Today’s the 29th Anniversary of Andy Kaufman’s death. Vice Magazine spent some time on the road with Tony to discuss: http://bit.ly/12EC1WQ

February 17th, 3:30-6pm EST

PS1/MOMA
4601 21st Street
Long Island City, NY 11101

Tickets available at box office!

Here’s me pulling an Osama bin Laden — i.e., hiding in plain sight.

The year was 1979, and I was performing at a tea party for the Ambassador’s wife at the American Embassy in Iran.

Just then, the facility was stormed by militants, and they started rounding up hostages.

Luckily, my black moustache and sideburns gave me the appearance of Ahab the Arab, and I blended right in with the rest of the camel jockeys.

“Moves like Jagger” my ass.  Mick stole his moves from Tina Turner back in the 60’s.

I was fucking one of her backup singers at the time, and she told me that Tina wasn’t too happy about it.  To this day, she still refers to Jagger as “the drag queen”.

Jagger was a real piece of work back then.  Still is.  Keith Richards, his own band mate, couldn’t stand him. Still can’t.

As for me, I guess I’m just jealous.  The fact remains Mick Jagger is one of the best R&B singers of all time — which is sometimes overshadowed by the Stones’ long list of pop tunes.

And yes, he is an asshole.  Front men usually are.  It comes with the territory.  I should know.

– “They’re all on the patio.”

Something in her voice suggested that she wasn’t a part of the gathering, nor did she want to be.  She glanced at the Contessa up and down.  Obviously, she had seen such “wannabes” enter her house so many times before.  She knew the score, knew what the night held, and wasn’t planning on sticking around for it.  She told whoever it was on the phone that she was going to be leaving in a few minutes.

I could tell the Contessa was relieved.  One less beautiful woman in the room to compete with.  I, of course, was a little disappointed.  I had already fantasized about corn-holing Cage’s wife while he and Carrey were ham sandwiching the Contessa.  (I wasn’t at all surprised to find out almost a year later that Cage and Arquette were divorcing and, in fact, hadn’t really been man and wife for a long time.  She had been a good front for years, but eventually realized she was nothing more than the towel girl at the brothel.  She was lucky to get out.)

Big stars like Cage and Carrey can’t have wives — there’s just too much good poontang throwing themselves at them on a daily basis.  Besides, they lacked the discipline to say “no”, like that goody two shoes Tom Hanks.  That’s one of the reasons Carrey was always bitching about Hanks.  He was goddamn jealous of him, jealous of his happy home, jealous of the roles he was offered, but mainly jealous because Hanks could keep his pecker in his pants.  Hanks had class, and all America knew it.  Carrey, on the other hand, was a rubber faced clown who clawed his way to the top, all the time trying to hide his trailer park trash background.

Don’t get me wrong,  I’d take a Jim Carrey over a Tom Hanks any day.  I could relate to him better.  After all, I was a low life degenerate myself, the only difference being I was proud of it.  I had learned over the years to accept myself for who I was.  “Guilt” was no longer a word in my vocabulary.  I was a full fledged hedonist who enjoyed every minute to the fullest.  Wine, women, and song, with a couple extra blow jobs thrown in for good cheer.  I had one aim:  when the moment of death came, I could look back over my life and say I had a hundred times more pussy than the other guy.  In my book, that’s a life fulfilled.  Set your goals and go for them.

I sequestered the Contessa into a side bathroom and told her to stay put until I came to get her, telling her I wanted her to make a grand entrance — which was true, of course, but this also afforded me the opportunity to make my own entrance without being upstaged.

As I entered the patio, Cage spotted me first and just about fell off his chair with laughter.  There was only a hand full of people present, with Carrey seated at the opposite end of the table with his back to me.  Soon all eyes were upon me.  Cage composed himself and then made an announcement:

– “Jim, don’t turnaround.  I have a surprise for you — an old friend.”

I chimed in:

– “Don’t worry, it ain’t Lauren Holly.”   (Carrey’s first wife, whom he detested.)

Of course, my voice was instantly recognizable.  Jim turned around and burst into laughter.  Next he stood up, we walked over to each other and embraced.  All was forgiven between us, and he was quite touched by my presence.  Little did he know I had something else for him to touch.  It was my “surprise”.

– “Now, where did my date go.  Oh, yeah, I forgot.  I just gave her a new dildo.  I think she’s off somewhere breaking it in… “

Everyone laughed.

