At the Arclight cinema in Sherman Oaks, there once was a slacker at Guest Services who kept a copy of The Vixen Diaries behind the front desk. He smuggled it there from the theatre's own Gift Shop, which sold all kinds of Hollywood-related tripe, and wrapped it in a work binder as a child might hide a comic in a textbook. Whenever business was slow and nobody was around, he would be steadily reading it. He thought that he was pretty slick and he would even wink at me as if to say: "Our little secret." One day, I was doing IT maintenance--cleaning the computer next to him-- when one of the managers crept up from behind us and finally caught him in the act. The book was open on the counter and the slacker had a goofy, remote smile on his face, his eyes had drifted off in daydreams, no doubt he was engrossed in a lurid episode, chopping it up with Karrine. Without warning, the manager shut the book on him--SLAM!--not just to startle him but to reveal the cover for all to see: a provocative-looking Karrine Steffans, full-blown, legs gaping. The slacker was stunned. The jig was up. To my delight, he stammered some feeble gibberish. The manager didn't say a word, he just stared back and forth at the cover and the culprit's anxious face, with curious eyes, searching for an excuse or an explanation. What the guy said next--the way he said it--makes me laugh to this day:
"I ... There's ... It's. NOT. Pornography." He would excuse his loafing by denying that he was a pervert.
I have no excuse. I was in the middle of reading The Innocents Abroad when my hold for these "Confessions" came through the Library so I picked it up downtown and read it shamelessly over the next week. Saint Augustine or Rousseau, Karrine "Superhead" Steffans is not, but I didn't request this book for its moralising. I had promised myself based on an impression. A few weeks ago, I ended up at a strange party. It was a dream. The house was large and spacious but it was packed with people and poorly lit. The halls were musty from couples making out in them. I peeked inside a few rooms while searching for an open window to stand beside. One of the rooms had Superhead's porno with Mr. Marcus playing on an LCD in the background as if it were part of the decorations. It made quite an impression on all the bystanders and passing guests. The guys were awe-struck, hypnotized, some of them seemed to be memorizing, while the girls gaped at Steffans with hostile insecurity, as if they were witnessing a powerful machine that would make them obsolete, and poor Mr. Marcus, such consternation as I've never seen on a porno stud before; he had met his match. She was a fascinating creature in that moment. I wondered where her talents came from. And so I resolved to read her book.
Take the story of a bicycle, what matters are the ridahs [sic]. The object itself is devoid of personality; she puts on coats of paint, streamers, breast implants. Steffans is a simple agent of unchecked and irrational desire. Probably ghostwritten, the book is a whimsical series of flight-crash-and-burn with hip-hop celebrities thrown in to lend the wrecks importance. She makes the same mistakes time and again so that it's impossible to identify with her unless you're equally oblivious to life's consequences. She opens the book with a bathroom-floor-breakdown a lá Elizabeth Wurtzel. She allows every man she comes across to use her in exchange for money, gifts, vacations. She becomes a date rape victim, a punching bag, a steak chef, a lap dog, a rump-shaker. She sleeps with every man in the book, except her father, to wit: Kool G Rap (her common-law husband, who forced her to blow him for hours on end under Miyagi-esque tutelage), Ice-T, Ja Rule, Vin Diesel, Shaquille O'Neal, Ray J, Usher, Mystikal, Jay-Z (no sex but she blows him in a cold mechanical fashion), Dr. Dre, Puff Daddy, Irv Gotti, Xzibit, Fred Durst (including an exposition on his eating habits), DMX, Bobby Brown, and Papa (surprise, it's Method Man, the internet has eliminated much suspense, wonder, etc.). She manages to suck the last vestige of meaning from the word "love" as she applies it incessantly to every celebrity she sexually encounters. Forget the nonsense about this being an inspirational or cautionary tale. It's bragging and gossip told with peculiar bravado. The celebs are often announced with the silliest hype. Steffans would open the door and who would be standing there but I quote "NBA superstar, world champion, Olympic gold-medalist Shaquille O'Neal." If that isn't self-promotion by association, I don't know what is! Even more distasteful is her plaintive chapter-long namedrop of the late Merlin Santana, whom I omitted from the above list out of respect: R.I.P. "Romeo" from The Steve Harvey Show. And yet there is no chapter devoted to her rehabilitation from drugs, if indeed she is off them, and for all the praising of her son as her saviour, he only gets a few words here and there, as she constantly abandons him for months with babysitters and uses him as an excuse to prostitute herself when her showbiz pimps refuse to let her freeload. No mention of her stint in adult films either. In her strange worldview, it might be bad publicity.
The only interesting feature of this book is the private/sexual profiles of the stars mentioned above. I'm talking quirky behaviours and situational anecdotes, not techniques or girths, because the narrative is surprisingly romantic rather than descriptive or detailed. There's a lot of melting, filling, stroking, floating, etc., going on, a surplus of feeling without insight, but such can be found in any run-of-the-mill romance novel. It has its moments. For example, Ice-T is a main character in the book. I remembered reading Ice-T's prologue to Iceberg Slim's Pimp so I was curious about his own pimp lifestyle. It turns out that he is a most gracious, philosophical pimp. Ice-T was the force that brought Steffans to the West Coast, he opened up avenues for her exposure, as long as she put out and he was interested. When they would hold hands in public, she was only allowed to grasp his pinky finger; a symbolic gesture, meaning she could only ever possess a small part of him. He fixed her up with her first jobs in the hip hop industry, which made her the celebrated whore she is today, so when he finally cut her loose, what did he require in return? A white Cadillac, paid upon success. That's pimp!
Last thing, concerning Ja Rule. I understand the attraction of fame and money. No doubt, Ja has plowed through his share of beautiful women because he is rich and famous. Some might even be crazy enough to love him as an artist. But that doesn't change the fact that he looks like a 14 year old boy and sounds like a rusty old man. His music is not terrible but he's something of a ridiculous caricature. Now, I believe Fabio is a ridiculous caricature as well, but I understand why he is idolized by lonely women who haunt the romance aisles at Target. Fabio is fantastic looking because he appears in fantasies as a blonde beefcake. The imagination of these lonely women can fill the mental void of his classic beauty with the slightest insistence, but Ja Rule has no redeeming physical qualities to compare, his puniness is more sobering than inspirational. I thought there was no way Steffans could explain her attraction to the wealthy runt without sounding like a shallow gold-digger. Boy was I wrong! In a burst of delusion, she pretends that Ja is Tyson Beckford or somebody and actually praises his looks. When she first saw Ja Rule on TV and swooned over his sexiness, I couldn't believe it. When she glossed on his 'Pain Is Love' tattoo en coitus, she finally lost me. Indeed, I almost lost my dinner. I knew then that this was not reality, that she was hopeless, that she could never make things right.