After covering Vice.com writer Jamie Lee Curtis Taete's trip to Corey Feldman's horrifically depressing birthday party, we were put in touch with Lila Whitney (not her real name), a woman who'd been to Feldman's house for an even more fun—and even more depressing—party: An orgy.
The first time I met Corey Feldman was when I sat at his table at the Playboy Mansion at the infamous Kandyland Halloween party. The second time was when a porn-star friend of mine was featured dancing at a strip club in Hollywood. The third time was when I went to an orgy at his house.
If you were alive in the 80s, you know who Corey Feldman is. He was the kind of guy who landed the covers of magazines like Tiger Beat—and the kind of guy who wound up an addict. If you’ve seen any episode of E! True Hollywood Story, you know how the rest goes: He went to rehab, got sober, found his higher power. Unlike many former child stars, Corey aged very well. He’s still hot and has all of his hair.
Which helps explain how I ended up at an orgy at his house.
Like many orgy stories (I think), this one starts with me out at the club by myself. It's maybe two years ago. I’m going to see a promoter I know, and planning on running into a few acquaintances. To my surprise, I run into a casting director, Paul. (His name is not Paul.) I’d met with Paul a few times, though he never booked me for anything. He tells me he’s Corey’s roommate. Paul’s very impressed with himself for being roommates with Corey, as if it makes him more fuckable. He tells me that they’re having a little party once the club closes. He invites me.
I drive up to the house and enter. It’s filled with memorabilia from Corey’s childhood—movie posters, pinball machines. It’s like his inner child did all the decorating. I walk around the house and find everyone in the kitchen making drinks.
I make a drink and head to the bathroom. It’s filthy. I watch a cockroach come out of the bathtub drain. I think about mentioning it to Paul and Corey, but don’t.
I walk upstairs toward the bedroom. On the landing past the stairs, Paul’s assistant is on her knees, performing oral sex on another girl. I watch for a few seconds in shock and a little bit in awe, jealous of her perfectly-waxed vagina. Then I look up and see Paul, who tells me that this isn’t just a regular party.
It’s a sex party.
I head into the bedroom, where I find Corey using drugs and hooking up with a group of girls. He has an industrial canister of nitrous oxide with cartridges that look like giant bullets. I think, this ain’t no Reddi Whip—isn’t Corey sober? He’s always on television or in People talking about his higher power.
But in Former Child Star Land, apparently N20 is Jesus Christ. He must be really into nitrous because this wasn’t the kind of equipment you could just buy at a headshop or from a drug dealer. He’d clearly spent time ordering this over the internet.
Paul offers me some molly. Although everyone else at the orgy is rolling, I just want some of the coke in my purse. Using nitrous oxide and molly is completely crazy and beyond the boundaries of even my own drug use. Of course, I take a few hits anyway.
The party reminds me of that episode of Saved by the Bell where a fictitious celebrity comes to Bayside High to film an anti-drug PSA, and then offers Kelly some weed. Only, the drug is ecstasy, not marijuana. And everyone is naked.
I take a another hit of nitrous and then take off all my clothes.
Paul says to Corey, “Isn’t she hot?” He says yes, and we kiss. Corey has a sick body. There’s a reason why he was on so many magazine covers. He starts to finger me. He’s awesome with his fingers. A few more minutes and I might come.
Then Paul comes up to me and he starts to hook up with me. He leads me to the bed, where Corey is fucking another blonde who’s hotter and has a better body than me. I watch them have sex. I’ve never seen anyone else actually have sex in front of me before.
Paul finishes with me and I notice two other girls on the bed making out. One is Paul’s assistant. We catch each other’s eyes and start to make out. It’s the first time I’ve kissed another girl, but she’s so hot, and if I’m going to do something I’m not entirely comfortable with, I’m glad it’s with her.
Suddenly, Corey stops fucking the hot blonde and tells her to change the song on the CD. Bewildered by the request, and the circumstances, I start to listen to the music. It sounds vaguely familiar. I realize Corey has requested to hear his own CD. He’s having an orgy and listening to himself sing at the same time.
I see another guy on the bed. He’s not Corey. He’s not Paul. He’s not even hot. But, trying to keep up some sort of orgy etiquette, I introduce myself, and we start making out. I realize I have no obligation to fuck him or even hook up with him. I can’t even figure out why he’s here, other than to take Corey and Paul’s leftovers.
I look over at Corey fucking the hotter blonde and try to cut in. I want him. He’s like a trophy, or a souvenir. I start kissing him, but he sort of ignores me and goes back to the hotter girl. A minute later he stops having sex—not to hook up with me, but to take a hit of nitrous. I feel seriously unattractive. I want him to want me. But he just doesn’t. The coke is wearing off and I don’t have any more. All they have is ecstasy and that’s not my thing. All of these insecure girl thoughts go through my head: I shouldn’t have eaten at all this week. Why didn’t I flat iron my hair better? Why doesn’t he want me? I am so fucked up.
I decide to leave, but couldn’t leave so quickly. Because I could only find one shoe. This is like Cinderella on drugs. I can’t leave without my shoes. Okay, I guess I could, but I was missing a $500 shoe, not exactly Old Navy flip flops. I wander around the room with one stiletto on, neurotically looking for the other one. Corey sees me and asks if I am okay. Embarrassed, I tell him I have to leave to walk my dog, and that I can’t find my shoe. He sort of stops what he’s doing and looks around to help me. Without getting off the bed. I tell him I’ve got it and finally, by some miracle of the orgy Gods, I spot my shoe.
On the way out, I pass a room with a drawing taped to the door. It says “Zen.” That is the name of his 9-year-old son. It must be his room.
At this point, the coke has worn off completely. I think to myself, this is the home of a young boy. Corey’s son will come home from his mother’s house at some point and be totally unaware of the debauchery that occurred feet from where he lays his head to sleep. Corey will make the bed and wash the sheets. He’ll clean the cocaine off the mirror in his bathroom. It’ll be as if it never happened at all.
Lila Whitney would like readers to know that she stopped using drugs after this incident. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Defamer reached out to Feldman and "Paul" for comment on this story, and never heard back. Have your own seedy tales of C-list Hollywood living? Share them with email@example.com.