– “CONTESSA — WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”

The Contessa appeared.  As predicted, everyone’s jaw dropped.  I walked up to her, slowly spun her around for all to see, and remarked:

– “O.K., who wants to swap?”

Everyone politely chuckled but knew underneath that I was serious.

Those gathered besides Cage and Carrey included Lynne Margulies (the late Andy Kaufman’s girl friend) and Noah Emmerich (who starred with Carrey in “THE TRUMAN SHOW”).  He had his girl friend with him.  She was attractive, but by the way she hung to Noah, I knew I didn’t have a chance.  There were two other girls — one a dog, but the other kind of cute in a girl next door kind of way.  The more I looked at her, the more I realized I had seen her someplace before.

Cage, the perfect host, had offered us drinks.  Soon his wife came out of the house with her purse in hand.  She was off somewhere, which didn’t bother Cage at all.  As a matter of fact, she wasn’t gone five minutes when he pulled out the ganja and started rolling.  He also had us shooting down tequila.  I knew his plan:  he wanted to get everybody blitzed so he could move in on the Contessa.  Fine by me — let Carrey and Cage fight over her.  I’d already been there and done that.

My attention focused on the other cute girl.

– “Excuse me, baby, but have we met before?”

She was quite shy, but I could tell she was intrigued by me.

– “No, I don’t think so.”

– “No, I know you from somewhere.”

Then it hit me.

– “Wait a second.  You’re an actress.  I’ve seen you before, from that movie… oh yeah, GODFATHER III.  You played the daughter.  You were GOD AWFUL!!”

You could have heard a pin drop.  Even Carrey and Cage broke momentarily from trying to flirt with the Contessa to hear my shocking truthfulness.

– “Yeah, you’re Francis Ford Coppola’s daughter, Sofia?”

She sheepishly acknowledged that she was.

– “You should of sued your old man for casting you in that clinker.  Let’s face it baby, you can’t act your way out of a brown paper bag.”

Everybody couldn’t believe what I was saying, even though, underneath, they knew it was true.

– “No shit, Sherlock, you should of got a lawyer and sued your pappy for defamation of character.”

I announced loudly:

– “She was such a bad actress in GODFATHER III that at the end of the film, when she was gunned down on the opera house steps, the AUDIENCE APPLAUDED!!!”

(I wasn’t making this up.  Audiences and critics alike just hated her. In fact, the studio had tried everything to talk Francis Ford out of his casting choice, but he just wouldn’t hear of it.  Coppola gave his daughter an offer she couldn’t refuse:  Do the film or forget about your inheritance.)

– “The same thing happened to Angelica Huston,” I continued loudly.  “When she was 12, her old man put her in some film.  She became a laughing stock and almost committed suicide.  Fortunately, in her case, she went on, took lessons, and became quite an actress.  But I don’t think you have a prayer.  You STINK!”

By now, Carrey and Cage are slappin’ each other on the back in disbelief.  Sofia, who looks in shock, walks over to a secluded corner of the verandah to lick her wounds.  Just now, I figure out why I’ve been invited.  I’m the party clown.  Instead of blowin’ up balloons, it’s my job to blow up egos and watch them pop.  Obviously, Cage had downloaded Carrey on my unique talent.

Noah and his date are mortified at my remarks.  Before I can turn my gaze on his loser career, they beat a hasty retreat, while Cage and Carrey go back to fawning over the Contessa.

A half hour later, Sofia walks back over to me:

– “Tony.  Can I have a picture with you?”

She pulls out a camera and gives it to Lynne to take.  While we embrace for her photo, she whispers to me,

–  “ If somebody had been honest and told me years ago what you just did, it would have saved me much anguish and self- doubt.  Thanks.”

Having said that, she gently kissed me on the cheek and walked away.

I considered going after her.  After all, I figured I was now in a perfect situation to “get some”, but I changed my mind… It was perfect the way it was.

(A year later, I read that this sweet girl had directed her first big film, “LOST IN TRANSLATION”, with Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. She had bravely made the choice to work on the other end of the camera and, not surprisingly, was garnering great reviews.)

A few hours later, all that remained was me, Cage, and Carrey.  They both appeared to be in a dead heat for the Contessa’s affections.  When the Contessa went to the john, Cage and Carrey were all over me, wanting to know what I knew about her.  I told them.

– “What’s there to know.  She’s a ‘wannabe’.  I saw her perform once in a revue, where she sang and danced.  She was fantastic.”

