In the summer of 1983, my career as a porn star behind me, I was madly in love  and happily putting in a lot of unpaid overtime at the Los Angeles County  Medical Association trying to figure out this new-fangled thing called a  computer. Weekends, I spent moonlighting as an assistant film editor.

One afternoon I’m slaving over a pair of hot rewinds when I get a call from an  agent whose name, Pam Basker, should have impressed me but didn’t because I  didn’t know any agents’ names at that time. Still don’t. She says the Ladd  Company (yes, as in Alan Ladd, Jr.) is looking for me. How the agent found me, I  never knew, but they’re good at that.

So just like in the movies, agent, Pam Basker, says where should she send the  script? I required cpr and a cold compress. Great script, but I’ve got like ONE LINE. And, my entire reason d’etre is to be  stashed under a podium by the naughty boys of the academy where I have been paid  to (supposedly) orally copulate (off camera, of course) Mr. George Gains (who
plays the police academy commander) whilst he delivers a speech.

Sigh. I go to the Burbank office, and yes, I’m totally impressed, overwhelmed,  intimidated, flummoxed – but manage, upon meeting Messers Ladd, Maslansky, and  Wilson (director) to say something incredibly stupid like, thanks for thinking  of me, but if and when I make the great crossover to real movies, it won’t be to just give a blow job.

“You don’t want the part?” asks Mr. Wilson, jaw at half mast. “There are jillions of porn actresses, way younger and prettier than I, who  would kill for this chance. You won’t have any trouble finding someone, I’m  sure,” I condescend haughtily.

“Oh, hell,” says Mr. Producer (Maslansky) “let’s just cut the scenes. If we  don’t have Spelvin, it won’t mean anything.”

Have you ever seen a grown woman climax with no outward indications whatsoever?
Well, it can be done.

I wish I could remember what truly pithy comment I made that allowed me to back-track and take the job, but all I can remember is shaking hands all around and trying to remember where the hell the gate was as I pulled out of the reserved parking place I’d been told to use. The only thing harder to get than a film role in this town is a parking place by the front door of a studio office when invited to a meeting. I had no idea with what deference I was being treated.

My first-class airline tickets arrived in a package with a contract from the agency three days later. More CPR required.

Part 2 to come… Toronto: Dinner with George Gaines, meeting Bubba Smith in the elevator, and entertaining the producer’s teenage son in my hotel room by ordering room service (hamburgers and malts) and a viewing the film TRON.

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