. That's true, I swear ... shit, OK, what really happened is that he hit on me, or he hit on my friend, or someone who could have been my friend if I had, like, known her. But the important part is that I was a teenager in the same bar at the same time with Rod Stewart (who even way back then was nothing but a bunch of mummy dust in ankle boots). OK, maybe it wasn't exactly the same time, but it was definitely the same bar. Probably.
All right. The truth is I never had sex with a star when I was a teenager, or when I was any "ager," for that matter. Though once -- and I swear to God this is entirely, without a doubt, maybe the absolute truth -- I dry-humped B-actor Michael Dudikoff -- best known for the American Ninja action series that opened to big-screen acclaim in, for example, the Canary Islands -- on the sand one night in Redondo Beach, although "dry-humped" may be a tad exaggerated.
In truth (and I mean truth truth), I met him at a party and he invited my teenage ass outside -- and this part is super true -- to go jogging along the water. He removed his shirt, which marks the first time (to my recollection) I ever almost fell over foaming with lust. I did my best to follow him down the shoreline, but I kept tripping over my jaw, which was dragging, trowel-like, through the sand. He finally stopped and turned to me, and this probably would have been my cue to commence my career as a teenage prostitute to the stars, but I could barely keep from dry-heaving (as opposed to humping) on my own feet from all the unfamiliar exertion. I don't remember how it ended except to say my lust was unrequited. Later, I stole a poster of him off the window of an ice cream store.
That is pretty much the extent of my teenage sexploits with stars. And while I'm at it, I might as well admit I never passed out drunk in a parking lot, either, that I know of, as one might discern from "Passed Out in a Parking Lot," a chapter in my book that, to my credit, is not a pronouncement of having done that but rather a rumination on being accused of having done that by Lary, who, come to think of it, might not actually be running a meth lab out of his house after all, per se.
It's probably just a freezer full of prescription drugs pilfered from all his cancer-stricken friends. Or not. I'm not committing to anything. All I know is I went there once and there was a Ziploc bag of pharmaceuticals in his freezer. Or there was a freezer, anyway. That, I swear, is true. Pretty much.
And those chemicals under his sink? Just cleaning supplies -- probably not at all, as I've alluded in the past, the embalming materials used to taxidermy dead crack whores in his basement. I sincerely regret anything I said that could have misled my readers into believing Lary is insane, including my frequent assertions that Lary lives in a mausoleum and that his guests occasionally depart his home with fish hooks imbedded in their heads.
OK, maybe I don't really feel all that sincere about my regret (or feel any regret at all), but I will admit that Lary did not give himself a Mexican vasectomy in Tijuana two months ago. Not that I ever claimed he did, but he was in Tijuana, of this I am positively almost positive. Or at least he said he was as he talked to me on his cell outside a live donkey-sex porn theater. OK, it was just a gay bar where Grant had his hand stuck down a Latin man's pants, but still. And while I'm being truthful, Grant and Lary did not sell Daniel into Third World gay slavery after all. They just ditched him in San Diego and then swung by to retrieve him on their way to reunite with me in Hollywood the night before my appointment with HBO to discuss a series based on our lives, during which the executives fell over foaming with lust at the idea.
Now that HBO part, that is true, I pretty much swear to God that is true. OK, maybe the HBO execs didn't foam, per se, but they did ask us back. They asked us back. We get to go back next week. I swear on the heads of a hundred adopted Cambodian babies that that is the absolute truth. Really.
Hollis Gillespie is the author of Confessions of a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories and Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch: Tales from a Bad Neighborhood. Her commentaries can be heard on NPR's "All Things Considered."
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