Paris: A Memoir for Young Women in the Age of Influencers

by Paris Hilton

It didn’t happen like a rom-com; he just dumped me out of the car and sped away. I sprinted across the yard, scrambled up the drainpipe, climbed in the bedroom window, and dove under the covers. My parents burst into my room, beyond furious, both of them screaming at me. There were too many words to sort out. A solid wall of outrage.

I was no longer the Finest Girl. I was the Shannen Doherty of the Catholic school. Everyone loved to hate me. Nothing I did was right. I didn’t know how to feel or what to do, and I was trying to process it all in the lonely, confusing space of secrecy.

During the school dance after the graduation ceremony, I went over to McDonald’s, and when I came back, the chaperones wouldn’t let me in. The nuns were like, “You’re done, bitch. GTFO.”

That was the end of my happy life in Barbie’s Bel Air Dream House.

For twenty-five years, I framed this episode in my mind as “my first kiss,” because, even though it wasn’t my first kiss, it made all the kisses that came before it seem like the kisses I gave my ferrets. I never allowed myself to talk or even think about what it really was or why I climbed out the window to kiss that stupid pedophile. It took decades for me to actually speak the word pedophile.

I cried when I read Marilyn Monroe’s memoir My Story, and I was inspired by the fact that she found the courage to talk about being molested by her aunt’s neighbor when she was in grade school. The man groomed her with charming banter and lured her into his room with smooth kindness. He locked the door and felt her up, telling her she was so beautiful he couldn’t help himself. Then he unlocked the door and told her to never tell anyone. He tried to give her a nickel for ice cream, but little Norma Jeane threw the nickel in his face and ran to tell her aunt, who scolded her for lying about this neighbor, who was an upstanding gentleman.

A few days later, her aunt took her to a religious

revival meeting, where the man who’d molested Marilyn loudly prayed for h...

According to legend, Marilyn Monroe was “discovered” by a William Morris talent scout (in the sense that Columbus “discovered” America) as she lounged by the pool at Charles Farrell’s Racquet Club in Palm Springs in 1949. Conrad Hilton came along in the early 1960s and built a luxury hotel there with a ninety-nine-year lease.

It wasn’t just going to be the two of us; it was a whole group of kids. Very Beverly Hills, 90210 kind of thing.

I kept saying, “I’m good with my Sprite.” But he kept coming over to me with this wild berry wine cooler, wild berry wine cooler, wild berry wine cooler. He kept saying, “Don’t be a baby. It doesn’t even taste like alcohol. It’s hardly anything. Like Kool-Aid. Look, you have to drink it now, it’s already open. We can’t waste it. Just take one drink.” I took a sip. It was syrupy sweet, tinged with blue. After that, I don’t remember much. Broken pieces. Fragments. Echoes. White noise. Black silence. I became aware of a crushing weight on me. Suffocating me. Cracking my ribs. I felt a jolt of panic and tried to get up, but the impulse was lost, as if something had severed my spinal cord. When I tried to scream, there was no air in my lungs. All that came out was a small, raspy “stop . . . what’s happening . . . stop . . .” until this guy clamped his hand over my mouth—like, aggressively—like, hard. He clamped down on my face and whispered: “It’s a dream. It’s a dream. You’re dreaming.” That creepy whisper in my ear—like a mosquito. And then . . . nothing.

But when everyone was buzzing about a sex tape of a certain teenage girl from a soon-to-be-hit TV show—a girl who said emphatically over and over that she did not want the tape out there—the takeaway was “Stupid Girl.” The whole video is a not-at-all-subtle send-up of “porno paparazzi girls” in general and, specifically, me, in a parody of my infamous sex tape. That tape, made when I was not legally old enough to be served a rum and coke in a bar, was released and monetized against my will, but when that thing hit the internet, the full weight of public outrage, scorn, and disgust came down on me instead of on the massive crowd of people who bought and sold it, sparking a steady drip of fake Paris Hilton sex tapes, and blazing a trail for a whole cottage industry that would ruin the lives of other vulnerable teenage girls in the future.

I have the attention span of a gnat, which means I suck at holding grudges.

She powered through it for a while, and I let myself believe everything would be fine. But it wasn’t. The treatment was hard on her. The last time I saw her, I cried and clung to her. I said, “I don’t want to leave you here. I’m scared I’ll never see you again.” “Get over it,” said Gram Cracker. “I’m not going anywhere.” “Promise! Promise you’re not dying.”

when I did my first NFT drop—trying to bring fierce, talented women artists into this powerful new space—I collaborated with Blake Kathryn on “Hummingbird in My Metaverse,” which featured planets in flux and a hummingbird in flight. Shout out to Gram Cracker. Wherever she is now, I know she’s watching over me.

