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The Ballad of Pamela Anderson & Tommy Lee

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I met Pam on new year's eve, 1994. I went out with some of my best bros to a club called Sanctuary. We all sat in a booth popping E, drinking champagne and being fucking maniacs. In an hour it would be 1995, and we'd probably be too fucked up to even know what day it was. Suddenly, a waitress came over and said, "Tommy, here's a shot of Goldschläger. It's for you, from Pamela Anderson."

"Pamela Anderson?"

"She's one of the owners of the club."

"Is she here!?"

"She's right there." The waitress pointed to a table in the corner, where Pamela was sitting surrounded by friends. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed her before. She was wearing all white, her hair was the most perfect shade of blond I had ever seen, her teeth practically glowed through her lips when she laughed, and she stood out so radiantly from everyone around her that it seemed like a beam of black light was shining on her from above. I lifted the shot, did something corny like winked or smiled, and slammed it. Then I grabbed the whole bottle of Kristal and guzzled it like a happy pig. I put it down, walked over to her table and blew up the area.

"Hey, Pamela, I'm Tommy," I said suavely. "But I guess you know that since you sent me a shot," I continued, not so suavely. "Thanks."

I needed to recover from such a stupid line. So I pushed my way into the booth, slid over her girlfriends' laps and forced myself a space right next to her. Then I grabbed her face and just licked the side of it, from chin to temple. Maybe if I had done that when I was sober, I would have seemed like some kind of invasive asshole. But I was on Ecstasy, so it was all good, and anything I did was innocent and full of love and a yearning to bond with all of humanity. She fucking laughed and, without missing a beat, turned away and licked the face of the girl next to her. Everyone started passing licks around the table.

On Ecstasy, Joan Rivers looks like Pamela Anderson, so imagine what Pamela Anderson looked like. She was so beautiful, I couldn't even bring myself to think of defiling her with thoughts of lust. I just stared at her all night, and she just stared back. We probably talked about something for those hours, but I can't remember what. I didn't even realize midnight had passed until ten minutes later.

At one thirty, Pamela said she had to leave. Her friends were tired and wanted to go home. In all my years of experience, I have yet to devise a way of separating a woman I want from her fucking friends who are bored because they aren't getting any attention. I walked Pamela to her girlfriend Melanie's car, asked for her digits for the tenth time that night (and finally got them) and laid a huge, fucking sloppy kiss on her. I was cocky on Ecstasy and Kristal. I later found out that when Pamela closed the car door, the first thing Melanie did was look at her and say, "Don't even think about it."

"What do you mean?" Pamela tried to ask innocently.

"Listen to me: That guy is a fucking maniac."

Pamela smiled guiltily. Melanie looked over at her and said, one more time to make sure it sank in, "No!"

The problem with meeting someone you like in Los Angeles is that everybody is always too busy to get together. Their first priority is their career: making a friend or going on a fucking date is like sixth on the list. So when I called Pamela and she couldn't seem to settle on a day to hang out, I figured this would be another one of those fucking L.A. hookups that never gets off the ground. Instead, they just sort of dwindle away as, with each phone call and promise to try to get together next week, each person grows more distant and the spark fizzles out.

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 called 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 still wasn't there. I grabbed some food and called 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."

"Aaaaarrrgggghhh!!!"

"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 Cancún 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 Cancún."

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 Cancún 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 Cancún 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.

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