LIFE TURNS

INTRODUCTION

The sky hung leaden. Matching my mood. And the rain, intensifying, hammering against the windows of this metal crate that was finally taking me away from here.

For good.

Miserly city, bitter city, wretched city... I cast my final glance at your pathetic "International Airport." Gray as you. Petty and pretentious as you. You pretend to be a metropolis, but you are nothing more than a small, insignificant oversized town, with all the trimmings.

I am leaving you forever. Truly. You likely won't miss me, but I certainly won't miss you. In fact, I will be happy to free myself, once and for all, from your hypocrisies, your false bourgeois morality, your insipid parties, and your thinly veiled envy. In short, fuck you and your inhabitants. All of you, each and every one.

The flight attendants have finished their little show and now the engines are roaring. Even they seem eager to leave you behind. In an hour, my rebirth will begin, and you will be nothing but a distant, annoying memory. And I am sure that in a month, you will have drowned in the mists of oblivion. The search for serenity has mandatory steps, and some of them leave you wounded. But with time, the wounds heal, becoming nothing more than painless scars. And they stay there, only to remind you that you had to take that road to reach your destination. Because I will reach my destination. I feel it strongly, and if you feel something strongly, it's because a part of you has already arrived there. And the other part is ready to get there.

Adieu, without regrets, without remorse, and without second thoughts.

Alea iacta est. And it feels good to say it as the plane's landing gear lifts off from your ground and carries me away from your malice.

Fuck you. From the heart...

ONE

Amsterdam has always held a particular flavor for me. From my first visit, it etched itself into my being as a place of enchantment. When my "Life is one" ranked fourth on the bestseller lists, and violet five-hundred-euro bills were snowing into my bank account like a Siberian December, I'd even considered buying a Dutch barge—one of those fully-equipped luxury houseboats moored along its canals—to live in for a few months each year. Preferably in spring, when the sun is gentle, and you can bike around nibbling on a paper cone of poffertjes(1)dusted with powdered sugar. Then, foolishly, I never truly committed. Another missed opportunity to regret.

I decided to stay here a couple of days anyway, just to detox somewhat from the poisons ingested over the past year and to intoxicate myself enough in one of its coffee shops. So I meander across little bridges and down narrow lanes, without overthinking my path, pausing only when some shop window catches my eye.

_______________________

(1)Traditional small round Dutch pancakes.

The city is full of peculiar shops that could inspire even the terminally uninspired. Once I even discovered a place that sold nothing but toothbrushes. The miracle is it's always crowded!

My stomach demands a break around one, when the scent of nasi goreng reaches my nostrils.

The restaurant is modest but promising, so I order a couple of Indonesian dishes and a beer.

The Dutch are progressive. It doesn't take a genius to recognize it. Their colonial history may have been brutal, like any imperial endeavor, but it yielded one positive effect: tolerance. They're the most open-minded and laissez-faire people on the planet. You could walk outside in your underwear with a toilet seat around your neck, and no one would bat an eye. What's more, communicating with them is effortless everywhere: while eating, strolling, at bars, on trams. You feel good in this place. In a sense, you can recharge and relax. And I need both those things now more than ever.

It's three o'clock when I return to the hotel—a far cry from the ultra-luxurious hotels I used to frequent. It feels like eons have passed. Beatriz adored all things extravagant, and I was eager to indulge her. We'd come here for long weekends, typically once a month, for three years. And everything followed an unwritten yet unwavering routine: limousine from the airport to the fantastical hotel, unbridled morning sex, shopping at the trendiest and most expensive stores, a quick stop at the coffee shop, unbridled afternoon sex, dinner in our room or at chic expensive restaurants, unbridled nighttime sex. This same routine repeated itself every single day of our stays. In three years, I never even made it to the Van Gogh Museum.

Which tells you everything.

The hotel I'm in now, by contrast, is just five rooms on a single floor above one of the many little Argentine restaurants clustered in the city center. The owner—who also runs the restaurant—is Pakistani. Friendly, attentive, and keeps to himself. Fully integrated, in other words.

