Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

“I love you, Jimi,” Star said, taking his hand. “You know that? Just you.”

“I love you too,” Jimi said.

She wasn’t sure her plan had worked or that he’d even remember it all. But it was one hell of a party.

“Look, Star,” Stan said, catching up to her in the parking lot as she was leaving the set one day. “We can’t keep this up.”

“Well, there’s always Viagra.” Star giggled.

“I’m serious,” Stan said, trying to be stern and failing miserably.

“I am too,” Star said with a firm nod that made him smile.

He put a paternal arm around her shoulder as he walked her to her car. “It’s like this. I need to get this shot and you need to deal with Jimi. I know that it makes Jimi crazy, but we have to get these two characters together.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” she said as she vaulted up behind the wheel of her SUV. “Maybe we can take him out in the woods and leave him there. By the time he finds the gingerbread house or the three bears’ porridge, we’ll have the show in the can for the year.”

“Thanks, Star.” Stan waved as she backed out.

She smiled and waved as the window closed between them. She had no idea what to do. And she didn’t have time to think about it. She had to get across town for Hammer Time, then meet her brother, Hank, who was coming out for his first visit now that the big Malibu house was finished and she had a place for him to stay.

Hank’s trip was perfectly timed. Star had been invited to a party at the home of R&B music star Jean Soames. It was the sort of thing Jimi wouldn’t be caught dead at, but Hank, who was no R&B fan, couldn’t have cared less, as it was a Hollywood Party.

After Hammer Time, Star had just enough time to pick up Hank at “Lax,” as she still called it.

“Who are you now, the tour guide?” Hank laughed as she pointed out the blimp field on the way up PCH as they headed toward home.

“No, I’m just your big sister and I’m older and smarter than you, dumb ass. Don’t act lame at this party tonight, now.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Hank snorted. “I’ve been living in the thriving metropolis of Florida City, I’ll have you know.”

The Soames house did not disappoint. Star’s first stop in L.A. had been the French-château-styled Mann Castle, which was tough to top. But the Jean Soames place was pretty impressive, and Star was certain that it more than topped anything on Hank’s regular party list.

It was one of those loosely referred to “architectural” L.A. houses. A cross between adobe mission and ultramodern, the place was all blinding-white stucco, blue glass, and water. Flat-roofed and stacked like building blocks, the house was behind a high wall sitting on a ledge on the hill overlooking West Hollywood, where Star had lived when she’d come to town.

“Look,” she said, pointing from the hillside view as they walked down the drive to the front door. “There’s the Bel Age. That’s the hotel where I stayed when I first came to town.”

“Hello,” an extremely attractive young man, wearing little more than a smile, greeted them at the front door. “Everyone’s out by the pool.”

“Thanks,” Star said flirtatiously. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m just here to answer the door.” He smiled graciously. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Okay,” she said, heading across the large, mostly glass living room. Skylights made the all-white room glow in the late-afternoon sun. The glass curtain wall that comprised one entire side of the room opened onto a startling blue-tile infinity pool that floated like a sapphire in the blaze of sunset.

“Star,” Jean called, spotting her and throwing his arms open wide in greeting. He made his way across the blue-tiled patio pursued by two young men wearing shorts with suspenders over their shaved and polished chests. “And who is this little confection you’ve brought?”

“Jean, this is my little brother, Hank. “Hank, this is Jean Soames.”

“How do you do, sir,” Hank said, taking Jean’s hand. “It’s an honor.”

“My pleasure.” Jean took Hank’s hand in both of his. “I’ve always been very partial to little brothers. And these are O’Neil and Bartok, my little brothers, tonight anyway. This is—”

“Oh, Star Wood Leigh,” one of the two gushed, taking Star’s hand. “I’m a huge fan.”

“I’m an air conditioner,” Star replied, laughing at her own joke.

“I’m a big fan too,” said the other one, giggling along with her.

“Now, boys,” Jean said, giving both their tightly clad backsides a smack. “No starfucking. Well, not yet, anyway.”

“I’m sorry, just so very pleased to meet you,” one said.

“Likewise,” his bookend concurred.

“Why don’t you get them some drinks while I get Star and her little brother situated in the gazebo?”

“He doesn’t look that little to me,” the talkative one said, earning another smack.

Drink orders were taken. Jean, Hank, and Star made their way slowly to the gazebo on the far side of the pool overlooking West Hollywood below, and much of Los Angeles and even Long Beach beyond. They were delayed as they stopped to greet a who’s who of Hollywood from the music industry and otherwise.

“There certainly are a lot of good-looking guys here,” Star said once they were situated and Jean had left them to find out what had become of their drinks.

Hank snorted with laughter.

A number of beautiful women were present, but they were getting surprisingly little attention.

Star and Hank laughed pretty much through the whole party.

Perhaps the best thing that happened at the party was that Star met avant-garde photographer Eric Marmont and his protegée. She had admired his off-beat style and vision, and the two instantly connected. While Hank was busy winning an impromptu limbo contest, Star and Eric were busy planning their spread for Blab, the edgy magazine which Warhol once edited. Star would pose as the corpses in a series of famous murders. They called it “want to chalk about it.”

Though neither artist nor model realized it at the time, it was the beginning of a life-long partnership.

Star loved having Hank out for a visit; she kept finding reasons for him to stay a little longer. So, when he confided he’d like to stay on, Star was more than happy to help him get started. He moved into her old place, as she’d not gotten around to selling it yet. Actually, she hadn’t tried very hard, as she enjoyed having her own little getaway when Jimi or work or whatever got to be too much. There was room for Hank at the house, but he was getting under Jimi’s nails a bit, plus Hank had limited their sexual exploration and conquest of the house and all its rooms and flat surfaces. More to the point, Star thought Hank would do better with a little independence. He promised to find work and get a place of his own as soon as possible, but there was no rush as far as Star was concerned.

It was nice to have Hank around to remind her who she was and where she came from. And what was really important.

There were so many things to be valued in Hollywood that it was hard to keep account. Was it the awards or the money or the fame or the attention or the looks or the career? The checklist on a Hollywood scorecard was endless enough to keep the richest and most beautiful people hungry and motivated. No matter how spectacular the life—and whole television networks were devoted to describing the spectacular lives of the city’s most glittering inhabitants—someone always seemed to have it better. So, having Hank in her life was like having an anchor to keep her in port when she was buffeted by the winds of outrageous fortune.