Medium height. Sandy blond hair. Baby blues. Killer bod.
Drove the boys nuts. Bonkers. The way she walked down the hall. Tight jeans and tank top. Tight curves. Pouty lips. Breasts at full mast.
She had it all and she knew it. Not too bright but didn’t matter. Boys hung on her every word. Puddle at her feet.
The lucky few got some. The vast majority didn’t.
She knew early on that men were dogs. Animals in perpetual rutting season. Drooled at sound of bell.
She loved every minute of it. The role, the attention. Mostly the teasing. Offered up a show of flesh, then took away and laughed. As if to say – You’re never going to get this.
Knew what to do right out of high school. Shuck the townies. Why cast pearls before swine?
Off to Hollywood in a blistering July. Greyhound bus.
Took acting class. Glamour pix. Looked terrific. Dead on hot starlet. Agent off the bat. Small parts in teen movies. Off and running.
Rising star on B-party list. Snorted coke with Robert Downey. Guest roles on episodic television. Two lines in a feature with Tom Hanks.
Maybe not a Meryl Streep. But hot in line as next Jaime Pressly. Or Mena Suvari. Jennifer Biel. Kristen Dunst.
Dropped out of acting class. Starlet didn’t need it. Acting classes filled with out of work losers. She was in work.
Hollywood routine on club circuit. Episodics, commercials, bit parts in features. Blowing casting directors par for business. Short flings with actor studs before they moved on to the next dollop.
Sex got her noticed and accepted. Body paid the bills. No need for talent or intellect. People talked to her boobs.
But success only fleeting. Bright flash, then gone for months.
Men were animals. Always wanted sex. Starlet thought she knew life. She was dumb as a brick.
Parts were getting scarce. New girls on the scene. Sex pot roles went to fresh meat. Twenty seven was old in this town.
Her face in the mirror was lined. Years of drink and drugs. Features set in permanent scowl. Mask of disgust. Youth gone.
Dated a rich guy in his late thirties. Attorney. Porsche. Mansion in Hollywood hills. Relationship got serious.
Could have been her ticket out. Gave him great sex, great body. But yakked at him constantly. Lack of intellect a killer.
Hit him up for fifteen large. Short film. Showcase of her talents. Final shot for the big time. Attorney paid out of blindness of love. The film was a disaster.
Starlet lashed out. Blamed him for crashing her career. Temper tantrum in front of his friends. Attorney called off engagement.
Rent due. No money. Crappy one-room studio. Pimps and drug dealers. Neighbor was shot dead. Girl down the hall was raped.
Worked stint as call girl. Hated herself. Answer in a whiskey bottle and a slug of pills. Woke up in the hospital after an overdose.
Starlet finally wised up she was washed up. Shucked the career and went home. Greyhound bus in shame.
Pimple face at hardware store asked her to marry him. Broken soul took the only deal she had. Settled for a life of hometown mediocrity.
Bright lights were gone forever.
Deadly Angel author Andrew Cofrin
