How to Make Love like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale
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How to Make Love like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale

4.2 207
by Jenna Jameson
     
 

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In the underbelly of Las Vegas, a cesspool of warring biker gangs and seedy strip clubs, gawky, brace-faced Jenna Massoli was transformed into the bombshell Jenna Jameson. Today, Jenna is the biggest star in the history of adult movies, consistently ranked as one of the most beautiful women alive. But behind the glamour and the meteoric rise to fame was a path

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Overview

In the underbelly of Las Vegas, a cesspool of warring biker gangs and seedy strip clubs, gawky, brace-faced Jenna Massoli was transformed into the bombshell Jenna Jameson. Today, Jenna is the biggest star in the history of adult movies, consistently ranked as one of the most beautiful women alive. But behind the glamour and the meteoric rise to fame was a path paved with tragedy and heartbreak. As a teenager—drawn into a dark and chaotic world where rape, abuse, and murder were commonplace—Jenna began her rapid downward spiral of addiction and degradation . . . while at the same time becoming the porn world's biggest crossover success story.

Her intimate memoir, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, is a shocking sexual history, an insider's guide to the secret workings of the billion-dollar adult film industry, and a gripping thriller that probes deeply into Jenna's dark past. Mix in hilarious anecdotes, adrenaline-pumping triumphs, and photos from Jenna's private collection, and you have a tell-all autobiography unlike any other.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
With its wit (the book is dedicated to Onan), its victim narrative (multiple sexual assaults), its celebrity dish (Howard Stern is actually well endowed), and its frank, one-fisted prose style ("After three hours of sweaty, psychotic sex, she handed me a huge black strap-on"), the queen of porn's autobiography is destined to become a lowbrow classic. Jameson's career began at 16, when she fell for Jack, a tattoo artist. At a party, Jack's neo-Nazi uncle raped Jameson. Unable to face her father, a Las Vegas cop, she moved in with Jack. Within a year, she went from high school cheerleader to stripper to nude model to porn actress, with a stop along the way to become a crack addict. Jameson's life wasn't so much a downward spiral as a freefall into darkness. But, as the porn world would have it, the harder she fell, the more everyone wanted her, and she quickly became a top nude model and porn star, and the country's highest-paid feature dancer, all while leaving a path of carnage worthy of several rock bands. Beneath Jameson's monstrous diva exterior, however, was a girl who just wanted to become a loving mother and wife. After many failures, she finally succeeded, and her X-rated book ends on an uplifting family-values note. Jameson's life was a mess, and with its multiple formats (interview transcripts, movie scripts, advice sidebars, diary entries, cartoon strips), so is this book. But it's a remarkably appealing and honest mess, and should earn Jameson some of the mainstream acceptance she so clearly desires. Photos. Agent, Resource Media Group/L. Perkins Agency. . (On sale Aug. 17) Forecast: A VH1 special on Jameson airing August 16, a first serial in Rolling Stone and Jameson's pouty face on the jacket ensure this book will take off. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780060539108
Publisher:
HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date:
01/05/2010
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
579
Sales rank:
167,223
Product dimensions:
5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.70(d)

Read an Excerpt

How to Make Love Like a Porn Star
A Cautionary Tale

Chapter One

There comes a moment in every life when a choice must be made between right and wrong, between good and evil, between light and darkness. These decisions are made in an instant, but with repercussions that last a lifetime. My troubles began the day I chose the darkness -- the day I chose Jack.

Men tend to be power-driven. They measure their lives by their accomplishments. Women are more relationship-driven. They tend to define episodes of their lives by the men they are with. That is, until they learn better. Jack was my learning lesson.

At age sixteen, I finally grew the breasts and pubic hair I had been praying for since sixth grade. It was as if they just appeared overnight. And suddenly I transformed from a homely wallflower to a full-bodied woman who turned heads. It was every father's nightmare.

"Oh my God, you are your mother," my father said to me one morning, shaking his head in disbelief. "You look just like your mother."

As I became comfortable with my breasts, my closet changed too. The stonewashed jeans became tighter; the Flashdance shirts became seethrough; the black-and-white-spotted cowboy boots gave way to highheeled black go-go boots; the T-shirts now stopped at the midriff; and the boxer shorts were no longer something to sleep in. I wore them out of the house, rolled up my thighs as high as possible. I didn't have any female friends who were intelligent, so there was no one to tell me that I looked like a hoochie mama. That is, a hoochie mama with braces.

