For years, Mama used to be on me over and over to read. That begging taught me how to say "no" -- not that I ever needed that lesson once I got my menses. I didn't want to read. It wasn't my fault, I'd tell Mama, them people in books just talk too darn fast.
As soon as Daddy got voted into office by them judges, people would come up to me and my sister and say, "You should write a book. You're American Princesses."
We were. And not in that nonsese about "every girl is a princess."
I looked like a princess even if my sister, Little Babs, didn't. Little Babs was always mousy. Daddy used to call her "the sidekick."
"Jenna, sidekick, Daddy's sobered up so we can open Christmas presents now!"
Truth be told, Little Babs looked like the writer. And she had a name like a writer: Barbara.
I was named like a small town, Home Coming Queen who lost her panties in Sunday school. "Like" or "after." Back when Daddy was really hitting the sauce, it could be hard to understand him.
You may not believe me on that because today Daddy is just like the ultimate talkmaker.
I don't know how he does it but he's got all these big, fancy words like "analyzation" and "resignate."
Mama told me Daddy got to be a talkmaker when he laid off the booze. I be real proud of him but if the choices are to be a spoker or get a buzz, you can find me knocking one back at the bar.
So Mousy sidekick, Little Babs, should have wrote down the book you are holding now. But she did not wrote it. I did. Every word.
The publisher asked me if I wanted a ghost writer? I told them, "I'm a good 'ol gal, and, yes, I spend about 90% of my time on my knees but at least 2% of that is for praying."
I am a very spiritual person who talks to God. I pray all the time. Like yesterday. I was just in my car, weaving across the road at 3:00 AM when something caught my eye.
"Jenna," I spoke. "You done passed you a smokey."
Right away, I started praying.
"Please God, don't let the copper pull me over. Not because I'm loaded. Though, Jesus, I is. Not because the speed limit is 45mph and I'm clocking in at a little over 80 MPH. Though, Jesus, I is. Not because I be's afraid of a ticket -- them boys know who runs the country. But, for reasons I still do not understand, I've lost my panties and bottoms and either me or somebody else, decided to tie my bra round me like it was a thong. If word gets back to Mama, I will hear about it. Bless my family and screw the poor. Thank you, Jesus."
"No! No! No!" my publisher screamed. A "ghost writer" isn't a ghost.
Learn something new every four years.
So she started to explaining to me what a ghost writer does and I'd just noticed the polish on my big toe was starting to flake off. So I was only semi listening and it sounded a lot like Bobby Ray.
I known Bobby Ray all through high school. Little nerd always chasing me down in the hall. But he was smart and if I let him touch my sweater, he'd make sure I got a B. For under my sweater action, I could get an A. So Bobby did all the work, like a ghost writer, and I just had to look pretty and let him touch my tits.
It wasn't no big deal. I bet if you gathered all the men in Texas in one place probably 63% of the men under 30 would say they'd touched 'em. And probably 90% of the ones under 60. Over 60, I think it's just Dick Cheney.
He swore to me that his pacemaker spit out pina coladas every time he cupped a feel. Didn't happen. Then he goes, "I'm sure something's spitting. Look a little lower."
Ha-ha, real funny. I fell for that trick with Big Greg in sixth grade wood shop. I fell for it with Ramon in seventh grade Spanish. I fell for it with Mrs. Thomas in eight grade home ec. But after awhile, a girl wises up. So it seemed nice, having a new Bobby Ray to do the work, but, and maybe this is part of getting a little older and wiser, I just didn't want some guy jerking on me like I was some dairy cow.
I said I felt like I could write a book now. Cause of being older and wiser. I'm at an age where you really start to question how it all is? Like, growing up, Mama would sometimes let us play with her Chrissy doll. It had red hair and you could pull it and it would grow. And there was this button that you used to make the hair all go back in.
And like, now, every five or six weeks, I get really dark roots. When I put the peroxide on, I rub it into my scalp. So like the roots should be fixed too. But still I got dark roots growing in and it had me wondering like how much hair do I have inside my head? Sometimes, I'll jerk on it real hard trying to see if I can make it grow. I can hurt myself doing that and I could warn people so when they hurt themselves they know what they did and will know it the next time they do it too.
So it was all of that that made me decided to write a book plus the fact that Mama Big Babs gave me a book for Christmas. I took one look at it, all wrapped up, and said, "Mama Big Babs, you have got to be kidding. Don't you even know your granddaughter? Are you be getting the old timer's disese?" She told me, unwrap it.
I did. The title alone changed my opinion of books. I've heard people be talking about how a book changed their life and I swear tell the title of this book promised the anwser to several of my dreams -- How to Make Love Like a Porn Star. That just seemed so right and so needed. I didn't get around to reading it yet so I'm not sure where to put the cameras or where to buy the soundtrack but I know someday I will know.
And like a sign from Jesus, the author of the book was named Jenna Jameson. That's my name! Well, the" Jenna." And she proves that Jennas can write.