I laid it on thick:

– “And what a rack.  One or both of you guys should go for it.”

The Contessa returned and sat back down between them.  I thought I’d let them have a little privacy, so I wandered around the house.  Of course, I ended up in “the Cage’s” bedroom, opening drawers, looking for any sex toys him and his wife had.  When I couldn’t find any, I was happy to lift a pair of her white panties to add to my collection of celebrity undergarments.

By the time I got back downstairs, Cage and Carrey were all over the Contessa.  While Cage was making out with her, Carrey was sucking on her big tits like a little baby.  So as not to disturb this beast with three heads, I tiptoed out of the house to my waiting limo.

As I stepped in and we pulled away, the driver couldn’t wait to hear what transpired:

– “Were they surprised by your present?”

I answered:

–  “Not yet… but they will be!”

As the limo careened down Pacific Coast Highway, I laughed uncontrollably.  You see, what I failed to tell Cage and Carrey was that the revue I saw the Contessa in, where she sang and danced, well, it was at a club on Ventura Blvd. called the “Queen Mary”.  The Contessa was their top female impersonator.

SURPRISE AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Everyone pretty much agrees:  Obama sucked.  Even Obama himself thinks he sucked.  So what happened?  Three scenarios:

1      He just had a bad night.

2      He’s burnt out and really doesn’t want another 4 years.  (Can you blame him?)

3      It’s part of the Democratic Party strategy.  Play the underdog.  Americans love underdogs.  Rope & dope him like Ali did Frazier.  Take a beating from Romney, and then in the final debate, rise to the occasion and go home victorious.

If Obama doesn’t show some spark in the next debate on Foreign Policy, then scenario 2.  Him being burnt out might be a real possibility.  And if that’s the case, here’s what the President should do: deal out some down-home, backroom Chicago politics.

He should set up a private meeting with Romney.  Jump in a limo together and decide on the spot where to drive to and get out and talk.  Secret Service agents stay far back.  Both him and the President are padded down for any recording devices.

And then Obama drops the bomb and offers Romney the Presidency, telling him,   “I’ll personally stay lackluster in the debates and let you shine and people will vote you in BUT here’s what I want out of it.  You leave Obamacare alone.  No more talking repeal.  I help you win, and Obamacare stays law.  It’s the one thing I swore on my mother’s grave.  It’s all I want for my legacy.  Michelle and I talked it over and we want out.

This whole growing up in the White House is too abnormal on my Sasha and Malia. Four years is quite enough.  Eight years and those girls will be spoiled rotten.  Once again, my legacy is Obamacare.  Promise me no repeal, and I’ll hand you the presidency on a silver platter.  If not, I’ll go after you with everything in me and you will lose. “

Romney:  “What about the Party?”

Obama:  “Leave the Party to me.  Sometime I feel they’d like to see me go and have you get in.  They think you’ll make things worse so they can run Hillary against you in four years.”

Romney:  “I’m not planning on making things worse.”

Obama:  “Honestly, for the sake of the American People, I hope you’re right.”

Romney:  “What if I take your offer, get into office and still go after Obamacare?”

Obama:  “Then I do to you what LBJ did to Kennedy…(pause)…Blow your fucking head off.”

I can’t seem to shake last month’s cover of Rolling Stone (Sep 27, 2012) with him on it.  At 71 years old, he’s promoting his 35^tth album, “Tempest”.  It’s a disturbing interview to say the least, made more so — especially to me — because I ran into him back in 2011, and it was not the man in the article.  The man in the article was Bob Dylan.  The man I spoke to was Bob Zimmerman.  Dylan is the alter ego of Bob Zimmerman.  Zimmerman is the real guy, the name he was born with – and here’s how I met him.

It was a few days before the Grammys in L.A., and I was reading in the paper that they were rehearsing out at Center Staging, literally walking distance from Burbank Airport.  That morning, I was to fly out of Burbank, but my plane was delayed.  So I decided to walk on over to Center Staging in hopes of running into a fellow celebrity musical artist to put on my album.

(By the way, I’ve already recorded with R.E.M., and Billy Corgan from Smashing Pumpkins wants to record a version of his hit “Today” with me.)

Now I’m the kind of guy who exudes such confidence that I walk right into closed rehearsals and film sets and nobody ever stops me…ever.  When you’re Tony Clifton, you can do that.  So I boldly walked into Rehearsal Stage #4 at CenterStaging, and I see a band that is new to me setting up to rehearse.  I started talking to the lead singer by the name of Marcus and found out they were called Mumford & Sons – a new group from England that was taking America by storm.  (Their new album, “Babel”, is currently the #1 album in America.)  Nice guys actually.

