Stripped Down: A Naked Memoir
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STRIPPED DOWN: A Naked Memoir is a look back at a surreal world kept carefully hidden from public view. This chronicle of life in the skin trade follows the meteoric rise of Stacey Keith, a girl scarcely out of her teens whose eye-popping assets launch her from wet T-shirt contests to the catwalks of Houston, strip bar capital of the world. Almost overnight, she is discovered by a famous porn star, who Svengalis her onto the pages of Playboy, Penthouse, and dozens of other men’s magazines. While strutting her stuff onstage and across the country, Stacey makes the fateful decision to head to Hollywood. She’s got everything a girl could want: fame, attention, endless piles of cash...but no idea what awaits her. With Internet porn overtaking men’s magazines, everyone from her Mafia-boss road manager to her smarmy talent agent pressures Stacey to do more than just flash her flesh. Uber-boob filmmaker Russ Meyer verbally abuses her; rocker Don Henley tries to use her. Yet through it all, from the warped misogyny of Playboy to the S&M dungeons of the Pacific Palisades, Stacey’s dark, self-deprecating humor will leave you laughing, crying and rooting for her at every step of the way.
STRIPPED DOWN: A Naked Memoir Stacey Keith Copyright © 2013 by Stacey Keith All rights reserved PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA acknowledgements Writers may toil in solitude, but many people, each in his or her own separate way, contributes mightily to the finished product. First, a shout-out to Joyce Kaufman for believing in this project and for believing in me. Joyce, you embody all that is decent and noble in this world. I will always aspire to be more like you.
support from friend and film actress, Yvette Mimieux, we all lived in a five-story mansion overlooking the Hollywood Bowl. Previous tenants included Frank Sinatra, who used to vacation there with his Rat Pack. Growing up in the rock biz, I’d learned at an early age that the sticky-sweet odor emanating from our basement was marijuana (this despite my mother’s iron-clad rule against smoking it). I’d learned that Ritchie, our bass player, kept tabs of acid in the refrigerator. I thought all
crosshairs. “Show. Me. Your. Tits!” I dash out of the room, followed by the security detail and waitstaff. We stand in the foyer, clearly at a loss for words. My legs are shaking. The security guy approaches. My name is Jim, he tells me. I think—of course it is. Traditional name for a traditional guy. Jim’s so fit and freshly-scrubbed and Midwestern, he could sell ice cream. His blue eyes rest on my face with the kind of protectiveness and concern and shy yearning that always throws my
Pointe. I can sense a brief struggle before he surprises me by saying, “You’re right. Who wants to raise a baby in La-La Land?” “So you’re okay with that?” “I get where you’re coming from. I’m not arguing. But how are we going to handle the lease?” “We run the lease out.” “What about your movie?” I think about that. The movie. I realize that I don’t care. I don’t want to be a mainstream celebrity, or even the minor variety that I am now. I don’t want to perpetually agonize over my weight, my
incarnation as a men’s magazine model, she was the most photographed cover girl and centerfold of the mid 1990s, a notoriety she parlayed into B-movie roles, Feature Performances, and days off to perfect her writing style. At the tender age of twelve, she played hooky from school for six weeks so she could complete her first novel, a historical fiction about ageing despot Henry VIII and his teen bride who lost her head over another man. Literally. An avid writer of fiction, nonfiction, short