A little backstory; I’ve known Jenna Jameson since she was new enough to still have the price tag on her boobies. We were never close, never hung out or spent holidays together, but I did her first magazine interview, and we’ve always been friendly.

I watched her change from a sweet-natured kid from Vegas into the Ultimate Contract Star (built from scratch by Joy King), and from there into… whatever the hell she is now. I’ve heard dozens of horror stories about Jenna the Diva, Jenna the Queen Bitch, Jenna the Princess. Until recently, though, I’d never experienced any of it firsthand. Whenever I bumped into Jenna she was always extremely nice.

Last year I was shooting camera for Kylie on a SlutWerkz production, and we had booked the über-creepy abondoned Linda Vista hospital as a location. The day before we shot, they yanked it out from under us because a pile of shit calledZombie Strippers had the place booked, and the lead had it in her contract that no adult performers could be on the same set or in the same location.

That lead was Jenna.

I was thinking about that when K & I ended up right behind Jenna and her entourage on the red carpet at the awards. Realizing we were being inadvertently included in all those Jenna+Tito+2 photos, we tried to keep our distance. Jenna tried not to see us, but a moment came where we couldn’t be avoided.

In her best, completely fake pseudo-celebrity manner she burst into a semblance of a smile, gave each of us a hug, and introductions were made. Tito grimaced, shook hands, and looked like he had just remembered there were people in the room who Knew Her Before. He was obviously trying to intuit whether I had fucked her once upon a time, and what he should do about it.

It occurred to me that Jenna is so insulated from the pond that spawned her these days that Tito might not have had to deal with this moment of cognitive dissonance very often. It was plainly a new emotion for the two slabs of beef trailing behind JJ & TO. I can’t remember their names — I think they were Og and Grungh — but only one of them (Og I think) reacted in any way.

If Bruce Jenner was the epitome of a Wheaties box icon, Og was the perfect subject to grace the box of Steroidy-Ohs in a manner Barry Bonds could only dream of. He was 7′ 11″ tall with a neck thicker than a Blue Whale’s cock. His suit had obviously been cut to accentuate the absurdity of his physique (like stretching the car cover for a Miata around the fins on a Buick Roadmaster).

Og took my hand in his enormous paw, his eyes glinting with a deep, mean-spirited stupidty, and grumbled something that sounded like “Mice who weed cha.” He held my hand for a while, staring at me, expectant. After a moment, I realized I was meant to recognize him, but I have no idea who he was. One of Tito’s Ultimate Testosterone buddies I suppose, but for all I know he might have been the Lithuanian minister for finance, or maybe Dolph Lundgren’s Rocky IVstand in. Or both.

And, yeah, Jenna looks grotesque. I can’t even guess how many or what kinds of surgeries, treatments and eating disorders we’re talking about, but something is very rotten in the state of Scottsdale.

A moment later, we were past them, down the red carpet where I stood aside for several more pix of Kylie sans moi, and beyond the Playboy TV booth where the ignorant fucks didn’t even know one of Playboy’s own radio hosts. That’s not unusual, though, because nothing brands you as a pro in this business like complete ignorance of the people who actually work in the industry.

Which leads – making a long story… less long – to Jenna’s little onstage meltdown. I think so many people have focused on the “never spreading my legs again” thing that they’re missing the really egregious quote, the one which started her little off-book rant, and made those of us sitting at the SexZ table look around in shock and become white actors in a lame comedy sketch parodying black girls saying “oh no she didn’t…”

I’m referring to Jenna’s crack about “The road I paved to make all this possible.” That’s the key to everything that happened, the insight into the arrogance and ego that led to her trying to shit all over Stormy’s award before it was even given (I’m no fan of Stormy, but the way she handled it was brilliant).

Jenna was pissed that she wasn’t getting the award. In her head, naming it after her and removing her from contention so someone else could have a shot at the award wasn’t good enough… as far as Jenna was concerned, she should get the fucking thing every year, and we should all be grateful that the entire industry exists because of her.

Obviously, she didn’t get the memo that the entire industry exists because ofme.

My favorite moment of the night – apart from winning (oh yeah, we won. Again!) – was talking to Paul Fishbein, AVN‘s owner, at the SexZ after-party. I told Paul I was imagining him pacing back-and-forth with his head on fire during Jenna’s little tirade, and he told me he was actually enjoying it.

“It was a train wreck,” he said. “And I like a good train wreck.”

Whatcha think?

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