After taking full advantage of the craft service table laid out in front of me, I needed to make a phone call, so I stepped out of the rehearsal room and found myself a bench right off of the entrance.  After my call, I wasn’t sitting there but two minutes before an old scruffy man in unpressed clothes sat down beside me.  At first I thought he was some homeless asshole, but then I figured he never would have got past security.  Besides, he didn’t smell.  He must be some down-and-out guy they throw a few bucks to keep the bathrooms clean.

I lightened up and decided to chat with him until some big star showed up.  I asked him if he had seen the Black Eyed Peas controversial performance at the Super Bowl a few days before.  He wasn’t sure who they were, and then said, “Do they dress in funny costumes and jump around the stage?”  “Yep, that’s them” I answered.  And then for the next 10-15 minutes, we had the most mundane but pleasant conversation.  Just two strangers shooting the shit about the weather and other unimportant things.

It wasn’t long before the stage door swung open and out came T Bone Burnett.  He turned to the old guy next to me and said, “Mr. Dylan, we’re ready for you.”  I was in shock.  Here I was talking to Bob Dylan for 15 fuckin’ minutes, and I didn’t even know it.  But here’s the best part:  Dylan loved the fact that for that 15 minutes I didn’t know who the hell he was.  He didn’t have to put on the Bob Dylan act.  When he got up and followed T Bone into the rehearsal room, he turned, looked at me, and gave me a big smile and a wink, as if to say, “Thanks for letting me be Bob Zimmerman again, if only for a moment.”

I let a minute pass and then walked back into the rehearsal room.  And just like that, Bob Zimmerman was nowhere in sight.  Standing at the microphone instead, tuning up, was Dylan in full-blown myth.  He spoke to no one.  The expression on his face had changed.  He was dead serious, even almost miserable.  I realized right then: here was the man Bob Zimmerman hated the most, the man that critics stigmatized by labeling “the poet of a generation,” a meek folk singer who over night unwillingly became the poster boy for the 60’s.  A man who got type cast in history and eventually began to hate every fucking famous minute of it.

Don’t get me wrong.  The talent is intact, the financial fortune has to be extraordinary, but the freedom is imprisoned.  And freedom for Bobby Zimmerman was what it was all about to begin with.  It’s in his lyrics.  Just consider on of his most iconic lines ever, from “Like A Rolling Stone”:  “When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.”

Poor Bobby.  Nowadays, his “Napoleon in rags” has everything to lose.  Fifty years of getting used to waiting limos and the best pussy money can buy.  Just too comfortable to give up.  It’s called co-opting and has destroyed most of our more anarchistic artists.

The same thing happened to Obama.  He went into the presidency relatively poor.  Now he’ll be rich.  He’s been co-opted.  I don’t think he really even wants another four years.  Just cash out.  Michelle telling him, “Fuck ‘em.  We tried.  Take the money and run.”

Of course, co-opting can’t happen to me, as I give most of my money away to charity (in the form of gainful employment for young women in the sex trade).

Eventually, Dylan started to rehearse “Maggie’s Farm” with Mumford & Sons, never once acknowledging their presence, and they too intimidated to murmur a word to their idol.  It was all pathetic in a way.

I decided to leave.  When I got to the door, I turned back one last time and looked at Dylan.  He was now looking straight at me.  His eyes were so sad and lost, like the eyes on the cover of the Rolling Stone.  I tried to smile, but he didn’t see.  Bob Zimmerman had left the building.

As I walked back to the airport, I thought how the pressure of being Bob Dylan has to be overwhelming: Imagine every moment of every waking day everyone is expecting genius to flow from your lips.  Obviously, he’s learned to keep his mouth shut.  It’s easier that way.

Zimmerman, if you read this, give me a call.  I’d be happy to sit down with you on that bench again and discuss nothing, nothing at all.

The limo pulled up to the guard gate to “The Colony” in Malibu.  Almost every star in the world, from Sting to Brad Pitt, has a multi-million dollar beach house here.  Nick Cage and his former wife, Patricia Arquette, weren’t any different.  The guard asked the driver for a name:

–“Tony Clifton.”

–  “Who?”

That’s all I needed to hear.  I rolled down my window and cut the guard a new asshole.