The place is clean, and that's all I need. I've left behind a life of excess and glitz that gave me a brief high before hurling me into a dark sea of depression. What I want now is just to find myself again—and a story. I need to sift through the wreckage of my soul to uncover that creative spark I know still burns but has gone into damned good hiding.

I stretch out on the bed and make a list of next steps:

1. Call Tom and arrange to meet.
2. Call KLM to confirm my flight to New York the day after tomorrow.
3. Exchange 200 euros into dollars.

4. Find some small inspiration.

Number four is obviously the toughest, since inspiration isn't something you can pick up like a wedge of Gouda. But Amsterdam's air always sets something vibrating in me, and maybe—just maybe—that inner voice might rouse itself and condescend to offer a suggestion.

"Hey, Tommy, still breathing... "

"Jim?... I don't believe it! It's been forever! I tried calling you last Christmas, but your number was disconnected. How are you?"

"Better today. No, good, actually. How's Jackie?"

"Fantastic. Swamped as always with work, but you know, given everything going on these days, that's a blessing. What about you and Beatriz? How are things? Coming to visit?"

I pause. A fist clenches my gut.

"No, well, yes. I'll be in New York the day after tomorrow. And I'd love to see you."

"What time do you land?"

Tom is one of the most perceptive and tactful people I know. No commentary, no prying. He understands that if something's wrong, I'll tell him when I'm ready.

"Need to confirm the ticket, but I should get to JFK around two in the afternoon."

"Two? Hmm, let me check...okay, I'll pick you up. Which terminal?"

I'm kind of embarrassed. It's been three and a half years since we last talked. I'd never returned his calls before changing my number, and I hadn't even warned him about the change.

"No, don't worry about it, Tom. I'll take the subway. It's easy, and you shouldn't have to deal with driving."

"Not a chance. Listen, my editorial meeting wraps at eleven, so it's no problem. No arguments. Just tell me which terminal."

"I'm flying KLM."

"Got it. If anything changes, shoot me a text—that way you'll remember your phone actually works!"

"Thanks Tommy, you're a real friend... "

"Yeah, you too. See you Wednesday then."

"Wednesday. Give everyone my love. "

When I hang up, I can picture them both—Tom and Jackie. Him: tall, sandy-haired, square-jawed, your classic all-American jock. Her: bleach-blonde, big breasts and a killer body, bursting with energy yet endlessly affectionate with her husband—the quintessential Southern wife.

They're a stunning couple, probably the most genuinely happy I know. The kind that makes you wonder if they're for real.

Beatriz liked them—in small doses, as she liked to say. So I'd started spacing out our meetups, then let contact fade completely. I think Jackie got under her skin, not because she was just as beautiful, but because she'd built this thriving business she was actually passionate about, while the very idea of work made Beatriz shudder.

After confirming my flight to New York—my first trip back in exactly three years—I go to exchange euros and then wander aimlessly, hoping for some spark of inspiration.

"Life is one" came pouring out of me in one sustained rush, born from an instant flash of inspiration. I'd imagined how an ordinary person might live if they broke free from mental constraints—what core desires would drive them. The character that emerged in my mind took calculated risks, drank deeply from life's offerings even when circumstances limited drastic changes, and met both profound joys and simple pleasures with equal gratitude. At heart, someone fundamentally good who found happiness in others' happiness too. A straightforward premise, maybe even obvious, but one that cracked open a window to the soul. My first review—written, ironically, by one of the most notoriously vicious and widely-read critics—was a rave. To this day I don't know whether it was sheer luck or if the bastard actually glimpsed what I was trying to say.

Either way, every other critic followed suit to varying degrees, inflating my ego like a hot air balloon. Within three weeks, "Life is one" hit the top ten, and after about six weeks it climbed to number two—where it stayed planted for half a year. The immediate consequence was a meteoric rise in my public profile and an obscene swelling of my bank balance.

My life transformed completely. Book launches, cocktail receptions, invitations to intellectual salons, radio spots, talk show appearances. My writing career seemed paved with gold.

