In July 1981, "Carne Bollente" (Hot Meat), starring Cicciolina and John Holmes, premiered to great acclaim at the Pussycat Theater in Los Angeles. The after party at On The Rox lasted almost three days. Harry Dean Stanton and Amber Lynn; Dennis Hopper and Annie Sprinkle; Marlon Brando and Duchess de Sade; John Belushi, Divine, and a luded-out Marilyn Chambers—the unlikely hookups, happening on couches, in corners, under tables, were comical. With the exception of a 45-minute visit to the restroom, Chi-chi was by my side the entire time. I was so proud of my girl, the toast of the entire porn industry.
But my feelings changed over the course of the next month. The film had a sold-out run, i.e., virtually everyone I knew saw it.
One afternoon I went for a drink at my local bar. My buddies greeted me with fits of laughter. Indian Joe stood up. “You fu—“ He chortled, keeled over, could barely get the words out. "You fucking Cicciolina," he said so the whole bar could hear it. "You fucking Cicciolina is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway!”
They bellowed and high-fived and patted backs.
I trembled. I couldn't sleep at night. It felt like I'd swallowed five nails.
I tried Ashtanga yoga, Transcendental Meditation, solo walks in Rustic Canyon. I read A Course In Miracles, the Kama Sutra, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I dabbled in Scientology, prayed at the Agape church off Alvarado. I sobbed on the couch of Dr. Harold Moss, therapist-to-the-porn-stars.
That was when the real trouble began.