Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

Like an overprotective parent’s, Jimi’s help didn’t always make things better.

Making movies is like watching paint dry. You set up for hours, then shoot for a relatively few minutes, then set up some more. And work on a house is watching paint dry, and theirs was drying even more slowly than anticipated. The combination was maddening. “You’re just trying to do too much, Star,” Jimi bellowed, when there was to be yet another delay while the tile people did yet another acid wash to remove the yellowed finish on the tiles in the enormous main hallway and staircase.

“Jimi,” Star sighed, trying to make peace while she got ready for her next shot. “We agreed this had to be done, remember? And we can’t get back in the house if we can’t get in the front door or use the stairs. Try to be patient.”

“I’ll be patient in my own house,” Jimi groused, slouching on the trailer’s sofa.

The soundstages where the shoot was to take place were a long way from the beach communities where both their houses were located. Star rented an apartment in the ultrahip area off Sunset Boulevard. The idea was to bring them closer to the set and, she hoped, make it easier on both during the renovation.

Despite the fact that they owned two homes and were renting an apartment, Star and Jimi ended up living in a hotel that was closer to the shoot. It was fun and reminded them of when they’d first met.

Above and beyond the tension of the shoot and the remodeling, the news of the body in Lake Havasu had hit the news. Though no one had thought to link the two, husband and wife were even more on edge—and inseparable. And what with principal photography beginning on the movie, Jimi became still more security conscious, still more protective of Star.

But neither had any experience with moviemaking, so they got off to a rocky start.

The opening of the film was envisioned as a dance sequence in which Star’s character performed her acrobatic choreography swinging from a “live” electrical cable suspended above the heads of the crowd in a cross between a postapocalyptic strip club and the Thunderdome. Special effects wizards had labored for days to make it appear that electricity issued from Star’s fingertips, showering the audience and her scantily clad body with sparks each time she came in contact with the metal framework surrounding the stage. It was genius. Not only would it capitalize on the film’s voluptuous star, it made the point that her character was impervious to, and an excellent conductor of, high voltage, hence her name, Hy Voltz.

Star’s costume for the number was little more than an unlaced corset that partially exposed her breasts, a “problem” made worse by all the swinging. She looked amazing and Jimi couldn’t resist. They were barricaded in Star’s trailer until the director went ballistic.

Steph arrived on the set and explained to Jimi that Star would have to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for the lost shoot unless they got the shot that day.

And so rather than an eight-hour shoot starting in the morning, it turned out to be an eleven-hour shoot that didn’t even get started until eight o’clock at night.

“Hello,” Star answered groggily.

“Star?”

“Theresa?” she said, not yet realizing that it was time to return to the set. “What is it? What time—”

“I’m downstairs, are you ready?”

“I’m, um, not yet,” Star lied, dragging herself partly out of bed as she tried to act as if she’d been up longer than just the length of their conversation. “Could you come up?”

“JC’s with me, do you want us to come up?”

“No, you just wait right there. I’ll be down as soon as I’m ready.” Star clicked off the phone and threw it in the other direction as she rolled over, snuggled up against Jimi, and went back to sleep.

“Star and Rockstar Boy Toy Turn Movie Set into Mayhem.”

“Star Wood Leigh Fined Thousands for Production Delays.”

“Jimi Deed’s Wild Man Act Overshadows Hy Voltz Production.”

It didn’t take long for the rumors to turn into headlines.

The articles about how difficult Star was to work with began to appear by the end of the first week of shooting. The days and the shoots ran long, and the time she insisted on with Jimi made them longer. Star paid the price. Tired and exhausted trying to please the director, the producers, and Jimi, she was miserable and unhappy with her work.

Finally, almost by accident, Star hit on the solution.

It happened one day about a week into the shoot. Missy, Billy, Skip, and Theresa were buzzing around the trailer. Jimi and JC were just outside on the workout equipment the studio had provided for her to keep in shape during the demanding shoot. Jimi’s workout schedule was showing remarkable results, and JC’s reputation in Hollywood was growing as well.

Star was back for a costume change and touch-up on her makeup and had just begun the arduous process of getting out of her costume. It was no small achievement, given that just her lace-up gloves took about twenty minutes to put on. The series of corsets that comprised her costumes were even more tedious and time-consuming to remove, even more so since they had learned the hard way that due to Star’s low blood pressure, if they unlaced her too quickly, she fainted.

“I just don’t get it,” Billy said, exasperated with a knot in the laces of Star’s glove. “How the hell are superheroes supposed to do all the amazing stuff they do in these impossible outfits?”

“Really,” Skip agreed, ruminatively combing out Star’s hair. “Can you imagine having a huge fight with half a dozen bad guys wearing a cape? How could that possibly help?”

“Or chase villains in these shoes?” Missy agreed, wrestling off one of Star’s stiletto-heeled, thigh-high, black-leather, lace-up boots.

“Or outsmart the evil geniuses with this updo,” Star added, laughing along. “’Cause you know…” she only had to begin.

“I can hardly think with all this hair,” everyone chimed in.

“Where’s the party?” Jimi said, coming into the trailer just as Star was coming out of the outfit. “You boys had better be gay, in here with my wife’s tits hanging out.”

“We could prove it to you,” Skip said from under a wickedly arched brow.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Jimi said, holding up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Billy said, tapping his chin with the rubber tip of a prop knife that he’d taken from the sheath in Star’s glove.

There was a knock at the door.

“Miss Leigh? Five minutes.”

“My wife’s fucking name is Deed,” Jimi shouted in reply. “And it’s gonna take longer than five minutes. Could everyone excuse us?”

“Great,” Skip said, taking a seat on the workout bench. “Go tell your masters,” he said nastily to the production assistant. The kid ran off.

“And could you bring back some lattes?” Billy called after him.

Jimi and Star began trashing the inside of the trailer—their third since the shoot had begun.

Jimi buried his face in her breasts, tweaking one and then the other nipple with his teeth as she tore at his clothes. They collapsed onto the floor, still clutching each other; Star shoved his Levi’s down with her feet, her legs wrapped around him. And then he was inside her, and he began slamming Star around the trailer as the two took their tension out on each other. It was like the rough sex they both liked—biting, clawing, and slam-fucking each other against the walls, on all the furniture, and finally against the door of the trailer.

She caught his lip between her teeth and actually drew blood as he pinned her against the frail metal door and drove himself into her with all his force in each impassioned thrust. Rather than catching a rhythm, he would pull himself almost all the way out and then throw himself against her to find new depths to her and her passion.