The Story of a Sex Worker

June 30, 2004

Mechanics and Lube Jobs

I never became a junky. Nothing violent inspired me to get involved in porn. I just had the gun of boredom and poverty to my head.

Almost overnight, I was a new animal. You do just one fuck film and you're never the same person again. Now that I was starting something of a new career I was filled with a rush of new emotion. I wouldn't call it worry because I liked the change. I wasn't one of those girls who got into the industry because they looked for abuse, or they just weren't very smart. I wasn't one of those girls whose only asset was her body and fell into porn in a sad, inevitable way. One of those girls who always did what men told them because if they weren't pleasing themselves, they may as well be pleasing somebody. Girls who had to believe they were the prettiest within miles because they had to believe in something. I had a fine self-esteem. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And I knew that I wanted to be treated decently. I'd received more abuse from customers at a restaurant than from the people inside Bernard's house in the hills. I had learned nothing from waiting tables except how to balance four plates on one arm. So I was glad to finally be doing something without the dull work ethic of wake-up, drive, bore yourself dead, drive home and sleep.

There was some sacrifice. In order to have so much sex with so little love, a person had to shut off their emotions. We were like machines. The future was now because we were robots. Men who took apart engine blocks, drove tractor pulls, ran factory lines, men who worked with machines before had become machines themselves. The women too. There was a machinelike quality to stuffing a thousand envelopes an hour like I was doing at the temp jobs. I didn't put that much more feeling into my work now. Sex was difficult to perform if you didn't always mean it. You had to sell your soul for the few minutes to few hours you were on the sheets. Now, that's not saying machines couldn't have a good time. That glint in my eye and my moaning weren't only there because I was acting for the camera. Sex was one of the best, if not the best, feelings on Planet Earth and I wasn't going to deny myself that pleasure. The machine came into use because having sex many days a week with different men wasn't so easy. I had to shut off a little and maybe look at it all with blurry eyes. Sometimes the act wasn't as intimate as masturbation. I mean, if I was giving my fifth blow-job of the day and it was eleven o'clock at night, I went at it with a businesslike dedication. I was exhausted but I was getting paid. It was my job. Just another cock coming down the factory line.

June 24, 2004


I loved L.A. deeply when I first moved there. It had all the sun and air and space that I had imagined. I liked the beach. I liked Venice. I liked how calm and unchanging the weather was. The one problem was that breaking into acting didn't seem any easier than in New York. I dialed an agent out of the yellow pages because I didn't know where else to begin. His name was Lawrence Turner. He was short with small features, a tiny, uncommanding man. He had a large round bald spot and a few hairs pressed firmly across the top of his forehead. He sat behind a small metal desk and asked, "What exactly is it that you want?"

"I'd like to do some acting," I said. "I thought it might be good to start in commercials."

"Do you have any experience?"

"No. I acted some in high school."

"I see," he said.

"I didn't really know where to begin."

"Did you try going to any auditions?"

"No. Can you do that? I thought maybe you needed an agent or at least some photographs of yourself."

"We can put some headshots together," he said. "But I'll need some money from you first."

It cost me two hundred dollars to get three decent headshots in large-sized prints and his services. He kept the negatives. He told me about two auditions. One was for a shampoo ad, the other for detergent. At the detergent audition I found myself in a room full of forty gray-haired ladies. The director looked at me pityingly and said they were looking for an older woman to play a mother. At the shampoo audition there were one hundred and fifty girls and 80% were blonde like myself. I gave them my headshot picture and said, as well as I could, "Mmmn, this is a natural clean. And it tingles." Or something like that. I thought I did fine but they never called me back.

I went back to Turner. He said he didn't know about anything. I told him the detergent ad was for an older woman. He sneered at me and said I probably went to the wrong place. He always talked down to me with a manner of small-minded power.

The third time I saw him he gave me a list of five auditions. I went to all of them and got nothing.