–  “CLIFTON.  TONY CLIFTON, NUMB NUTS!”

He looked over his list.  The poor schlub had been the whipping boy for the rich and famous for so long he didn’t even reprimand me.  This only encourages me to turn up the volume.

– “Hey, Sparky, how old are you?”

– “48”

– “48 years old and this is all you’ve made of your life?!”

If there’s one thing I hate more than celebrities, it’s the service industry, such as this guy, that cater to these fucks.  I take that back.  I hate the fans more.  Fans keep the whole fucking mess going.  The adoring fans.  How pathetic.  Who are these assholes who gather three days before the Academy Awards at the Shrine Auditorium and sleep out on the street just to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars.  Where are the Nazis when you need them?

The guard picks up a phone and dials the Cage house to see if, in fact, a nut like me has actually been invited.  Whoever he talked to set him straight, as his whole attitude to me changed instantly.

– “I apologize, Mr. Clifton.  I didn’t recognize you at first.  Mr. Cage instructed me to let you right in.  Just make a left.  His house is the last one.”

I peeled off a bill from my wad and threw it out the window as we pulled away.

– “Here’s a hundred for you, pally.  So next time you’ll remember me.”

I laughed my ass off as he ran after it.  The Contessa was equally impressed with my generosity and snuggled up close to me.  What a slut!  Of course, she would never find out what the guard saw once he caught up with the tumbling currency:  it wasn’t a hundred, but a buck.

Within moments, we were up to Cage’s house.  I was surprised to see that there were only four other cars parked.  The Contessa had a mild bout of the butterflies, so I gave her a quick hit off of my flask of Jack Daniels.  Then I went in for the kill.

– “All right, I held up my side of the bargain.  How about that blow job?”

– “ARE YOU CRAZY?  I’m not going to do that here.”

I pushed the button that rolled down the window between me and the driver.

– “Driver, I changed my mind.  We’re taking the Contessa back home.”

I pushed the button back up.

–  “WHAT?”, she screamed.

– “That’s right.  You give me head right here and now or you’re going back home.”

– “You’ve got to be kidding.”

– “Like hell I am.  That was our deal.  Wasn’t it?….. WASN’T IT??”

– “Well, sort of.”

– “Bullshit.  You’re going home.”

– “Wait a second,” she protested.

I yelled to the driver.

– “Hold on a minute.”  Then I turned back to her:

–  “Look at it this way:  we’re going to walk in there and, trust me, the way you look, you’re gonna end up spending the night.  And I want you to.  But you’re not going to like it when I raise a ruckus and demand that ‘You came with me — you’re leaving with me’.  Get me off now and the whole night you’re on your own.”

I had her over a barrel, and she knew it.  She unzipped my fly and took out “little Tony.”

– “I need a rubber.”

– “I don’t have one.”

– “I told you I wasn’t going to suck you off without a rubber.”

– “So we’ll drive to some convenience store and I’ll get one.  We can be back in less than an hour.”

Of course, I had a rubber in my wallet all the time, but didn’t tell her that.  I wanted to feel those beautiful, Angelina Jolie lips of hers.  “Little Tony” wasn’t wearing a raincoat on this outing.

Anxious not to waste time, she soon had me in her mouth.  Damn she was good.  I quietly lowered the driver’s window so he could see the action.  (I had worked this out in advance with him in exchange for his knocking $25 off the bill.)  She stopped briefly and said…

– “You better not come in my mouth.”

… and then eagerly went back to work.  The whole idea of sucking me off in a limo, right outside Cage’s house, while the limo driver was stroking himself, was a turn on for her.   She even grabbed my hand and placed it on her crotch.  I quickly removed it.  That was reserved for Carrey, not me.

When I shot my load down her throat, she didn’t even flinch.  She rolled down her window, hacked and spit my love juice onto the curb.  Then she grabbed the flask of Jack Daniels, took a slug, gargled, and spit that out also.  Next she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, as I rearranged myself.

– “Driver, the door.”

The Driver slid out of the front seat, still hard himself, and limped over to our door and opened it.  He gave me a wink that said, “Awesome.”

The Contessa and I walked up to the Cage’s  front door to ring the bell but, seeing the door ajar, and hearing voices coming from the back yard, we walked right in.

PART III – CONTINUED ON MONDAY!!!