Beatriz and I, who had been together for over a year before my literary breakthrough, began carrying ourselves like celebrity gossip royalty. We jetted off at every whim, indulging in every extravagant luxury and folly imaginable. It went on like this for two years, surrounded by vacuous people who only hung around so they could tell others they were our friends or to try to sleep with Beatriz, all while pretending to be ecstatic about my work.

Then some hack at an influential paper wrote a piece insinuating that I was nothing more than a classic example of a literary flash-in-the-pan, backing up his theory with the fact that I hadn't produced anything since my first book.

It was a refined trap. And with my self-esteem bordering on a personality cult at the time, I fell for it completely.

Annoyed by other articles and segments that essentially echoed the same conclusions as that bastard scribbler, I became hellbent on writing a second "masterpiece" in record time. What I wrote was garbage—though to my success-blinded eyes, it seemed far better than my debut. My publisher only agreed to publish it because I managed to stun him with airtight arguments. Wisely, though, he printed a small first edition. The outcome: total failure, with financial and personal ruin for me. I had spent too much, convinced my creative talents were an inexhaustible well. My inability to cover even the most basic expenses sent me crashing down without a parachute.

Beatriz, from a very respectable, more-than-well-off family, decided being tied to me had become too much of a hindrance. Following the advice of everyone who had always wanted to get her into bed but never even came close, she gave me the boot. My so-called friends vanished at the speed of light—except for two of them. The only real ones.

They patiently fished me out of the dark, cold waters of depression, convincing me that I had enough talent to try climbing back to the top. They gave me some money and bought me an open-ended plane ticket good for a year with ten destinations of my choice.

"Find your primal inspiration again," they told me, "your genie in the lamp. Then come back and hit number one. We're betting on you, and we know you won't let us down!"

Accepting had been the ultimate challenge.

I don't know what I'm looking for. But in truth, I'm not even searching. I'm observing.Sometimes inspiration finds its way into your mind while you're looking at a glass of water; other times it doesn't strike even when you're admiring the Sistine Chapel. Case in point: now that I've left the Van Gogh Museum, I'm just angry that I didn't visit it sooner. I could write about a famous painter's torments too. Trouble is, I know next to nothing about visual arts—I'd just end up spewing nonsense about the poor bastard's inner demons.

Wandering and watching the human current flowing around me, I drift to the periphery of Red Light District, where the girls advertise their wares in display windows, if you catch my drift. Might be worth exploring, I think, so I scan for someone who sparks something.

I spot her posing in a bikini behind a first-floor glass door. Smoking, smiling at me without beckoning. I climb the stairs and knock. She opens, still smiling. Tall blonde with piercing blue eyes (contacts?), and a drop-dead gorgeous body.

"Hi! American?"

"Hi," I match her smile. "Only half. You?"

"Pure Dutch. Come in, let's have fun."

I follow her to a spotless queen bed as she draws the display curtains. Now officially occupied.

"So, cowboy, I'm Ulla. What's your thing?"

I extend my hand.

"Jim. Pleasure. Honestly just want to talk—I'll pay, obviously."

Doesn't faze Ulla one bit. She's seen her share of weirdos, takes it in stride.

"Hundred euros for half an hour."

I fish a bill from my jeans pocket and drop it on the nightstand.

I grin.

"What if I wanted extras?"

She snorts, too.

"Same rate, darling. Work's work—no discounts for anyone."

"Fair. Let's begin then. I'm a writer looking for my next book. Walking past, it struck me—you girls might be a good source of inspiration. Not sure what exactly I'm after, but seeing you, I thought maybe you could help."

- Mmm. Feels overdone. Whore stories. Always identical. Trapped victims, sex addicts making bank, factory-work refugees. No, I wouldn't read it. -

Now we're talking—this Ulla's sharp!

"Sure. But everyone's got a unique angle. Maybe even in your world there's someone... unconventional."

She shakes her head, lighting another cigarette.

"Don't bank on us. We're working girls like any other. Sure, we make a living with what's between our legs, and sometimes it's even fun, but it all turns routine. Kind of depressing, in the end."

"So you're saying I should look elsewhere?"

