opens the door wearing the same striped boatneck. Her feet are bare, toenails painted red; no makeup, her glasses are on. With short dark hair and questioning smile, she doesn’t look like Desirée at all.
Pete hands her the
Lost In The Cosmos
DVD. “Excellent production values. Jamaica?”
“Port Antonio.”
“That was you?”
“My sister.”
“How many of these films has she done?”
“Is ten many?” She gestures for him to come in.
Most guest rooms are a mess, this one is neat, and she’s rearranged the furniture. Bettye Lavette’s torn voice pours out of her computer. “So you’re writing a memoir about her career in the adult film industry?”
“My sister’s experiences making “Late Night” movies are a small part of a much bigger story that transported us from Iowa to the San Fernando Valley to Venice, Barcelona and Mexico.”
“What do you have so far?”
“The beginning.”
“And you want to know what I think?”
“It’s in the computer.”
While she lies in bed finishing his book, Pete reads about her growing up in Marshalltown, Iowa. Turns out, Cleo was a virgin until her freshman year at U. of Iowa. Boring.
“Unbelievable,” she exclaims putting down his book.
“You were a virgin all through high school?”
“Amazing ending. The way you told Artie’s back story, interweaving killing his wife with getting involved in Doug’s life and ending with them climbing the Brooklyn Bridge, the younger guy trying to kill his mentor. How did you come up with a story like that?”
“I worked with those two guys.”
“For real… on water tanks, you?”
“Summer job.” Pete’s voice is almost a whisper. “I was scared shitless, afraid of heights. Up there, Artie and Doug were kings.”
“Top of the world.”
“I worked the deck but I made myself climb the tank to show them I could.”
“What do you think about my story so far?”
“Thirty pages and you’re still a virgin? This is supposed to be the memoir of a porn queen.”
Cleo regards Pete with disdain. “My story is way more complex than a tawdry film career. And, by the way, being a virgin in Marshalltown, Iowa, didn’t mean no experimenting.”
“Where’s that part?”
“You mean the masturbation, fellatio and other inventive ways we discovered not to do it?”
“Yeah, readers like that stuff.”
“I want my story to be more psychological.”
“Like simulating intercourse on camera?”
“Desirée never simulated, she was fucking for real, especially in that movie.”
“Desirée your stage name?”
“My sister.”
“You’re Cleo Johnson, the tomboy, last among her friends to get her period.”
“That’s me.”
“I’d rather read Desirée’s memoir.”
“At fifteen my sister was recruited onto the cheerleading squad; that’s when her life began to change, she loved the spotlight. Senior year, she and her boyfriend Tom were chosen prom king and queen.”
“And Cleo?”
“She won a full academic scholarship to the University of Iowa.”
“Stick with the porn queen.” Pete starts to leave.
“Curious how the story ends?”
He stops in the doorway. “At the Streamside Motel?”
“In Mexico, in the mountains not far from Vera Cruz.” She moves closer, lowers her voice dramatically, “My lover Carlos dying in my arms.”
“Carlos?”
“Carlos Esparza, he was shot as we came out of the Santa Fe Restaurant in Xalapa.”
“Carlos Esparza from the Sinaloa Cartel?”
“I was his girlfriend.” She smiles. “Great ending, right?”
Cleo stands close. Pete had long been susceptible to the scent of a woman; hers is lavender. Pete steps back, asks the same question a professor once asked him. “What’s the purpose of writing your memoir?”
Cleo thinks a moment. “Writing my story will give me insight into the psychology of my decisions. I was lucky to survive. Maybe other women will get a handle on their own lives through mine.”
Pete is surprised that she’s
Pete hands her the
Lost In The Cosmos
DVD. “Excellent production values. Jamaica?”
“Port Antonio.”
“That was you?”
“My sister.”
“How many of these films has she done?”
“Is ten many?” She gestures for him to come in.
Most guest rooms are a mess, this one is neat, and she’s rearranged the furniture. Bettye Lavette’s torn voice pours out of her computer. “So you’re writing a memoir about her career in the adult film industry?”
“My sister’s experiences making “Late Night” movies are a small part of a much bigger story that transported us from Iowa to the San Fernando Valley to Venice, Barcelona and Mexico.”
“What do you have so far?”
“The beginning.”
“And you want to know what I think?”
“It’s in the computer.”
While she lies in bed finishing his book, Pete reads about her growing up in Marshalltown, Iowa. Turns out, Cleo was a virgin until her freshman year at U. of Iowa. Boring.
“Unbelievable,” she exclaims putting down his book.
“You were a virgin all through high school?”
“Amazing ending. The way you told Artie’s back story, interweaving killing his wife with getting involved in Doug’s life and ending with them climbing the Brooklyn Bridge, the younger guy trying to kill his mentor. How did you come up with a story like that?”
“I worked with those two guys.”
“For real… on water tanks, you?”
“Summer job.” Pete’s voice is almost a whisper. “I was scared shitless, afraid of heights. Up there, Artie and Doug were kings.”
“Top of the world.”
“I worked the deck but I made myself climb the tank to show them I could.”
“What do you think about my story so far?”
“Thirty pages and you’re still a virgin? This is supposed to be the memoir of a porn queen.”
Cleo regards Pete with disdain. “My story is way more complex than a tawdry film career. And, by the way, being a virgin in Marshalltown, Iowa, didn’t mean no experimenting.”
“Where’s that part?”
“You mean the masturbation, fellatio and other inventive ways we discovered not to do it?”
“Yeah, readers like that stuff.”
“I want my story to be more psychological.”
“Like simulating intercourse on camera?”
“Desirée never simulated, she was fucking for real, especially in that movie.”
“Desirée your stage name?”
“My sister.”
“You’re Cleo Johnson, the tomboy, last among her friends to get her period.”
“That’s me.”
“I’d rather read Desirée’s memoir.”
“At fifteen my sister was recruited onto the cheerleading squad; that’s when her life began to change, she loved the spotlight. Senior year, she and her boyfriend Tom were chosen prom king and queen.”
“And Cleo?”
“She won a full academic scholarship to the University of Iowa.”
“Stick with the porn queen.” Pete starts to leave.
“Curious how the story ends?”
He stops in the doorway. “At the Streamside Motel?”
“In Mexico, in the mountains not far from Vera Cruz.” She moves closer, lowers her voice dramatically, “My lover Carlos dying in my arms.”
“Carlos?”
“Carlos Esparza, he was shot as we came out of the Santa Fe Restaurant in Xalapa.”
“Carlos Esparza from the Sinaloa Cartel?”
“I was his girlfriend.” She smiles. “Great ending, right?”
Cleo stands close. Pete had long been susceptible to the scent of a woman; hers is lavender. Pete steps back, asks the same question a professor once asked him. “What’s the purpose of writing your memoir?”
Cleo thinks a moment. “Writing my story will give me insight into the psychology of my decisions. I was lucky to survive. Maybe other women will get a handle on their own lives through mine.”
Pete is surprised that she’s
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