The only problem with it was that I wasn’t little anymore. A lot had happened. I was fifteen now. In high school. I had my own ideas about what I wanted my life and personal space to look like, but I kept this mostly to myself. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, because I was so grateful! SO. DAMN. GRATEFUL. Grateful to be home. Grateful to be loved. Grateful for the family sounds around me. My adorable siblings—I loved them so much. I loved watching cartoons with my little brothers, who bounced all over and climbed on me. I loved running around the hotel with my little sister, who swiped my clothes and tried to boss me around. I loved my parents, who were always busy with interesting things and still made time to scold me about school and etiquette and blah blah blah. I’m not being ironic here. I was happy to be back in the arms of my perfectly imperfect family. I wouldn’t have changed a thing about any of them. I was like, “Yaaaassss! Thank you, God!” Believe me, I was fully aware how blessed and fortunate I was.

The whole block was alive with activity and excitement 24/7. Sometimes Nicky and I got dressed up and invited ourselves to parties. Or we’d sneak into an empty ballroom after a big event, running around in our PJs and bare feet, picking over the fancy dessert carts and checking out the leftover gift bags. It was Candyland for two teenage girls who were increasingly obsessed with fashion, music, and art.

That summer, we vacationed in the Hamptons, and that felt like another homecoming for me. I was in a familiar...

I enrolled in tenth grade at Dwight, a private school that was kind of a last stop for stoners and other rich kids who’d been rejected everywhere else. I still see jokes about it online. “DWIGHT: Dumb White Idiots Getting High Together.”

They raged that I was breaking their hearts, becoming a bad influence on my siblings, throwing my life away, acting like a spoiled, out-of-control brat. It was the same dialogue over and over. THEM: “What are people thinking right now—that we let our children run around town all night? What are we supposed to do? Move to the moon?” ME: “Oh my god, leave me alone! I’m so sick of this conversation.” It was brutal. Mom literally locked me in my room at night, but I was pretty savvy and managed to escape a few nights a week. Sometimes I could bribe Barron with promises that if he would sneak the key from Mom’s room, I would let him come with me. Whispering through the locked door, I primed him with stories of the wonderland that is New York at night, telling him how we would dance and eat candy and have as much McDonald’s as we wanted. With total trust in me, he’d go get that key.

A thick hand grabbed my ankle and dragged me off the mattress. I was instantly awake—hyperawake—in a state of panic, shrieking, struggling. My mind instantly went to the obvious. I’m about to be raped. I’m about to be murdered. Here the memory shatters—a broken mirror in my mind. Two men. Hands on me. Coffee breath. Body odor. One of them clamped a sweaty palm over my mouth, wrenching my head back, shutting off the air I needed to scream. The other held up a pair of handcuffs that reflected the light from the hallway. The way he dangled them in his stained fingers—he seemed to be enjoying it. He said, “Do you want to go the easy way or the hard way?” I chose the hard way. Clawing, kicking, screaming, I tried to break free. One man had my upper body, the other had my legs. My thrashing only made them grip harder as they carried me out into the hallway. This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare. I kept trying to wake myself up, the way I do now. The way I did for decades when the scene replayed in my head night after night. I see this girl in a flimsy Hello Kitty nightshirt. She twists in writhing terror, screaming, “Mom! Dad! Help me!” And then I see my mom and dad. Their bedroom door is cracked open just enough for them to peek around the edge, faces streaked with tears. They press against each other and watch as two strangers drag me out the door into the darkness.

Be ever watchful for the opportunity to shelter little children . . . as they must bear the burdens of our mistakes. CONRAD HILTON

Wasserman was a disciple of Charles E. Dederich, founder of Synanon, a violent cult that had been driven underground but never fully eradicated by the FBI. From 1958 until 1991, Dederich and his hench-bitches—aka “The Imperial Marines”—lured young people into the cult, promising to cure them of drug addiction and homosexuality. His methods included verbal abuse, physical violence, forced abortions and vasectomies, and psychological torture.

In the 1990s, Maury Povich and Sally Jessy Raphael legitimized CEDU and made bank off “wild teen” episodes featuring kids—mostly pretty girls—sent off to boot camps and boarding schools for “tough love.” Later, Dr. Phil got on board, including video of the violent transport of a teenage boy who was dragged out of bed by dudes three times his size, the same way I was.

trending solution for the upper-class problem child.

When Nicky and I were little, if she got a hundred dollars for her birthday, I used to set up a little store in my room and invite her to come shopping. “This plush designer teddy bear is so full of love,” I said. “It’s like hugging a magic cloud. A love cloud. I should keep him because he makes me so happy. But I want you to be happy. So, I guess I could part with him for a hundred dollars.”

Am I proud of this? Of course not. Much. The point is, it takes one to know one. I see Mel Wasserman for exactly what he was: an opportunist. An evangelist with the soul of a furniture salesman.

Actual copy from a CEDU brochure used in the mid-1990s: Founded in 1967, CEDU High School is the nation’s original emotional growth boarding school. Students build mastery through a rich curriculum of academics, performing and visual arts, outdoor education, recovery, and emotional growth. Students exhibiting behavioral and emotional difficulties create a successful future by learning to express themselves emotionally, artistically, and intellectually. CEDU High School’s unique art infusion approach motivates students and engages them to explore thoughts and feelings. Arts are woven through college preparatory academics, adventure education, and the original CEDU Emotional Growth Curriculum. The result? Teens rediscover their dreams and families reunite. Kudos to the copywriter. Evil genius.

