Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

“That was a-fucking-mazing, babe!” he howled at that cloudless blue sky above them.

“Yeah, baby, it was great,” she said, dragging herself off the bar and onto the chaise beside him. “Only, promise me something.”

“Anything,” he said, sitting up and framing her face in the viewfinder.

“No more camera,” she said, reaching out and switching it off.

Paradise and the Tits were lost all too soon.

As they were anchored just south of Catalina and surprisingly close to the world that clamored for them, a small fishing boat drew inconspicuously near. Star was swimming nude in the water, and Jimi was, despite their agreement, getting just a few more shots. He’d stopped filming their lovemaking, but he couldn’t resist the shots of her perfect, tanned skin flashing at the surface of the warm, choppy water from which he himself had only just emerged. What he didn’t know was that Star had sneaked shots of his skinny-dipping before she’d jumped in to join him.

The fishing boat was one of many that had lazily drifted by on that perfect July afternoon. They paid no more attention to it than they had to those earlier. No one knew that Star and Jimi were on board, let alone drifting off the coast of Catalina. Star was still in the water when the smaller boat was put over the side of the fishing vessel and the occupants rowed themselves toward the gangway from which Star and Jimi had been diving.

“Hey,” the tanned and weather-beaten man called from under his wide-brimmed hat.

“What’s up?” Jimi called genially.

“Just a delivery” came the reply from under the hat.

For her part, Star continued discreetly treading the water, as it was the only thing she was wearing. Jimi left his towel draped around his shoulders, more curious than concerned about their visitors.

As the rowboat reached the gangway, the man removed his hat respectfully and bowed his head in greeting.

“Jimi Deed?” he asked politely.

“Yep,” Jimi answered warily.

“For you.” The man extended his hand and pushed a long manila envelope toward Jimi.

Clearly this was just the messenger. Jimi figured rightly that the boat and its crew would likely earn more for finding them and delivering the mysterious envelope than they would in a whole week of good fishing.

“Thanks,” Jimi said, taking the envelope.

The man tipped his hat politely and, his job happily completed, rowed away with his silent companions.

Jimi regarded the unopened and unmarked envelope for a moment.

“What is it?” Star asked, swimming nearer.

“We may already have won ten million dollars,” Jimi said, laughing.

“Don’t open it,” she said, hoisting herself onto the little, white, expanded metal landing just above the water level at the base of the gangway.

“I don’t supposed I really have to,” he said, smiling at her sadly.

“No, I guess not,” Star said, leaning over and kissing him gently. “Thanks for doing this. I really needed it.”

“I’ll tell the captain to head for home,” he said, drawing her body against his and holding her just a moment more.

It was just as well that they didn’t open the envelope. It contained legal documents and prefiling papers along with a letter, which more clearly stated the threat to sue Star for $100 million if she did not return to the set forthwith and recommence shooting.

They took their time getting back up the coast and didn’t call until they got back to port in Los Angeles. Star had had the break she needed, and she knew full well that the studio would rather have her finish their film than enjoin them in their threatened lawsuit, so everyone made nice on her return. The trailer was filled with flowers and greetings and notes of sympathy.

JC and Theresa were there to meet them.

For Star, the excitement of making a movie was completely gone, squeezed out of her. Only a shapeless and empty film remained. All that was left was showing up at dawn, trying to get enough footage in the can to cut together into a movie before they ran out of time and money. It left a bad taste in her mouth.

Worse still, the shooting schedules for Lifeguards and Hammer Time had begun, and so her production schedule became impossibly difficult. Star’s final two weeks on Hy Voltz took three as she started work on the two television shows.

She enjoyed seeing her friends and put up with what she had to, to get the movie done. After the heartless response to her illness, she didn’t really care anymore, letting Jimi take control.

Jimi worked with the producer to make sure Star got enough rest and breaks. They worked to accommodate their Star, who, for her part, had little idea that any of it was even going on. It just seemed to her that despite their being more pressed for time, she had more time to do things like eat or take an afternoon nap or just spend time with Jimi.

By the time the shoot was finished, there were no new friends; only the people Star had been close to before the production, like Billy, Skip, and Missy, was she close to afterward. The producers, the director, and the principals never worked with her again. In fact, after the wrap party on the last day of shooting, they only ever saw one another once—at the premiere.

Her movie career had begun with more promise and fanfare than Gone with the Wind, and it ended, at least for the time being, almost unnoticed by any, save those who were merely relieved to be done.

“Not with a bang but a whimper,” she said to Jimi as they removed the last of their personal stuff from the trailer to return to their still-unfinished home.

“So this is the way the world ends.” Jimi smirked. “I thought there would be more, you know, smoke.”

She kissed him for knowing the poem, and the tires of the Testarossa squealed out of that particular parking lot for the last time. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. I hope I never make another movie.”

“Which script is it gonna be today?” Stan Merman asked, holding up two scripts as he entered Star’s trailer. “Romance or just friends? We can’t do it if he’s here, but if she doesn’t get a little action soon, her fans are going to desert us.” He threw himself on the sofa in disgust.

“Well, you’ve got yourself on the horns of quite the little dilemma there, Stan,” Skip said, looking up from his copy of Variety with a wicked smile. “I was just reading that you’re the executive producer on the number one syndicated television show in the world. You don’t seem all that powerful to me.”

“Is he coming today or not?” Stan sighed.

The trouble had begun almost as soon as shooting ended on Hy Voltz. Jimi had moved into Star’s trailer on the Lifeguards lot, and nothing had ever been the same. He’d been a minor disruption the year before when he was flirting with Star, but now that she was Mrs. Deed, he had taken up residence.

So, despite Stan’s success, he still got butterflies each day on his way to work as he wondered whether Jimi would be waiting for him.

Star’s romance with costar Rufus Forrest was common knowledge. And her romance with costar Antony Cravatta to those who had been able to read for more than two years. Jimi fell into both categories, which meant he’d forbidden Star to be alone in a scene with either man.

Now, Jimi had no actual authority to forbid anything. But Jimi had never had any difficulty getting exactly what he wanted. The set of Hy Voltz had taught him how to manage on set and the producers on Lifeguards were no match.

For openers, the show filmed outside, so disrupting the shoot was child’s play. An afternoon of cutting wheelies in the parking lot with his Ferrari could virtually bring production to a halt. Not to mention throwing a party, cranking up the music, renting a helicopter, inviting over a motorcycle gang for a beer bust, or just simply refusing to allow anyone access to his wife.