I’ve always found Pamela Anderson a creature of strange fascination. No, it’s not because I am a lesbian or because I have a large plastic boob fetish, much as my childhood Barbie collection might dictate otherwise. It’s not even because she was married to Tommy Lee, on whom I have an undying crush despite his STD-wielding ways and copious use of the word “dude.”
Rather, I have always found her intriguing for her everlasting appeal to the masses. In a world where there are a bazillion gorgeous bottle-blonde big-boobed babes, what makes her so different? How is it that in the past 20 years, since that fateful day she first appeared in that red swimsuit, she has become more famous, made more money and lasted longer in the public eye than her peers?
Was she in on some secret the other women weren’t privy to? Surely if I could harness this secret, it would be the answer to world domination—or at least career success. If I could figure out what made her different, perhaps I could use that to set myself apart from the legions of other similar writers.
Then, one day, I watched an episode of “VIP” and I realized: She’s in on it. She’s in on the joke.
Her character on the show is seemingly a caricature of herself; an airhead blonde with a predilection for acrylic stripper heels and excessively tight spandex clothing who somehow stumbled into the PI business. The show was pure genius. She had effectively harnessed people’s perceptions of her into a marketable persona that could now effectively be used to promote her and, of course, make more money.
It was marketing at its finest. She wasn’t really that ditzy; she just played a character. I was positive the secret to any future career success lay in studying Pamela’s business acumen.
So when I had the opportunity to meet this beacon of capitalism, I jumped at the chance. I wanted to see for myself if she was actually secretly a genius when the cameras stopped rolling and no one was looking.
As luck would have it, a friend of mine, Natasha, was friends with Pamela’s latest boy toy. When he was in town with her in tow, he invited Natasha out for a drink and Natasha, of course, invited me.
We agreed to meet up with them for a drink…or 12. We made our way to the hotel bar and waved hello.
Pamela and her voluminous, extension-laced hair promptly got up and hugged me, her massive silicone boobs squashing into me like two massive water balloons.
“It’s so nice to meet you. Do you want something to drink?”
“Sure, I’d love a glass of champagne,” I said.
She promptly hopped up and fetched me a glass of champagne. When she came back, she set the champagne down and immediately swiveled toward Boy Toy. She began fluffing her hair and rubbing his leg.
“So I was like, ‘We have to help these people. They don’t have any clean water.’ I had this idea to bring them these filters…” Boy Toy was interrupted by Pamela licking his ear.
As he gathered himself and continued his epic tale, I gave Natasha a sideways glance and kicked her under the table. What on earth is Pamela doing? I mean don’t get me wrong, Boy Toy was cute, but licking his ear in the middle of a conversation hardly seemed like the sort of activity people conduct in polite company.
“And that’s where I met Pamela,” Boy Toy continued. “She was there helping out earthquake victims too.”
She nodded. “Clean water is so important.” She bit her fingernail and gave me sexy eyes.
“It’s so amazing that you guys are doing this,” I responded. “I actually volunteer a lot with Amnesty International, and it’s…”
Pamela turned and started talking to her friend.
I guess she didn’t want to hear my story. It wasn’t as though I expected her to suddenly delve into the intricacies of the Arab-Israeli conflict, but I definitely expected her to drop the dumb blonde act.
Pamela spent the entire night touching herself, fondling Boy Toy, fluffing her hair, pouting, swiveling, biting her lip and posing—even as one of her sets of false eyelashes began to dangle off the corner of her left eye.
I was confused. Who exactly was she putting on this show for? Surely it couldn’t be my friend and I; we were a) straight and b) friends with her boyfriend. What need would she have to put on a show for us?
I knew it was time to leave when we made it up to the hotel room and the show still wouldn’t stop. As Boy Toy extolled Pamela’s virtues, she began pawing herself so raucously that I actually caught a glimpse of her nipple.
And then it dawned on me, like enlightenment dawned on the Buddha. It wasn’t an act. She wasn’t a marketing genius and she probably doesn’t even know what capitalism is. Pamela was just being herself. That was her secret.
Pamela Anderson is a ditzy, horny, blonde with zero filters or any concept of public decency. She really enjoys being naked, screwing and generally behaving like a nymphette. And while there have been many other big-boobed Playmates before her, none of them have had quite the personality of Pamela, and the world has rewarded her handsomely for it.
The secret to success? Be yourself. To think I spent countless sums of money on therapy and self-help books, only to learn that Pamela had the secret the whole time. Now, if I could only get all the money back.
Rachel Khona has written for Cosmopolitan, Inked, AskMen, and Vaga, where she is a contributing editor. For more, visit rachelkhona.com.
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