Nicole LaPorte chronicles the mishap on www.thedailybeast.com – Amy Fisher kicked me off her porn shoot.

For those not up on the latest chapter in the life of the onetime “Long Island Lolita”—who, at age 17, famously shot the wife of her older lover in the face—Fisher, now married and the mother of three kids, is parlaying her notoriety into porn.

On the subject of erotica, Fisher will talk: about how her 2007 sex tape introduced her to the adult-entertainment community. About how she and her husband recently formed an eponymous production company, through which she’s making a trilogy of upcoming adult movies, the titles of which will be something like, according to her hairdresser, Dan Frey, “Amy Fisher Goes Wild. Amy Fisher the Porn Star. Amy Fisher, Whatever, Whatever.”

In other words, movies in which Fisher—who strips and previously starred in a pay-per-view adult title in addition to the sex tape—is the featured attraction.

She will also gladly dish about how she is doing porn only for the money.

“It’s like mobsters, they make millions of dollars and then they go out and kill 10 people in the morning, and then they go to their little christening in the afternoon,” she said Tuesday morning, as she daintily pecked at a cup of oatmeal, while having her hair and makeup done before cameras rolled.

She was sitting in the airy living room of a Tuscanized Malibu mansion, where the décor included a huge wood sculpture perched atop a pair of red, high-heeled pleather boots. Out by an aquamarine pool, Louis Bellera—Fisher’s tattooed and upside-down-triangle-shaped husband—was tanning himself in a white thong.

“I’m gonna do this twice a year, and in between, I sit at home with my kids,” said Fisher, who has tiny features that are much prettier than tabloid pictures suggest.

“They don’t know [what I do for a living]. It’s like, we walk to the mailbox, there’s a check today. That’s how Mommy makes a living. Walk to the mailbox.”

By the time the subject of her children—aged 2, 5, and 9—came up, Fisher was already growing testy with me, a reporter she had quickly identified—due to my glaring ignorance of pornography terms and lingo— as “mainstream media.”

Even my innocuous attempt to record “color” drew ire. “You’re not writing ‘oatmeal,’ are you?” She said, leaning out of her director’s chair, and casting her long, black, newly attached eyelashes down at my note pad. “Gawd!”

Mention of her age brought more alarm. “You can’t write that,” she told me. “Just say thirties.” (A former columnist for the Long Island Press, Fisher has a decidedly creative take on journalism.)

When I protested that 35 isn’t actually all that old, she said matter-of-factly: “No, in relative terms, it’s not old. But in this business, that’s like ancient. I may as well be a great-grandmother.”

What really set her off was mentioning the unmentionable—that 18 years ago, she shot Mary Jo Buttafuoco. Even when I put in the most benign of terms.

“This many years after what happened,” I gingerly began, ending with whether or not she still felt like a tabloid spectacle.

“People bust my chops all day long,” she said bitterly. “People like you come in and torture me. That’s it. You know, everybody screws up in their life. I was a kid. What can I say?”

She slumped back in her chair. “I need to, like, relax,” she said, closing her heavily shadowed eyes. “Just go to sleep a little. I think we’re done. Cool? Cool.”

Apparently it was not cool. After an hour of hanging out on the set, I was summoned by Jay Shanahan [Jim Enright], the film’s director, who told me that I had made Fisher “uncomfortable,” and that she would like me to leave before the shoot began.

I was, admittedly, alarmed. Not only had my questions been spoken out of genuine curiosity as opposed to a desire to antagonize, but Fisher is building her career very squarely on the name and notoriety she drew back in 1992, when the names “Amy Fisher” and “Joey Buttafuoco” became so ingrained in the zeitgeist that they inspired TV movies, graphic novels, and even an Oscar-winning film. (Alan Ball has said his screenplay for American Beauty came from the moral ambiguity he read in the Amy-Joey relationship.) And she clearly relishes the attention her infamy has brought her past endeavors. “I was a journalist, wrote a book. It did—eh. All right. I mean, the sex tape—oh my God! The whole world bought it!”

Fisher herself says that the only reason a thirtysomething woman with no real experience can jump into adult-film business is because of who she is—even Fisher’s publicity materials tout her past.

Yet she is obviously still resolving all the various pieces of her life and what they add up to, not to mention the perceived judgment from others. Eleven years after serving seven years in prison, Fisher, who still resides on Long Island, said she “lives in a very affluent place where they’re all doctors and lawyers. And then you have the little porn chick down the block. They don’t know what to make of me over there.”

In the open, all-accepting world of porn, Fisher seemed to feel safe. Before I was tossed out, her co-star, porn celebrity Tommy Gunn, showed up—perfectly sculpted into a tight, black tanktop and snug jeans. Fisher practically began purring as Gunn came over and massaged her tiny feet.

She grabbed his hands. “You know what I do to prepare?” she said. “I hold hands. That’s what I do. Everybody else I know, they do something different, but that’s what I like to do.”

“How do I put this?” she said a few minutes later, attempting to sum up her life and what’s happened in it. “I think the word is surreal. You know what? I can say I have an interesting life. I have all these things. I didn’t necessarily put them on my list of what I want to do before I die.”

Then she broke her earnest stream and smiled seductively. “However. This was on my list to do before I die…” She pointed at Gunn, who smiled appreciatively back.

Asked if the two had rehearsed yet, her pencil-thin eyebrows shot up. “Rehearsed? We just met!

“I’ll figure it out,” she said, turning her focus to her breakfast, and musing, “There’s too many raisins in this oatmeal.” She paused. “But oatmeal’s good, you know? Stamina.”