"Pretty much... Unless... "

She exhales smoke with the word.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you find someone unconventional. Someone who doesn't regret what they did—maybe even enjoyed it—but discovered something more fulfilling."

"You lost me."

"Not the tired tropes: 'I was a hooker who realized my sins, and now I dedicate my life to redeeming others'; or 'my uncle raped me and then sold me to the bad guys.' I mean more like: 'Hey, I had a great time and would've kept going, but at some point I realized I liked driving a cab even more.' Get it?... Hang on."

She stands and opens a closet door, bending to rummage for something. I can't help but notice her backside. Two perfect peaches. She straightens up with a copy of Vanity Fair and sits back down, shooting me an amused glance. Busted.

"Here, Jim. Read this—I did about a month ago."

The headline reads: "Life Turns: From Proud Porn Diva to NGO Manager." Among the article's photos, the center shot shows a statuesque brunette of intimidating beauty beaming as a Black toddler makes funny faces in her arms. There's something slyly mischievous about the photographer's eye. But Ulla's nailed it.

"Keep the magazine; you should read the article to understand what I mean."

Before handing me the magazine, she scribbles something on the cover, then unhooks her bra.

"If thanks to me you come up with a great story and sell lots, you owe me a gift. I wrote my name and address above the headline. Still sure you only want to talk?"

An hour and a half later, I settle into a Chinese restaurant, satisfied, and start reading the article after ordering. If I manage to pull off what's taking shape in my mind and get published, Ulla has definitely earned a gift. Even if the book doesn't sell. And it's not because of the sex we had—totally unplanned and finally, after so long, fun. That was all thanks to her magnificent ass!

VANITY FAIR

"LIFE TURNS: FROM PORN DIVA TO NGO MANAGER"

After being the fantasy of millions of men for years, Jeena Davis has become the co-founder and vice president of "HEART," the famous nongovernmental organization recognized by the United Nations.

Unfiltered Interview with an Extraordinary Woman

Port Moresby, April 3.

The ceiling fan's blades labor in vain against the oppressive humidity that leaves you gasping. Jeena arrives precisely on time, radiant even in utilitarian military garb—cargo pants, an olive tee, and her NGO windbreaker. She pulls me into an embrace when we meet, her disarming smile instantly putting you at ease.

Good morning, Jeena—no filters?

Morning, Yvonne. Shoot straight.

When and why did Jeena Davis come into being?

I lost my virginity at sixteen to a guy seven years my senior. It was revelatory. In that moment, I discovered that sex was something magnificent and decided it was worth living to the fullest. Later in college, a friend who had just started working as a cameraman for a major L.A. adult studio suggested I go to a casting. I researched the risks and health precautions, then showed up. I had a great time and decided that as a career, it wouldn't be half bad. But I have to say, my real fortune was having exceptional parents who always respected my choices while warning me about the pros and cons. My dad always says life throws you countless turns—and it's up to us to navigate them well. It's rare enough to find people who are completely free of prejudice—imagine having them as your parents! They always knew how to listen and understand, and I'm so glad I made that choice.

Surely that's not just parental support? 124 films—including at least twenty near-cult classics—5 Adult Video News Awards, countless talk show appearances, trendsetting magazines fighting for you on their covers—all in just twelve years? That's a stratospheric run.

I've never been a hypocrite. As I said, my family upbringing let me grow up free from odious moralizing. Yes, I know I'm a knockout [laughs—Editor's note]...but let's say I'm primarily aware that I have a functioning brain, and I've always tried to use it well. I figured I could really excel in a job that, moreover, was deeply satisfying [laughs—Editor's note]…and in the vast majority of cases, I worked with lovely people. Some are still dear friends whom I see whenever I can.

Then came the twin shocks: dissolving your longtime partnership and bidding farewell to the world of porn. What happened?

