The young woman laughed. Maitland meant it.
Years later, at another convention, a young woman approached her table. She was shaking slightly, holding a Crempie poster. maitland ward crempie
Maitland loved every second of it.
Maitland tucked her hair behind her ears. At forty-something, she looked less like the blue-eyed, wholesome girl next door from The Bold and the Beautiful and more like a woman who’d seen the machinery of fame from the inside and decided to throw a wrench into it. Her transition to adult films had been met with pearl-clutching headlines and late-night talk show jokes. But what the jokes missed was this: Maitland had never been more in control of her own image than the moment she started producing her own scenes, choosing her own collaborators, and owning her own masters. The young woman laughed
And Maitland herself? She kept acting. In adult films. In indie horrors. In a bizarre, one-woman show she wrote about growing up in a house where no one ever said the word “vagina.” She stopped waiting for permission. She stopped explaining herself. She became, against all odds, exactly who she wanted to be. She was shaking slightly, holding a Crempie poster