It seemed so futile to be working so hard just so I could sell shampoo. It would have been to nice to be on TV but I was getting the feeling that it was impossible. Maybe I didn't want it bad enough. I needed to be ruthless and ambitious like people were in New York. I would have been proud to call my parents and tell them to watch my commercial on TV, but I never had any success.

The fourth time I went in to see Lawrence Turner he grabbed my tit hard with one hand and I walked out.

By this point I had gotten a job at the tourist restaurant. I would soon be working sixty hour weeks. Working from 6 p.m. till four in the morning, six nights a week. I all but forgot about acting.

Then I got the temp work, and after that I got fired from a busy restaurant for not being fast enough. I applied for a few assistant jobs in the music industry but I didn't get them. Then I got my job at Sizzler and quit when my boss fucked with me. After three years of having nowhere to go, and nowhere proud to call a workplace, endless short-time relationships with a string of older men who didn't have any more money than I did, and what seemed like an endless cycle of job after bad job, Bernard's graciousness seemed like a breath of fresh air in the L.A. smog.

June 21, 2004

On to NYC

Right after high school I moved to New York and stayed with a classmate in Manhattan. Her name was Neesha, an Eskimo name. She worked for an escort service while I sat at home watching TV and eating white bread and butter, unmotivated. One day Neesha said to me that she was branching away from the escort service and wanted to do something on her own. "I met this guy named Jake," she said. "He's real trustworthy. And he's white. That's rare for a pimp here." She was half-Puerto Rican and half-Korean and didn't know who she trusted. "So we're going to start a business and I think you should come along. I mean, you're pretty Shirl, you should use it. And I'm sick of looking at you watching TV everyday."

I resisted at first. It was OK to fuck fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, although that could hurt the brain and the soul, but getting paid for it seemed too dirty. And in addition, doing it in New York seemed dangerous. Part of the reason I stayed indoors was because almost as soon as I moved to the city I found that I was terrified of it. The whole city seemed like one dark, forbidding alleyway. I told Neesha I wasn't interested. She persisted. "Jake already has a clientele," she said. "They're all clean. I met a couple of them. One was real good looking. I'd fuck him anyway. You don't have to be scared."

"I'm not scared," I said.

"Sure you are."

"No, I'm not."

"You're not doing anything else with your fucking life. You just sit there like a cockroach."

I didn't like her insults and, to be honest, I was getting sick of watching talk shows and sit-com reruns. So I got a job briefly as a New York whore working for Neesha's friend Jake. He was a questionable man. He had red hair and bright red freckles which made him look fiery as the devil. He also had a devil's temper. In one instant he would be calmly doing business and the next he would explode. His little boy temper and his big-boy arms would start pounding on things- tabletops, brick walls, and people. He never hit me. I knew when to get out of his way. He hit Neesha more than once, never in the face, only in the arms and back, places that wouldn't show.

I had that job three months before I realized I had to get out of there. The job itself was OK. I hadn't yet learned certain kinds of regret. It was easy enough to fuck different guys if you just shut off your mind, I mean really shut it off, watching it all like a visitor. The pay made up for any heartache. What got me down most was the city. Our apartment was filled with roaches, little babies and waterbugs which seemed almost like a small animal. The thought of those bugs made me itchy all over all the time. It had been an exceptionally rainy summer and when I went out on the dark, damp streets I sometimes saw the heads of cockroaches on people. Whole hoards of city traffic had huge bug eyes and antennae. There seemed to be a heavy cockroach vibe over the concrete city of New York. Maybe I was just going a little crazy.

I thought about L.A. because I thought I might be an L.A. person. Even though both my parents had brown hair, my hair was natural blonde. I liked the beach even though I didn't tan very well. I burned. When I thought about L.A., I thought about the sun and the beach and open space, everything New York was not. Also, I had some vague ideas about acting. I had been in one play in high school and liked the feel of it. It seemed like an impossible dream in New York, so cold and ruthless in the way it conducted business. In L.A., at least, I could start with commercials. It could give me the space and air I needed to think my life through.

