I don’t think anybody starting in on this is going to be unduly shocked at subsequent revelations that my “memoir” isn’t exactly about finding Jesus or true meaning, and that “lingerie model” isn’t quite a euphemism, but isn’t all about posing for pictures in classy catalogs, either. I’ve done that, but it’s not where the money is. Women won’t pay as much to see downy buttocks peeping out of lace and licentiousness as men will.
And I don’t think it’s going to come as a total shock to anybody to learn that trying to maximize the money angle in the ass-peeping trade can lead one to deeper levels of wickedness that aren’t more than hinted at by terms like “independent entertainment professional” or “gentleman’s escort”. Your idea of gentlemanly behavior probably being about the same as mine, when you roll it up and count it.
So there’s no “spoilers” here. I’m going to hop around my history of showing myself off, from beauty pageants to international modeling, to the lingerie thing, to “even worse”, as the pieces pop into my pretty little head, if you don’t mind.
Instead of starting at my adorable childhood and working up year by year. How much fun would that be, anyway? I’m not all that charming or entertaining and you’re here for the dirt. And one thing people find out about me, I like to oblige when I can.
There has been some question about my identity. Some of it raised in really rude and stupid ways by people I don’t think it’s unfair to characterize as creeps in search of a viable life. But as long as there are niggling doubts about me out there, I guess I’d better take them to hand. So here it is.
This memoir isn’t “fiction”. But it’s kind of “augmented reality”. Kind of like those Beverly Hills housewives aren’t quite as real as they let on. But I’m betting you tumbled to that already. And don’t much care.
The Kardashians are real people. So that’s what that’s worth.
Does it say “Camelia May Hunnicutt” on my birth certificate? No, you goose. I was married for about five minutes, for one thing. But for another, more significant and memorable thing, I come from a family. You’ll hear about them as I move down the road with this whole tent show. But what you hear isn’t the sort of thing you can run out and Google or head down to Mississippi and interview somebody about. Which is the whole idea. My daddy is a Baptist preacher. And whereas my life has led me to not be a big fan and supporter of Baptists or preachers or Christians, he’s a very good, loving man who has always felt led by the Lord to do his best to enable and abet the coming of His kingdom. Nobody who ever met him doubts that for a second. He’s lived a life of poverty and frequently humiliation and defeat in that service. Okay?
Other members of my family would suffer greatly to see me identified publicly as a tramp and harlot, and therefore themselves as related to such an unabashedly dissolute woman. Okay?
So it’s taken me some time and thought, but I’ve worked out something I think is not so factual as to hurt anybody, but not so made-up as to deprive you of whatever it is you’re looking for here by painting it as some new kind of “Reality TV Novel”.
And that’s a shame. I would dearly love to haul out every sash and tiara and diadem in my collection and tell you exact dates and the places I was anointed as Queen or Princess or Miss of. If you’ve ever been around a recovered pageant sufferer, you know how deeply I mean that. I’d love to give you a tour of my athletic career and show you the trophies and records and titles and such. But that’s not going to happen. I apologize.
On the other hand, this is my story and I’m going to tell it the way I want, and sign it with the name I that stood by me for many years after my own good name had fled off into the night. And another thing, whatever I am, I’m who I am. I’m not somebody else, and that’s been a matter of those creepy little rumors I mentioned. I think this is pretty obvious to anybody who doesn’t have some bone to pick or jealous snit to parade around. So this is the book, this is me, that’s what you get. If that’s not all right with you, then, I’m sorry to say, to hell with you.
But, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that we’re going to get along just fine.