The Ballad of Pam & Tommy Lee

Page 3 of 7

After six weeks of telephonic-fucking cock-teasing, I finally got the message I'd been waiting for. "Tommy. Damn, you're not there. It's Pamela. I've got twenty-four hours to play, and I want to play with you. Call me at the Hotel Nikko at 5 P.M., and we'll rendezvous."

I was so fucking psyched. My experiences with Heather had taught me that clean-cut actress chicks want a bad boy, so instead of buying new clothes and shaving and trying to look all fresh like Pamela, I put on my dirtiest fucking leather pants, slipped into an old T-shirt that stank of B.O. and didn't shave or shower. I did, however, brush my teeth.

I drove to the Pleasure Chest and picked up $400 worth of sex toys and outfits. I had my overnight duffel in one hand and a shopping bag full of lubricants and vibrating clitoral stimulators and ben-wa balls in the other. I was ready to rock her world. I cared her hotel at 4:59 P.M. I couldn't wait. The receptionist said she hadn't arrived yet.

I drove around, killed some time and called back five minutes later. She stir wasn't there. I grabbed some food and cared back. She still hadn't shown up. Now it was 6 P.M. I drove to the hotel, and I waited in the lobby for another hour; then I headed back to my house, calling the hotel every five minutes until they began to pity me. "Sorry, she's still not here," the receptionist said.

"You'll be OK. I'm sure she'll be here any minute. If you want to give me your number, maybe I could call you when she shows up."


"Excuse me?"

I left messages at her pad, at her friends' houses, everywhere. I was hunting her down like a little fucking stalker, the exact same way I chased after the first girl I ever kissed, with the red berry. Finally, just before 10 P.M., Pamela picked up the phone. She wasn't even at the hotel; she was at home.

"Hey, what's up?" she asked, as if she were surprised I was calling.

"Dude, what are you doing right now?" I exploded. I needed to see her.

"I'm walking out the door."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm taking a plane to Cancun tonight. I have to be there for a photo shoot tomorrow."

"Oh, really. What about me?"

"Oh, no," she said. "We were supposed to get together tonight, right?"

"I think so."

"I'm so sorry. Listen. When I get back. I promise."

"We could get together before then," I hinted.

"Oh, no," she said. "Don't even think about it."

"What do you mean?" I protested innocently.

"Don't even think about coming. They've got me booked for eighteen-hour days, and there's no time to play."

"OK, it's cool," I relented. "Have fun. I'll talk to you when you get back."

I hung up the phone, called two of my friends and said, "Pack your bags. We are going to Cancun."

I booked a flight and called her home from the plane the next day. "I'm on an airplane right now having cocktails," I said to her machine. "And I'm coming to find your ass." I bet she wished she'd never given me her home number.

Half an hour later, I checked my answering machine and there was a message from her. "You are out of your mind!" she yelled. "Don't come down here. This is not a vacation. This is a work trip. Do not come down here!"

But it was too late. When I arrived, I called every hotel on the strip, searching for her. The sixth hotel on my list was the Ritz-Carlton, and when they said there was a Pamela Anderson staying there, I practically wet myself with excitement. I left a message, or six, asking if she wanted to meet for a drink.

Evidently, she wasn't even going to return my call, she was so pissed. But her friends were on my side this time. They saw how hard I was working and begged her: "Go out with him for one drink. It couldn't hurt." Well, it did hurt, because four days later we were married.

I showed up in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton in a tank top, ripped jeans and tats hanging out everywhere. They refused to let me anywhere near the bar or the restaurant, so we decided to fuck that piece-of-shit hotel and go elsewhere. As I was letting her into the cab, I paused to look at her. And I never stopped looking.

We found a place called Señor Frog's, which reeked of beer and margarita vomit. We were both shy and embarrassed, especially after all the buildup to this first date, but as the night progressed, Señor Frog's turned into the Sanctuary, the magic returned without the Ecstasy, and the outside world melted away. She had that one drink she promised me, and that drink led to another drink, and that other drink led to some other drinks, and all those drinks combined led to her hotel bed. When we finally fell asleep, that was the first time the entire night that we stopped looking into each other's eyes.

We hung out every night after that. We went to clubs, to restaurants, to bars, to the beach, and all we did was stare at each other and kiss all night. Then we went home and made love. She was in the penthouse suite, and the elevator opened directly into her room, where there was a pool and a waterfall, both of which we took advantage of.

I couldn't believe that it was possible to feel so happy. For a so-called bad boy, I was turning into a pansy. It felt like our hearts had been hot-glued together. When she was working, I'd just sit in my hotel room like a dead man and wait for her to call so I could come back to life.

When her shoot ended, we decided to stay in Cancun two more days. That night at a disco called La Boom, I took off my pinky ring, put it on her finger and asked her to marry me. She said yes, hugged me and stuck her tongue down my throat. The next morning, we asked the hotel to find someone to perform a marriage ceremony. We gave blood, sniffed out a marriage license and were on the beach getting married before the day was over. Instead of wedding bands, we went for something more permanent: Tattoos of each other's names around our fingers.

The next morning, we boarded the plane back to Los Angeles. The closer we came, the harder reality began to hit us. This was real. We were married.

"Um," she asked me. "Do you want to go to your house or mine?"

"I've got a place in Malibu, right on the beach . . . . "

"OK, we're going to your house."

The moment we walked off the plane at LAX, the shit storm hit. The airport was swarming with fucking photographers. We fought our way to my car and drove to my place. I glanced up at the hill overlooking the house and dudes with cameras were camped out everywhere. It was like we had gone from the total-freedom paradise of Cancun to this hellish prison of Hollywood Babylon. We hired a twenty-four-hour security guard, but we still couldn't do shit without this lynch mob following us everywhere.

Things only got worse when Pamela called home to tell her family the news. Her mother fucking flipped out and told her to file for divorce immediately, while her brother asked for my address so he could come over and personally kick my ass.

Nobody thought it would work, but it did – for a while. Pamela and I were so fucking happy – everything in our personalities seemed to mesh. She wanted a child more than anything in the world, which was exactly what I'd been wanting since my marriage to Heather. And Pamela was a lot more easygoing and fun to be with. Together, we came up with all kinds of ideas, from furniture companies we wanted to start to clothing lines to screenplays. Instead of holding back our ambitions, our marriage only kicked them into high gear. Her mother and brother eventually apologized and gave the marriage their support, and it was all good. Except for the photographers, who followed us fucking everywhere.

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