I told Jake and Neesha I was leaving. Jake got red in the face and was about to throw a baby fit, but I said, "Save it," and walked out the door. I took a cab home, packed a small bag and went to the airport. I bought a plane ticket and eventually put a down payment on an apartment with the fair amount of money I'd saved from hooking.

June 16, 2004

Bad Jobs

I was working at the Sizzler before I came to Bernard. Before that I had done temp work as a secretary. I'll tell you, that was almost like being a prostitute. Subservient and meat-like, being carted from job to faceless job. There was a certain loss of dignity in being yelled at for not dotting an "i" or for not completely licking closed an envelope. "Shirley, you do want this job, right? Because I'll call the agency and ask them to send someone who will do it correctly. It's not as if we're asking you to run the world." I got that for sending a box with incorrect postage. "That was an urgent package," she said, a sad, fat, black-haired spinster who poured herself into her work with the same fury as she poured milkshakes and cake into herself. "I'm sorry. You didn't tell me it was urgent," I said. "The fuck you're sorry," she screamed. "We shouldn't have to tell you if it's urgent." That was one story from what seemed a slow lifetime of meaningless work.

Before that I was waiting tables in a tourist bar in Hollywood. Fat daddies pinching me, or whole families yelling at me for ketchup, and screaming at me again when the ketchup would only come out a thin liquid. Each of the jobs, including Sizzler, lasted only a year. Any longer and I would have become a personal Bedlam.

I had moved to L.A. with the thoughts of doing something good with myself. I was born in New York and grew up in New Jersey, right on the other side of the river, on Green street. I graduated high school with honors. After I had fucked nearly the entire junior high school, including making out and fingering a fair number of girls, I withdrew into myself and devoted myself to school. I got mostly A's and even did well on the SAT, the top 2% of my class. Meanwhile I defended myself against my ineffectual mother and a father who hit me with a severity like he was trying to win a boxing match. I needed to find a way to get the fuck out.

June 15, 2004

Sexi Driver

Bernard gave me another job on a Jenny Highsmith movie called "Sexi Drivers." I played a taxi driver who worked for Jenny. She was the dispatcher. The cab drivers went around looking for sex instead of fares. I had a scene with Jenny and a full scene with a guy named Lucas Palmer. He was younger than most of the male actors. He was twenty-two and looked seventeen. He was thin and hairless. A full scene meant that I went down on him, he went down on me, we went down on each other 69, he rides me, I ride him, and then there was the money shot, the equivalent of getting the bad guy at the end of a cop movie, or a family reunited in a sentimental movie, blowing up the enemy hideout in a war movie, Lucas Palmer came two-feet away from the camera. He was doing me doggy style so he came on my back.

Filming was standard, the same as Dick Richard's house. No more than three cameras, no more than two umbrella lights. Most of the time there was only one camera and no umbrella lights but this was a Jenny Highsmith movie. It was still shot on ugly video, but done with more care.

We filmed at Jenny's place. Jenny was rich enough to have her own mansion in the hills and another small house in West Hollywood. The house in West Hollywood was her personal studio where she filmed her movies. It was in a suburban neighborhood with a Spanish tile roof and a green front lawn. Young parents walked their kids in strollers on the clean sidewalk while we fucked inside.

Jenny had a fan club of close to a million. That meant that any time one of her movies came out a million people bought it and she got a percentage. A video went for at least $9.95, probably more. Do the math and wonder why there were so many people in pornography. Jenny had won the best actress award four times. She could make five-thousand a night stripping as a superstar. The marquee at the Hot Box read, "The Queen has arrived. Jenny Highsmith, two nights only." She was royalty.

When I met Jenny Highsmith I lost any doubts I may have had about working in porn. If anyone saw how pretty and self-assured and healthy she seemed, they would envy her. She was the most naturally pretty person I had ever seen, red-haired, blue-eyed, smooth-skinned, without implants. She fucked hard for a living but that didn't bother her for a moment. She was happier than most people, and guiltless. She was a business woman with pride and drive. After working with her I lost my last shadings of self-judgment about public morals and fell deeply into the work.

