It wasn't a bad summer job. I got to work around filmmakers and still photographers. They had started letting me set up the lighting for some of the shoots, and there was even the promise that, eventually, I might be allowed in the room during the shoot. Who knew? By the end of the summer, I might even be allowed to take a picture or two, get my hands on one of those high-tech Canon Mark IIIs that gave me wood every time I thought about them.
Yes, a perfect job in every way but one.
I couldn't tell anyone what I was doing. Don't get me wrong, I would have loved to brag about this great job to my friends. But, you know the drill. You tell just one person, and then they tell another. And before long, practically the whole town knows your business. Then, it's just a short leap to Sunday morning church service with the parents, and little Miss Havisham from two blocks over creeping over on her arthritic limbs and saying to your mom, loud enough for the deacons to hear, "So, I hear Sean is making promotional films for fucking machines."
Yeah, better to keep my mouth shut.
My job consisted of interviewing the girls as they came in and getting them to sign the consent forms. The guys had told me it was all right to hit on any of them I wanted, ask for a number. But, to be honest, most of them had that sort of worn look that too much sex and booze and not enough sleep produced. So, I just took the information, got the signatures, and then sent them through the door to disrobe and be filmed while I filed the paperwork. Once in a while, I could hear the moans and the shrieks through the supposedly soundproofed walls as I worked. It made for a pleasant work atmosphere, especially when they synchronized with the swing music that I usually listened to. I mean, just imagine "Take the A Train" punctuated by orgasmic sounds. . .
Da dahhhh (OH, SHIT). Da duh duh da dahhhh (FUCK MEEE). Dahhhhhh (AHHHHHH, GOD) duh duh duh duh duh da da da do do dee doodly do (AH).
I unlocked the door, opened up the appointment book, and sat down behind the desk to await our first girl of the day. She arrived a few minutes late, a shy smile on her face. Her hair was braided into pigtails and she was wearing a mini-skirted outfit with a matching jacket that made her look like a little girl playing grown-up professional. I could even detect the faint citrus y fragrance, and chuckled quietly at the thought of a girl putting perfume on to get fucked by a machine.
"I'm Marie," she said, and her face flushed a bright red. "I'm here for . . ."
I smiled and nodded, a true professional. Scott, my boss, had told me that one of the reasons he hired me was because I didn't look like a pervert. "It'll calm the girls, " he said, "To see at least one guy who doesn't look like he'd be jacking off to their tapes after work."
I think that was his way of saying I looked gay. Which I'm not. I'm just tall and lean. Swimmer's build. And, I keep my hair combed and nails clean. But, hell, if it got me the job, I really didn't care.
"I'm Sean," I said. "I just need to go over a few things with you, and then have you sign the consent forms. You are aware that we can use this video on the Internet for promotional purposes?"
Again, her cheeks turned bright red and she fidgeted in her seat. "Yes," she whispered. "Scott told me that on the phone."
I picked up a pen and began to fill out the missing information in her file. Height, hair. Those were already there. Breast size? I took a quick peek. Hard to tell with the jacket on.
"Breast size?" I asked.
"Umm . . . 34 C." Her tone sounded apologetic, though I didn't think she had anything to be sorry for. I flashed her another smile, designed to relax, and moved on down the list.
"Virgin?"
"Ahhhh . . . mmm . . . .no. Not quite." Not quite. Intriguing, but probably none of my business.
"That's good." I nodded reassuringly. "It's easier if you're not."
"Oh. Okay. Good." She sounded relieved. Maybe she thought I had been going to scold her for losing her virginity.
""What made you sign up for this?" I didn't even know why we put this question on the application. I could have filled it in without having to ask.
"I need the money."
Bingo. Thank God for poverty, or the porn industry would be out a lot of cheap labor.
"You're all set." I slid the consent form across the desk and watched her sign it, her hand trembling a little as she scrawled her name along the line.
"Go through that door. Scott will show you what to do next."
She nodded and stood. As her hand reached to grasp the knob I added, "Good luck!"
The look she cast in my direction startled me. For a moment, I thought I saw grim determination. It was an odd expression in a room where anticipation, nervousness, and excitement were the norms.
Marie disappeared behind the door and I got busy with my work. I had to call back girls to set up appointments, ship videos, and contact manufacturers. I didn't even give Marie a second thought, in fact, until the door to the studio flew open and Scott came out, his jaw clenched and hair on end where he'd raked his hand through it.
"Trouble, Boss?"
"Frigid," he muttered. "Goddamn bitch is frigid."
I raised my eyebrows. Our current client was a company known for making a product that no woman could ride without having an orgasm.
