I was raised in Spanish Town, Jamaica, by my grandmother and step-grandfather. My grandmother’s brother was a Pentecostal bishop, so we were made examples of at the Jamaican Pentecostal church, where the Bible is interpreted very literally. I wasn’t allowed to wear trousers or straighten my hair, so combing my hair was very painful, and I would be punished if any of my actions were considered idle.
At 18 I travelled to Paris, Italy and New York – and took a lot of acid. I found it mind-opening. There were always doctors around, so it never really felt dangerous, even when I took an STP, a super trip pill, and couldn’t come down for at least three days.
I decided to pursue acting after performing at my first summer stock musical at Saint Joseph’s college in Philadelphia. The modelling was just a way to pay my rent. I didn’t want to go home to Jamaica. I thought: “If I’m going to act, I might as well try everything.” I took as many jobs as I could – for one week, two weeks, a month – just to learn the process.
The first magazine to hire me was GQ in New York, but they wanted me to wear a wig. I remember flicking through it and thinking: “I don’t even recognise myself. This isn’t going to work.”
I never wanted to move to Hollywood – I never did – so when I first went there to film Vamp, I surrounded myself with friends: Keith Haring [who body-painted Jones], Andy Warhol, Antonio Lopez. I lived like a vampire: up all night, asleep all day.
Roger Moore made me laugh on A View to a Kill. I’d heard he had a reputation that lightened the mood: he’d hide sex toys around the bed and goose you with them. I beat him to it. I went down to the prop room and found a huge black-and-white polka-dot dildo, strapped it on under my robe, and surprised him instead.
My biggest regret is not doing Blade Runner. Jean-Paul Goude – my son’s dad – and Ridley Scott were very competitive as artists. Ridley wanted me to play a snake lady, but Jean-Paul was very French and didn’t like to share.
When I worked as a go-go dancer, I called myself Grace Mendoza. I learned how to tweak one side of my ass, then tweak the other and make it jump. Now I can’t do the dances they do in Jamaica. I try so hard to make my whole butt bounce up and down, but even if I stand on my head, I still can’t do it. How these young girls twerk, I don’t know.
I’m not scary if you haven’t done something to make me scary. I’ve realised that when some people lash out, it’s not really me they’re lashing out at. They usually have a problem with themselves. So I stopped hitting people. Let’s just say that I don’t beat anybody up any more.