"Sexi Drivers" took three days to shoot and two weeks to package. Bernard said that the whole movie probably cost $10,000 and would make a hundred times that. He usually didn't talk business with the girls but he said he liked me. He said I had something more than promise.

I would soon become accustomed to all the business and politics of the porn industry. Pay rates weren't as high at first. If I could have gotten royalties on my first two films, I could have retired at twenty-three. But all actors started out at a flat fee. You started as hamburger and worked your way up to filet mignon. Sometimes they stuffed a whole wad of cash in a girl's hand after her first time to keep her interested. Then the pay went down. They told her later, that was just a very good day, we were feeling generous. That didn't happen to me but that happened regularly. The pay scale normally went $400 for guy-girl, $500 girl-girl, $700 anal, $1000 double penetration, $1500 gang bang, and $1000 for a private video. I was brand new so I made under scale, but more than anything I'd ever made at any other job in my life. I was fortunate to work with Jenny Highsmith. I made decent money and I was treated well. This was no seedy, cheap affair. This was clean and comfortable. I had finally left the dry land of bad jobs.

June 11, 2004

I Become Shirley Shave

Bernard was pleased that I'd done so well on my first time out. "Jay told me you were dynamite," he said.

"I enjoyed myself," I said.

"That's good. A good fuck film can be liberating." He sat back and pulled at his beard. "I can tell you are going to do well because you're smart. I'm smart too and it's got me places. A lot of people in this industry are dumber than silk, but I still believe it pays to be semi-intelligent. So what do you want your name to be on the video? Shirley Gilchrist just won't cut it. How about Candy Apple or something like that?"

"No," I said.

"Yeah, too sugary for someone like you. Maybe you should keep the name Shirley. There aren't any other Shirleys in the business."

"I've always hated the name Shirley. When I was a kid, people used to call me Shrill."

Bernard laughed. "Well, think about it."

I thought about the scene on the bathroom floor with Trashy and Katy. I looked down at my lap. "How about Shirley Shave?" I said.

"Shirley Shave," Bernard said seriously. His eyes brightened. "That's good. That's more than good." He cracked his knuckles, louder than I'd ever heard a knuckle crack before, as if he had clapped his hands together. "Shirley Shave, I think I have something else for you."

June 09, 2004

Moby Cock

I was a little nervous on the ride over to the set, driving through the thick freeway in my little red Sentra, glancing at Bernard's handwritten directions sitting on the seat next to me like a passenger.

Bernard told me that I was supposed to meet his partner, Jay, at Dick's house. "If I'm the brains of the operation," he said, "then Jay is the muscle." Dick's full name was Dick Richards. He was one of the few male stars.

I almost got lost on the drive. I was flustered, thinking, where the fuck am I taking myself? I liked sex, as I said, but these were sex movies. I wasn't innocent but I had enough judgment to think that maybe this wasn't something I should be doing. And now, I thought, my parents are going to hate me even more. But then again I was curious. And I was excited to embark on something few had tried.

There was a sudden turn off the freeway for Mercy Street. I had to quickly change three lanes causing the car in the first lane to skid and honk and almost hit the car in the next lane. I just missed hitting the divider at the offramp. My whole body pounded with my heart. I thought this must be an omen. I almost turned around and drove home. But I kept on driving towards Dick Richard's house.

Once I got off the freeway I found myself in a residential neighborhood. It was quiet and green with two-story houses, something out of a postcard. Dick's house was across the street from a grocery store and a gas station. There was another freeway off in the distance. I parked and stared at the house. It was two-stories tall with an upstairs deck that looked over a side yard. The house was blue. In the front yard there was an actual white picket fence. It was nicer than my parents' house.

I got out of my car and walked slowly up to the house. I stared at the doorbell. I stood on the front walkway for a full minute, my finger paused on the doorbell and wondering if I should return to my car. But then I thought about what I would be returning to- waitressing jobs and meager payroll, bored and dissatisfied. And then I thought that just standing on the porch of that house felt exciting and thought about the $500 and I rang the bell.