I almost shit myself when I picked up the phone and discovered it was Nicolas Cage on the line.  He was inviting me to his home for a “surprise party” for one of his best friends, funny man Jim Carrey.  I guess Cage hadn’t heard that two weeks earlier I sucker punched Carrey on the set of the Milos Forman film, “MAN ON THE MOON”, or maybe Cage did know and inviting me was just part of the “surprise”.

I quickly accepted and was just about to hang up when I decided to have some fun with my distinguished caller.  So I asked Cage if he could recite the scene from “MOONSTRUCK”, the one where Cher slaps him and tells him to grow up.  I play Cher and start feeding him lines.  He hates it but, not knowing me, can’t gracefully bow out.  Of course, I’m dying of laughter inside, forcing this big star to do my bidding.  All the while, I purposely keep stepping on his lines, forcing him to constantly start over.  After five minutes, he becomes suspicious.  “Tony, are you fucking with me?”  I held my breath, not making a sound.  “Tony, are you there?   TONY!!!”  I gently pressed down the receiver and hung up.

I hate Cage.  Nothing personal.  I hate all stars.  Why?  It’s simple — they get all the pussy.  Even if they’re female stars, like that bull dyke Rosie O’Donnell.  I can’t stand that fat pig.  At least Ellen DeGeneres had the balls to admit eating snatch-a-roonie.  Don’t even get me started on the lesbos.  I’ll fill you in on the juicy parts later.  For now, what to get a guy who has all the pussy he wants?

Simple:  More pussy.

You see, snatch is like money.  The more one gets the more one wants.  Now I can easily get him a hooker, but then what do I get out of it?  I’m out a couple of hundred bucks and end up jerking off in my car at a nearby school yard.  No.  This invite I can turn to my advantage.

So I get out my black book and start dialing wannabe starlets, i.e., hookers who don’t take money.  One in particular would make the perfect gift.

–“How’d you like to meet Nick Cage and Jim Carrey?”

–“I’d love to.”

–“Great!  Now what do I get out of it?”

–“What do you mean?”

–“Well, you get to hang out with Nick and Jim at an intimate gathering, but what  do I get?”

–“What do you want?”

–“Head”

–“Tony, you’re sick!”  (Click)

Fifteen minutes later, she calls me back.

–“It’s a deal, but you got to wear a rubber.”

–“Of course,  I’ll wear a rubber.  What do you think I am, a fuckin’ pig?”

Now that I selected my “present”, it had to be wrapped accordingly.  So I took the starlet — let’s call her the “Contessa”.  (Not her real name.  The last thing I’d want to do is reveal her true identity.  Who knows — she might become a star herself in the future and with “our” little secret, she’d owe me big time.   A little larceny goes a long way in tinsel town.)

I escorted her to “Trashy Lingerie” on La Cienega. She’s got a body to die for to start with, and I had a field day watching her try on the inventory.  Since I’m paying for the outfit, I insist on being in the dressing room with her.  She didn’t really mind.  Besides, I had a good take on what Carrey would like after watching his behavior close up for over three months.  He was a crotch man, not tits or ass like me, but crotch.  I guess he was one of those sickos who wanted to return to the womb.

So I ended up selecting a Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders outfit:  pompoms, the whole kit and caboodle.  She looked hot as hell, her well tanned tits were pouring out, and the skin tight white shorts highlighted her mound of Venus.  I wanted mine right then and there, but knew she wasn’t gonna give me any until she was sure that meeting Cage and Carrey was the real thing.

The day of the party, I went all out and hired a stretch limo.  The driver’s eyes almost fell out of his head when she came strutting down the stairs of her third floor Hollywood apartment, one she shared with her “supposed” boyfriend, some dorky dumb shit who was payin’ all the bills while she was dollin’ up every night and going out for so called “auditions”.  Shit!  The only auditions she was giving was in the sack.  Hell, I guess her boyfriend was luckier than most.  At least he got to wake up next to her some mornings and jerk off under the bedsheets, as she slept soundly while some small time producer’s jism dripped out of her hole from the night before.

The scary part was she was one hell of a performer.  She invited me to a show of hers somewhere in the Valley.  She sang and danced, and she was terrific.  Unfortunately, she was 34 years old, thus over the hill.  The movies and TV wanted youth.  Hell, chicks ten years younger than her were considered too old.  The way I looked at it, I was doing her a favor.  If she wasn’t going to be a star, she could at least fuck one — maybe even two.  Cage and Carrey might share her together.  In either case, I was going to get mine up front.

CONTINUED ON THURSDAY!