Page 112 of Notorious

But then it’ll feel like Gary got off without any serious consequences.

I want fucking consequences.

So I call Kurt.

“Babe, I don’t know what to do.” I summarize the negotiations. “It’s not what I wanted, but it’s still a lot of money.”

“It is and it isn’t,” he says. “It’s a little bit like my election. Sometimes you have to go in and fight the fight to be able to live with yourself. Even if it means you get a reputation you didn’t entirely want or deserve.”

“You’re right about that. As a porn star, I already had a certain notoriety, but the one who goes to trial over the wrong kind of sex on screen? That’s when I become …”

“A legend?” Kurt supplies.

“Or the least smart porn star who ever walked the earth. One with nothin’ under his hat but hair. Lord, what if the jury sees me as a body to be used and decides that what I agreed to doesn’t matter?”

“Then you need to educate them about boundaries and consent. So much of this stuff is education. Once people become more aware of how there are others who may not necessarily behave like them or think like them, but they’re still human beings worthy of respect, the world becomes a much more accepting place.”

“Hmm.” I think about it, and Kurt stays quiet. Finally, I say, “I think I ain’t gonna settle. I didn’t go this far down this path to be quiet about what he did. If they’d offered me enough that I felt like I was being compensated for the actual harm he caused—to my career, to my body, to my psyche—that would be different. And I feel like such a tool, because I know $69k is a lot of money. But looking at my career and what I need to help my mama, it’s barely enough to get by on, and it’s nowhere near what I’d’ve made over the next however much longer that I worked. I know, as things turned out with you and all, you’re glad I’m not filming anymore, but that wasn’t my original plan. Porn stars don’t get pensions, so I was gonna work as long as I could.”

“I support you, babe,” Kurt says without hesitation. “You have to do what’s right in your heart, and if that’s not enough for you to settle, then you need to say no. There are nonfinancial alternatives, I suppose. You could see if they’d do something like a written apology or a video saying that what they did was wrong. But it doesn’t sound like this guy wants to admit anything.”

“Exactly,” I say. “That’d make me feel better, but when we’ve suggested things like that in the past, they’ve been nonstarters. I’ll bring it up again and see if they go for it. But otherwise, we’re walking out.”

“That’s fine, babe. That’s why we have the court system. When someone hurts another, it’s one way to get redress.”

Sure enough, the apology idea doesn’t go anywhere. That means we’re going to trial, and all my horrible experiences will be out there in public for the entire world to comment on.

I feel sick thinking about it, but I know I had to make the decision that would help me sleep at night. And I couldn’t sleep if I let Gary Pinkerton get away with thinking he can fuck over porn stars—figuratively and literally—for his own gain.

Kurt picks me up in the same spot where he dropped me off and gives me the best hug he can from behind the wheel. “I’m sorry they weren’t more reasonable,” he says.

The violins wail in my head. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Do you have time to go for a short drive? I want to show you something.”

I shrug. “Sure.”

He drives me to a part of South LA I’ve never been to. It isn’t the nicest. He pulls over beside a row of old houses with graffiti on the walls and bars on the windows and gets out of the car.

“This is where we lived when I was little,” he says. We’re standing on a street littered with broken glass. The small houses have overgrown front yards with sunburned grass. The air smells of weed and exhaust.

“But your family’s rich.”

“Like I told you, my parents got lucky with some investments when I was a kid. But they didn’t come from money. They came from … this.”

I look around.

“With you growing up on the ranch, I think you might have had it easier than I did,” Kurt says. “At least until Amazon took off and my parents were able to cash out some.” He takes my hand. “I have a condo with a view and a nice car and everything else because of their investments. When they got lucky, I suppose they could’ve given all the money away. And they do give to charity—that’s always been important to them. But it made their lives—and mine—better to keep some of that bounty and use it for our own comfort.”

“You’re saying that I ain’t accepting help,” I say.

“You are and you aren’t. I think you’re getting better at it. But I also think you have trouble internalizing that it’s okay to have some good things for yourself.”

“Like you?”

“Like us, together.” He squeezes my hand and gives me a sweet smile. “So … does this help you understand that I really think of money as mostly a matter of luck? I mean, sure, people should do something productive with their lives if they can—and you do. But if what you do from here on out is never as lucrative as your old career, that isn’t going to make me think you’re any less successful. And since I have plenty for both of us, can you maybe stop trying to pay me back for everything? My parents hit it big, and our lives changed. But that doesn’t make me any different from you.”

I think about his words as hard as I can for a minute, then nod. “Yeah. I can try.”

---