A man opened the door wearing a tank top with tight, faded jeans and no shoes. His feet were bronze with blond hair curled on the toes. "You Shirley?" he asked.


"Bernie called about you. We've been expecting you."

He was stone-faced and moved out of the doorway to let me pass. I walked into the house, into a carpeted living room with a large stone fireplace and wooden furniture. There was a small backyard with lawn chairs outside. A plastic rubber duck sat on a table. The house was quiet.

"Everybody's upstairs," he said. "I'm Dick, by the way." He didn't put out a hand to shake. He didn't quite make my eye.

"It's good to meet you," I said.

"Yeah," he replied. "Why don't we go upstairs."

I followed him up tan-carpeted stairs to a bedroom. The only thing in the room was a bed with no blankets. A man with a mustache was putting a tape into a video camera on a tripod.

Another guy, deep tan wearing only shorts, was sitting in a director's chair with his hands in his lap. He was staring solemnly at the camera. He looked up at me and didn't change his expression.

"This is Johnny and Jay," Dick said. "Jay, this is Shirley."

The man at the camera set the video tape on the bed and looked at me. "Hey, Shirley," he said in a friendly way. "Bernie told me you were something special." He smiled at me. He had one tooth missing towards the back on the top. I could see what Bernard meant when he called Jay the muscle of the business. Bernard was commanding because he had that loud, booming voice. Jay wouldn't have to say anything and his height and long, hairy arms, and big head, one of the biggest heads I'd ever seen, would be commanding in silence.

"That's Johnny Boyle," Jay said, pointing to the guy in the director's chair. "You'll be working with him later."

"Hello, Johnny," I said, hoping to sound friendly.

Johnny stared back at me, expressionless.

"Katy and Rebecca are in the bathroom," Jay said. "You should go in there and meet them. I won't have you doing very much today. Maybe just one scene. We wanted you to see how it all works. Bernie raved about you." He smiled big again and showed his missing tooth, a drug dealer's smile. "He was right to. You sure are a pretty one."

"Thank you," I said and looked at Dick and Johnny who were frowning.

"I've got some set-up work to do," Jay said. "Why don't you go find Katy and Rebecca. Just go knock on the door."

"It's the door left of the master bedroom," Dick said, darkly.

I walked down a short hall trying not to think about the two frowning men and knocked on the bathroom door.

A person with a young girl's face wearing a white robe opened the door. "Hi," she said cheerily and let me in.

I went inside. Sitting on the closed toilet was a woman who I immediately thought was ugly. She had a fat nose and thin lips and brittle, frizzy hair. She also had a gap between her two front teeth. Nothing looked so trashy as a gap in the teeth.

"Who are you?" the trashy woman said, not unfriendly.

"I'm Shirley. Who are you?"

"I'm Rebecca," said Trashy. "But call me Becca. And that's Katy."

Katy blinked at me bright-eyed. "Have you ever done a movie before?" she said.

"No. This is my first time."

"What fun, a rookie," said Trashy. She might have been named Becca but I'd call her Trashy.

"There's a few things that have to be done," Katy said. "Are you shaved?"


"Is your pussy shaved. Down there." She pointed.

"No. I hadn't thought of it."

"That's all right. I'll do it for you. Lay down on the floor."

I stared briefly at her fresh-faced smile. Then I pulled down my skirt and lay on the floor. And just like that I was on the floor with another woman kneeling over me with a razor. "Do you want it all off or just regular?" Katy asked.

I thought about it. "Um- make it as thin a line as you can make it," I said.

"OK," she giggled. "It will be like art."

She got a bottle of something off the counter and spread it around. Then she started shaving me. She stuck her tongue out and bit it rigidly in a great gesture of concentration.

"You've got a beautiful body," she said.