Desperate parents latched on to the idea of this artsy, intellectual place where “tough love” would fix a broken child they loved but could not understand.

Psychology Today (a review of James Tipper’s book The Discarded Ones, November 2012), Jann Gumbiner, PhD, compares the programs I survived to “Jim Jones’s Guyana, Patty Hearst’s kidnapping, or Zimbardo’s Prison Experiment.”

The back of the black SUV was specially rigged so you couldn’t open the doors or windows from the inside. The two men were like giant, ’roided-up meatheads, so they had no trouble shoving me in there, even though I was kicking and struggling with every shred of strength I had. As the Waldorf disappeared behind me, I scrunched into a ball, overcome with a weird, uncontrollable trembling. I was shaking so hard, it felt like my teeth would rattle out of my mouth. Looking back, I know I was in shock. I must have been crying, because they kept barking at me to shut up.

“You’re gonna learn,” one kidnapper said. “You’re gonna get schooled.” what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

(Typically the transport service is recommended by the therapist. They say it’s easier for everyone. Well worth a few thousand dollars.)

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I said. “I’m not going there. I’m not getting on any fucking airplane with you.”

“Fuck you!” I kicked the back of the seat, and they laughed.

The Walter Huston Lodge was built by the Academy Award–winning grandfather of Anjelica Huston back in the 1930s. He was an engineer first and an actor second. The grand, historic structure had a massive stone fireplace, vaulted ceilings, and thirteen guest rooms where his Hollywood colleagues stayed. It was a good place to get away from it all. Far from prying eyes.

The next little while is kind of like white noise in my head, but I can still hear her voice, flat and repetitive, like a broken shutter banging in the wind. Take off your shoes. Take off your socks. Take off your shirt. Take off your bra. Take off your pants. Take off your underwear.

cavity search, I thought it was a dental inspection.

Two girls were on their hands and knees, scrubbing. “Don’t look at them,” Blanda whispered. “They’re on bans.” All the while, she chattered away, reeling off a long list of bizarre rules. No swearing, singing, humming, or throat clearing. No dancing, skipping, or spinning. No touching, hugging, kissing, or holding hands. No crossing your legs. No shuffling your feet. No whistling. No breathing too loud or smacking your lips while eating. No talking about music, sports, television shows, movies, news events, your parents, your siblings, your friends, your clothes, your room, your school, or anything else about home. No mention of Marilyn Manson. No mention of candy, pizza, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, lasagna, McDonald’s, Burger King, or Wendy’s. No talking about bikes, skateboards, or inline skates. No looking out a window without permission. No opening a door without permission. No going to the bathroom without permission. No asking for permission to go to the bathroom, open a door, or look out a window. No asking for food or water. No eating outside mealtime. No leaving food uneaten on your plate. No asking why or why not. No eye rolling. No sighing. No snoring. No slouching. No shrugging. No fidgeting, nail biting, skin picking, or scratching. No whining. No crying. No yelling.

Randy VanWarmer song “Just When I Needed You Most,”

“Soon,” he said with another weird little wink. “First we smoosh.” I was like, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. I couldn’t imagine how this whole scene could get any more messed up, but—yeah.

It did.

Another girl sat between Blanda’s legs, leaning back on her chest, like they were all on a bobsled. Weaselmug grinned and stroked Blanda’s greasy hair. Blanda said, “C’mon and smoosh, Paris!” I was like, Oh, hell no. No, no, no, no, no . . . Three girls cuddled up with Hippie Mess, cooing and giggling. Some dude who was in the room when I was strip-searched tried to drag me onto his lap. He opened his legs and tried to bobsled me, for Christ’s sake! I was like, “Get off me!” and tried to twist away, but Blanda grabbed my wrist and shook her head.

You’ll get blown away every time during Rap.” I said, “Please shut the fuck up.” I lay there looking out on the moonlit mountain.

I can hop a fence. If you don’t believe me, google “Paris Hilton climbs fence”; there’s a surprising number of pics and videos, and I look surprisingly good in them.

This is a fun moment to share another bit of actual copy from the CEDU brochure: CEDU has experienced a great deal of success with students who are manipulative, unmotivated, and lacking in direction. These adolescents often have strained family relations, poor communication skills, rebellious or withdrawn behavior patterns, and have possibly experimented with drugs or alcohol.

so I tried to send Mom a secret message. I used the baby voice, which she knew was fake AF. (Who do you think I learned it from?)

“You want to make another call two weeks from now, don’t you?” “Yes.”

“Okay then. Work the program.” Another week went by. And then another.

Outside, there was cold, clean air, and carting rocks and logs up to the top of the hill gave me a better view of the surrounding area. It looked like miles and miles of nothing but trees, but every once in a while, I saw dust coming up from a gravel road or a wisp of smoke from a chimney, which gave me some idea of where the town might be.