Nick and I had been together for fifteen years. From day one, sex between us was deeply spiritual—tantric, if you will—and we embraced it with incredible intimacy. We made just one rule: no affairs. When we split, it was because he'd been seeing someone else for over a year. Eventually he told me, and I knew our paths were diverging. We still talk now and then. He's still with the same person, so I suppose he chose well [smiles—Ed.]... Quitting porn soon after was pure coincidence. By thirty-five, I craved travel and new dimensions to my life. That, and I refused to end up in porn's "Grannies" category [laughs—Ed.] ... I had money, a beautiful home, youth, and now—freedom. Not bad, right? I bought an open-ended ticket and began seeing the world through fresh eyes. Along the way, I met extraordinary people.

Who'd imagine a porn star transforming into a successful NGO executive? What sparked the shift?

I drifted for a couple years. Did some glamour shoots in Europe... Then came Namibia, where another fateful encounter life turn. Sitting in a Windhoek bar, I spotted this magnetic guy with a distant gaze. Fine—I approached him[laughs—Ed.]! Unexpectedly, I'd found an inseparable friend [Matt Dyson, the NGO's co-founder—Ed.], better than any husband or lover. He carried a secret and a mission, which intrigued me. When I revealed my past, he asked me to help—admitting he was hopeless at administration. "You'd trust an ex-porn star?" I asked. "I'd trust an honest woman," he replied. That sealed it. Five years on, we're partners in everything.

Including sex?

Hard to believe, but... no. Though I'm sure we'd be amazing together [laughs—Ed.]! Ours is a true platonic love—rare, jealousy-free, and beyond most people's comprehension. Then again, most still judge porn stars, even while watching porn themselves.

You've adopted three children. No regrets about not having biological ones?

God, definitely not right now [laughs—Ed.]! Tasseetee, my youngest, has been with me a year now and just turned two. She keeps me busy when I'm home. I usually travel one week each month for logistics oversight, while Matt handles most of the field operations. Honestly, I wouldn't have time for motherhood right now. And finding a father figure would be its own challenge.

No man in your future?

Hey, I told you I loved my old job [laughs—Ed.]...well, yes, I do see a man in my future. I don't know when, but I know I'll meet someone for another "life turn." Still, I don't think I'll ever quit this work because it has made me—and still makes me—feel whole.

Is humanity good or evil?

Matt always says, and I agree, that a single moment of love, even in a wicked man, can give meaning to a life. I believe humanity is made up of individuals who are neither good nor bad. It's what they do, or are forced to do, that makes them so. And I firmly believe that education can tip the scales toward good. [The NGO is very active in building schools in various developing countries—Ed.]

How many "turns" are there in a life?

Countless. Beautiful and less beautiful, but if you keep an open mind, they're all interesting.

Who is Jeena Davis?

A serene and fulfilled woman, in body and soul.

Yvonne Leary

Related articles:

"A School of Hope"

"Help Wanted: Volunteers!"

"NGOs at Work Worldwide"

To contribute with donations or volunteer work, visit the site:

www.heart.org

Wow! I have the same vibration I felt when I started "Life is one". That feeling that stirs inside you when you sense you're on the right path.

Now I know which direction to take—I'm no longer groping in the dark. I grab my phone.

"Hey Tommy, am I disturbing you?"

"No, but you surprise me! The jump from complete silence to two calls a day was staggering. Don't just tell me you're not coming."

"Actually, I'm calling to say I'll arrive tomorrow instead of the day after. But I can make my own way to your place."

"You sure? Tomorrow I'm taking the kids to swim team, and Jackie's working"

"Don't sweat it. Will anyone be home? If not, I'll drop my bags at a hotel first."

"No hotels—you're staying with us. Deb will be there... oh, she's sixteen now, and still carrying that torch for you. You'll have a solid hour to finally let her down gently."

I smile. Tom and Jackie's firstborn had been a gorgeous, tender child who worshipped me since she was two. She'd idolized Beatriz, convinced she was some enchanted creature who'd stolen my heart. That was back when she was thirteen.

"Alright, I'll give it a shot. And... thanks again, Tommy."

"Knock it off. See you tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow, brother."

I eat while lost in thought, settle the check, and return to the hotel humming with anticipation. Like a hunter who's glimpsed his quarry and knows it's within reach. After ten minutes online, I turn in with a quiet contentment I haven't known in years.