Katy gently brought the razor over my skin and rinsed me off. I leaned forward to look down at myself. "Stay back," she said. "Just one more thing. Close your eyes." I lay back and closed my eyes.

Katy ran her tongue from my neck to my stomach, then from my hand slowly up my arm to the other hand. And then she went down on me. I sat up to stop her but then I let it happen. It felt good but it was also a strange feeling, strange because Katy was a stranger. I tried not to think about how I had never met Katy and Trashy was watching and I trembled on the bathroom tile.

Katy stopped as abruptly as she had started and said, "You're done. Save it for later. I think you'll do fine."

I opened my eyes. I sat up and looked down. I had a clean straight line of pubic hair no more than a centimeter wide.

"Thank you," I said. "That was nice. I was getting worried. It seems some of the men here aren't very friendly."

"Don't mind them," Trashy said. "A lot of the men have their own dicks up their ass. Stunt cocks with the ego of Picasso. In a way it's us against them. You'll learn about all of this. You'll learn a hell of a lot. I've said that you'll live more before your 25th birthday than most people live in a lifetime."

"Just like the army," Katy said, grinning.

We all went into the bedroom to start filming. Trashy and Katy walked to the bed. They were going to have a scene with Dick Richards. Katy took off her white robe. She was wearing pink lingerie over a red bra and g-string. Trashy was wearing acid-tight jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Jay said, "Rolling," and the scene began. "We've been looking for the perfect cock," Katy said, sitting on the bed. "We've been going city to city testing out different guys. Let's see how you measure up." And then they started. Katy and Trashy both went down on Dick. Then he went down on Katy while Katy went down on Trashy. Then he fucked Katy while Katy and Trashy kissed with sharp cardboard tongues, as if they didn't really want to be kissing at all. I watched from behind the camera. It all shocked me at first. I'd never in my life watched another person having sex. But after a while it became like watching sport. It was unlike any sex I'd ever had. They were so fast, fake, and machine-like that it wasn't like watching sex at all. It was like watching one of those old films from the early part of the century where people moved so fast that they didn't seem real.

I think the purpose of the day was to see if I'd get scared and run away. I didn't. After an hour of watching the same scene over and over again, the sex seemed as common as eating. When it was time for my scene, I was ready. This was what I was here for. I stripped naked and walked up to the bed. Katy rubbed my back and said, "You'll do fine," and gave me an encouraging smile.

I had one blow-job scene with the guy named Johnny Boyle. I wasn't attracted to him because he was as cold as Dick Richards but he went down on me for five minutes and then I had the same spirit of sport and play as Trashy and Katy. After he came on my tits I said, "You're not the cock I was looking for but in my book you're pretty good." It was my first line in a movie. In the end I enjoyed myself, even more than taking pictures with Bernard. This was real. This was going to be seen by a lot of people.

We were making a film called "Moby Cock." Bernard had written the script. It was about a pack of women who were searching for the perfect cock, hunting the Great White Cock. Bernard considered himself an intellectual. The search ended with Dick Richards. He measured an even ten inches. Filming would finish tomorrow with the story's climax. Trashy, Katy and I agree that Dick Richards is the Great White Cock and all do it with him at once. At the end of the day Jay said I did well and he'd give a good report to Bernard.

I didn't know how lucky I was at the time to have my first film be in a Dick Richards' movie. There weren't that many bona fide male stars. Most of the stars were women. That film was one of the reasons my star rose so quickly.

That night, when I walked out of the house into the searing valley heat, a money order for five hundred and twenty five dollars in my pocket, the memory of everybody saying I was beautiful, even Johnny Boyle, the great and strange elation of being in front of the camera and knowing that it was going to affect so many strangers' eyes, and finally, seeing a Sizzler across from the house with all its dull fluorescent light, there was no doubt in my mind where I would be coming in to work tomorrow.

