By the time I was twenty-one I had a reputation for being a guy who could deliver the goods. And there were plenty of rich women in Hollywood who were into having regular sex with a man who could actually get it up.

I had my own apartment, a new Corvette and a slew of regular appointments. In a way I was living the good life, although I didn’t have what I really craved, which was to be a movie star.

I was definitely leading a double life. I had a closet full of expensive clothes, most of them bought for me by grateful clients, and a separate closet filled with jeans and T-shirts.

On the one hand I was the big stud. On the other, a guy who still went to acting class, mixing with people who were pumping gas and parking cars.

I even had a legitimate girlfriend, Margie, a sweet girl who didn’t know shit about what I did on the side. She was under the mistaken impression I came from a rich family.

I liked Margie because of her innocence. Most of the girls I’d encountered in Hollywood were hard nuts who’d gotten where they were by winning a beauty contest or some such shit, after which they’d hightailed it out to Hollywood, done time at the Playboy mansion, fucked every sleazeball playboy in town and ended up stoned out of their minds.

Margie was different. She lived in the Valley with her family. A former child star, she’d starred in a series until she was fifteen, when suddenly her career came to an abrupt stop.

Now she was nineteen and trying to get back in the business.

Margie and I had fun together. She was different, and I liked it. Besides, it was the first time I’d had fun with a girl who wasn’t handing me money.

I had one particular client, Ellie von Steuben, who I had a hunch could do me some good. Ellie was married to Maxwell von Steuben, a big-shot producer. Ellie and I met twice a week in a fancy penthouse on Wilshire Boulevard. I had no idea whose apartment it was, but I suspected it wasn’t Ellie’s since there was never anything personal around.

“This your place?” I asked her once.

“No,” she replied, refusing to reveal any more information.

Ellie was probably a real looker in her time, and even in her fifties she could still turn heads. She told me her husband hadn’t touched her in years. “He’s too kinky for me anyway,” she confided, scratching my back with long talonlike nails. “He prefers call girls, so why shouldn’t I have my own pleasure?”

No reason, sweetheart. Especially when you’re paying me five hundred bucks a time.

Ellie was very businesslike. She made sure the money was always on the bedside table—five crisp hundred dollar bills. And she wasn’t into conversation, all she required was sex and plenty of it.

I could do that. I could do it better than anyone she’d ever had before.

After a while she started recommending me to friends, which was how I built up such an exclusive clientele. The Hollywood women who weren’t gettin’ any—they were all mine. The big director’s wife. The ex-wife of a superstar. The horniest old agent in town.

One day I asked Ellie if she’d help me with my career.

“I already have,” she replied coolly. “I’ve given you more clients than you can handle.”

“That’s not the career I’m talking about,” I replied.

She cupped my balls with a perfectly manicured hand and said, “You don’t want to be an actor; darling. Actors are jerk-offs—everybody treats them like garbage. You’re king in your field. Stay a king.”

I was angry that she took my ambition so lightly. That night in acting class I got up and performed a scene with Margie. We kicked ass. The whole fuckin’ class stood up and applauded.

Our acting teacher, an older man with flowing white hair and yellow skin, took me aside. “It’s time you got yourself an agent,” he said. “You’re ready.”

It was the first encouragement I’d ever gotten. He was telling me I was good enough to be a professional! He was saying I could do it. And fuck it—I could.

I made a decision. I was going to give up hustling and go for it. But first I had to get myself a stash of money. I’d already opened a bank account and rented a safe-deposit box, in which I had laid away a few thousand in cash. Now I had to concentrate on really piling it up.

I decided to spend six more months servicing women, then I’d say good-bye to that business. Maybe I’d even marry Margie, buy a little house in the Valley, have a couple of kids—live a normal life.

I started asking Ellie about agents. She started telling me to shut the fuck up and do what I had to do. She wasn’t a nice woman.

One night I was doing what I had to do, when Maxwell von Steuben walked in on us. “Jesus Christ!” he screamed, taking in the scene—Ellie with her legs clasped around my neck and me with my ass in the air. “Jesus Christ! What kind of a whore am I married to?”

“What kind of a whore are you married to?” she retorted, wriggling out from under me. “You’re the worst whoremonger in this city, and you have the gall to criticize me?”

While they were screaming at each other, I began scrambling for my clothes, not forgetting to scoop up the money from its usual place.

Maxwell von Steuben ignored Ellie for a moment, turning his anger on me. “Who are you?” he yelled, red in the face. “Who the fuck are you?”

Oh, yeah. Like I was gonna tell him.

“You’d better get your filthy ass out of this town. I never want to set eyes on you again.”

I grabbed my clothes and ran.

Ellie usually called me every Monday to set up our weekly appointments. The following Monday she did not call, nor did any of her friends.

The truth dawned. Ellie had been caught, and I was blacklisted.

Fuck!

I decided it was a sign. I’d go straight.

So I sold my expensive suits, moved out of my costly apartment, rented a small place and, with my savings managed to keep it together while I did the rounds of agents and spent more time with Margie, who, although she was very sweet, had begun to bore me.

I finally found an agent who liked me as much as I liked myself. A woman, naturally. Had to fuck her, of course, but then she started sending me on auditions, and that was a real kick. I actually landed a couple of small parts in TV shows. And I was good. One thing led to another, and one day I was sent out on an audition for a big action movie.

The day of my interview I sat in an outer office in Hollywood with seven other guys, all of us nervously sweating until it was our turn to go in.

Eventually I was called. I sauntered into the casting room, determined to impress.

Sitting around were the usual casting people, a well-known director, and—wouldn’t you know it?—Maxwell von Steuben himself.

What kind of a lucky break was this?

Our eyes met. It took him a couple of seconds, but he recognized me. The old man leaped to his feet, waving his arms in a blind fury. “Get him out of here!” he screamed. “Get him the fuck out! You’re finished in this town. Finished! Do you hear me, punk?”

The entire town heard him.

So once again my career as a movie star was put on hold.