When I walked down the Vegas strip, I loved watching men gasp and turn their heads, especially when they were walking arm-in-arm with their wives. I loved the attention. But whenever anyone tried to talk to me, I freaked out. I didn't know how to interact. I couldn't even look them in the eye. If somebody complimented me or asked a question, I had no idea how to respond. I would just say that I had to go to the bathroom and escape as soon as I could.

One of my favorite outfits was a tight red cut-off top, Daisy Duke jeans, and black boots with ridiculous chains wrapped around the bottom. I was trying to look like Bobbie Brown from Warrant's "Cherry Pie" video. When I left the house like that to go to a Little Caesar concert, my dad didn't even raise an eyebrow. I was always secretly jealous of my friends, who had to change in the car because their fathers didn't want their baby girls leaving the house dressed like a slut. Since I was four, my father had been letting me run wild in the streets, but the freedom had come with a price: security.

My friend Jennifer was still in her sweatpants and sweatshirt when I jumped into her car. As she changed, I drove to the show, which was the finale to a weekend-long biker rally called the Laughlin River Run. We had to look hot: We were both in love with the lead singer of Little Caesar and wanted him to notice us.

He didn't.

But the show blew my mind, almost as much as the audience did. We were surrounded by chrome, ink, and facial hair. Everyone we met opened their beer coolers to us, offered us rides on the back of their bikes, and unsuccessfully tried to talk us into smoking their foul crank.

Afterward, some bikers invited us to an after-party at The Rabbit Hole, the most respected tattoo parlor in north Las Vegas. There were Hell's Angels, Satan's Disciples, and Outlaws, not to mention the guys from Little Caesar. And for some reason, I wasn't scared, though I probably should have been. I didn't talk much, as usual. I just watched, and noticed how all these psychotic guys called their girlfriends "old ladies" and treated them like farm animals. I promised myself that I would never allow a man to take me for granted like that. Sadly, that promise didn't last very long.

After the festivities, I came home and told my brother, "I want to get a tattoo."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely," I told him.

So the following Saturday, he drove me back to The Rabbit Hole with his girlfriend, Megan -- a mousy, heavyset twenty-year-old brunette who for some reason looked up to me, even though I knew nothing about life or how to move through it. As soon as we walked in, I saw a big sign over the counter: MUST BE 18 OR OVER. I ignored it and pulled my lips taut over my teeth, so that my braces wouldn't show.

A door behind the counter opened and out walked a slim, well-pierced, five-foot-ten-inch man with a ghostly pale complexion, spiky chestnut hair, and a Satanic-looking goatee. Sleeves of tattoos, mostly of Chinese characters and tribal patterns, ran up his arms and spiraled around his neck. He looked like trouble. I recognized him from the party because I'd met him and his girlfriend there.

"What do you want?" he asked me.

I looked up at the wall and saw two little overlapping red hearts. I bent forward over the counter, trying to show my breasts, hoping that if I worked it a little he wouldn't question my age. "I want to get those hearts done," I told him as coquettishly as I could manage with my lips curled over my teeth.

"Where?" he asked.

I needed to put it someplace where my father couldn't see it. I'm not sure whether I was scared that he would react to it or, even worse, that he wouldn't. "On my butt cheek?" I replied nervously.

"No problem," he said. "Follow me."

I was awestruck: I didn't expect it to be that easy. My brother's unoriginal girlfriend decided on the spot that she wanted to get the hearts too and followed us back ...

How to Make Love Like a Porn Star
A Cautionary Tale
. Copyright © by Jenna Jameson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Meet the Author

The world's most famous adult entertainment star and one of the leaders in the adult film industry, Jenna Jameson is CEO of ClubJenna, Inc., an Internet management, production, and licensing company. She has appeared in movies, television, and in more than 1,000 mainstream magazine articles. Jenna lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.

Neil Strauss is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Game, Rules of the Game, Emergency, and Everyone Loves You When You’re Dead. He is also the co-author of three other New York Times bestsellers - Jenna Jameson's How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, Mötley Crüe's The Dirt and Marilyn Manson's The Long Hard Road out of Hell. A writer for Rolling Stone, Strauss lives in Los Angeles.

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