A Beginning

Call me asshole. Two years ago today I answered an ad in the Hollywood Press for, "Models wanted. No experience necessary. Call Monday thru Friday 12-7." Next to the ad was a woman in lingerie with a finger to her lips as if keeping a secret. I was very low on money at time. When I say low I mean I had none, my last dollar from a string of mind-numbing and, in some cases, hurtful waitressing jobs had gone to rent. I didn't even have enough money left for one meal. Rent always came first. I could live hungry but I never wanted to live on the streets in the rain.

I was at a particularly low point in my life. Straight moms and dads and politicians and even rednecks might say that I was even lower now. Low, I mean so low that your feet burned because your were so close to hell, was being raped by your boss during a stint waiting tables at the Sizzler while out front families ate their ten-dollar all-you-can-eat shrimp. My boss raped me and then denied me a raise. In my best day I never took in more than thirty-five dollars. Everybody had to work and most jobs were dull and insulting to the mind and didn't pay any money. I was an educated person and that didn't seem to get me anywhere. So I swallowed the butterflies in my stomach and dialed the number in the ad and found new and better work.

A man named Bernard answered the phone and conducted the interview on a Tuesday morning in his small office, the walls a shiny yellow. He was a large, muscled man with a thin beard. He had kind blue eyes, but a voice that bellowed even when whispering.

"You know, this may be for X-rated pictures," he said.

"Bernard," I replied. "There are posters behind you." I pointed above his partially balding head to two posters. One was of him, much younger, naked from the waist up, and standing with a beautiful redhead wearing jean short-shorts and a halter top. The second was of a blonde wearing a hard-hat and a blue-checkered shirt, holding a jackhammer into another girl's lower parts.

Bernard laughed and said, without looking at the posters, "I know. I just wanted to make that clear. This isn't only for modeling but for videos. Whatever you feel comfortable doing."

He smiled soothingly. He wasn't the sweating pervert I'd expected. Not at all like the men who came to me when I whored briefly in New York.

"Have you done any modeling before?" he asked.

"No. I thought you didn't need experience."

He held up his hand in defense. "You don't. I was just asking. You're pretty enough to have been a model."

I thanked him.

"Let's go into the other room," he said.

We walked down a short hallway covered in the same yellow paint which shined like light. He brought me into another room. This room was light-blue. An off-white sheet hung over the back wall. The room was bare except for a brown leather arm chair and two umbrella lights standing next to a camera on a tripod- just as I had imagined it, just like when you saw a TV movie about a fashion model. Bernard flicked a switch and the umbrellas sprang to life, giving off a fiery heat and a white light as bright as two stars.

Bernard seemed pleased that I was struck by the lights. He shook his head and looked at them as well.

"Let me take your measurements," he said. He went to a red toolbox sitting in the corner of the room and searched through it. "Shit. I don't know where the soft tape went. Damnit. We'll have to use this." He held up a metal tape-measure. "It'll have to do."

He stared at me for a second, up and down, and I wondered if I should have been posing. "You're very pretty," he said absently. "Take off your clothes."

My body tensed up. It's not like I was opposed to stripping in front of him. I knew when I answered the ad that I was going to be asked to take off my clothes or something more. It's just that when you heard those words, "Take off your clothes," part of you wanted to resist no matter who you were.

Bernard saw that I was uncomfortable. "I've seen four thousand naked women in my time," he said. "I'm like a doctor. Don't worry about it. I'm here to help you."

I took off my T-shirt with an advertisement for Frank and Tommy's Pizza and my short blue skirt- I wasn't wearing too much anyway.

"Can you take your bra off?" he said.

"Sure," I said and unstrapped it with one hand revealing the perfect body I'd had since I was twelve. My breasts were perfect, not too small, a bit more than a handful but not too big either, not swollen like two huge bee-stings like I'd seen on other women. My skin tone was even, white like milk. I didn't have any tan lines. I was a rare combination of blonde hair and white skin. I had inherited my mom's skin: she was allergic to the sun. I wasn't proud of many things but I was proud of my body. Not many women could boast a body like mine. It had got me into a fuck of trouble but it also had people looking at me like Bernard was looking at me now.

