Free Underneath It All by Traci Elisabeth Lords Page B

gorgeous I looked while I was modeling. I wondered what would happen if I said something about what I thought I saw him doing. Would he get mad? Would he tell my mom I was a nude model? Would I be in trouble?

11
I, Traci Lords
    I was fifteen years old when I was hired to model for
Penthouse
magazine. I was told I needed a "sexy" stage name so I chose Traci, one of the "popular" names I'd longed for growing up. During a rerun of the series
Hawaii Five-0
later that evening, I took actor Jack Lord's surname. In my mind, his Steve McGarrett was the perfect fantasy father. I added an "s" to Lord because there were three of us: Nora (my birth name), Kristie (my fake ID name), and now Traci (the girl everyone wanted).

From then on I was known in the sex industry as Traci Lords. The buzz in the business grew as North hyped me. The talk of the town was his new girl with the baby-fat bod, pouty lips, and appetite for destruction. The combination of little girl gone bad had photographers fighting to shoot me. It was a total ego trip. I was the flavor of the moment, the It girl. I felt like I'd won a spot on the cheerleading squad. Any doubts I had about posing nude were overruled by my insatiable desire for attention.

For five weeks I led a double life. I was high school sophomore Nora Kuzma by day and nude centerfold model Traci Lords by night. I avoided my girlfriends, ditched classes, and barely squeaked by in school. I started wearing the slutty outfits I posed in to school. My microminis and come-fuck-me high heels raised an eyebrow or two, but no one said anything. I wanted to be stopped, yet I got off on the idea of getting away with it all.

I was playing a dangerous game.

One sunny afternoon, as the lunch bell rang, I rushed into the cafeteria wondering what the day's mystery meat would be. I was conscious of my snickering classmates as I collected my food. Something weird was going on. I paid for my tray and moved toward a half-empty table near the door. Minding my own business, I arranged my food and wondered if my tarty outfit was responsible for the unwanted attention.
The moment I slipped into my seat a beefy jock sauntered over. "Hey, Paula," he said with a stupid grin on his face. I took a bite out of my green Jell-O, ignoring this Neanderthal.

Smack!
The magazine landed on the table.

On the front cover, there was a young girl in a pleated skirt with her hands over her breasts. The caption read "Pump Paula," referring to a pullout board game that boasted how you too could fuck the centerfold.
I choked on my food.
Oh my God, it was me!

As I sat there frozen, my neighbors craned their necks for a better look.

It was me — spread-eagled in a really sleazy skin magazine that looked nothing like
Playboy
or
Vogue
.

I ran out of the cafeteria and off campus, never to return to school again. My heart pumped in my throat.
Oh my God, everyone at school knows I'm a nude centerfold! Someone might tell my sisters . . . my mother! I can't go home. I can't go back to school.

What now? I hadn't even finished tenth grade. What am I going to do! What have I done?
Panic-stricken, I forced myself to slow down. I walked briskly toward a pay phone, my thoughts racing. I had to speak to Roger. He'd know what to do. But he was nowhere to be found. I waited on his front porch for hours, praying he would come home soon. I grew more anxious with every passing car, afraid I would be caught and put in jail.

Where was he!
I didn't know what to do. Kids at school knew I was a nude model!
What was I going to do? This was not supposed to happen.

Anxiety overwhelmed me as I raced for a passing bus, making my way to Hollywood, where I was sure I'd be safe.

12
No One Rides for Free
    Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I could breathe again, grateful to be just another ant on a big hill where no one knew my name. I'd never spent any time on Hollywood Boulevard, but it was worth the three bus transfers and passing freak show I'd encountered to get