"You're beautiful," he said.

He took my measurements with the tape measure. The metal tape bent awkwardly as he tried to round the curves. But he got the job done and measured me 35-24-35.

"I need to take some pictures of you for the files," he said.

I walked to the white sheet and umbrellas.

Bernard struggled with the tripod, trying to separate the legs and make it level. And then he began taking pictures. I stood in front of the camera for a moment, frozen. I felt awkward, more naked than I already was. Then I relaxed and slowly started moving. I used the body I had been given and I posed. I imagined an audience, silently awed.

The sight of a healthy woman's body could bring joy to people. People liked to surround themselves with beauty in the same way they surrounded the warmth of a campfire. Sex was as important as shelter. Some people were afraid of sex because it could be overwhelming if used wrong. Like the sky could be beautiful and blue one day, make tornadoes another. I myself never forgot the blue. This didn't mean that sex never did me wrong. I had been abused and misused throughout my life. But even the sun caused cancer to some, made other things grow. I never forgot that sex was a beautiful thing, a serene kind of beauty like a painting or the ocean. So I was happy to be a part of it by posing for the camera. Like a perfect glove made from lights and lenses. I didn't feel guilty or immoral posing for Bernard. I was a sexual creature as much as I was human. I had been my entire life. Plain and simple, I liked fucking. And I was taken in by the camera eye. Each picture was framing my young body forever. I was happy to be part of some long-standing dirty tradition, a world that I had always heard about and was curious, but now was seeing first hand. So many other girls had come into Bernard's office to do the very same thing, smiling and eager and proud and doing something daddy would frown on but every other man would lust after. It wasn't any cold, callous waitressing job. Small beads of sweat were beginning to form on my body, a hot, arousing, sexual sweat. This felt like a beginning.

Bernard took pictures of my tits and my face where I gave my best pouting looks. And when he thought I was comfortable enough he told me to sit on the armchair and spread my legs. I opened my legs and smiled. Bernard mumbled, "Good. Real good. You're a natural." He looked up from the camera. "Jesus, that line must sound stupid and standard but, by God, I really do think you're a natural." He took a few more pictures of me spreading my clit with my fingers and said, "That will be enough."

He thanked me and I thanked him. My heart pounded. I was feeling more than a little high from all the heat and activity. We left the room, went back down the yellow hallway, and sat back down at his wide, wooden desk.

"I want you to know what you're getting into," he said, picking at a pencil with his fingernails. "I don't want to ruin people. This business is very hard and if you're not prepared for it, it can fuck you. I don't want my girls to get fucked, as it were. That's why I never hire junkies. If they become junkies after I hire them, there's nothing I can do about it, but I don't look for girls who are easy to control. I like a girl who seems to know what she's doing. I'm in the business of beauty. I sell health products. Only healthy girls can sell health products. There are other people in the business who will hire anybody and don't give a shit if they lose their mind or drown. Now, I'm not telling you this to get anyone in trouble. I just want you to know that you're in good hands with me. I've been around. I know the scene. I've been in two-thousand fuck films myself. I'm one of the smart people in this business which, to be honest, can sometimes think at a third grade level. I will be good to you. You're probably lucky that you called me instead of someone else. No, I'd say you are definitely lucky."


"But I don't think you're going to have much of a problem. You seem like a strong girl."

He finally paused and took a breath. Bernard was a talker. He took a drink from a mug that read, "If fucking's a sin, I'm going to hell."

"I'm strong because my life hasn't been the smoothest of roads," I said.

"You want to tell me about it."

"Not really."

"I'd like to know something about you." That was less a request than a command.

"Shit, you know, I've been abused."



"By your father?"

I looked at him crookedly. Some things needed to be covered slowly. "It's not something I necessarily want to talk about," I said.

"Look," he said. "As I was telling you, I'm like a doctor. I've seen five-thousand women naked. I've also heard their stories. Many, many of them overlap. The girls that I hire are like my daughters. I want to take care of them. I want to know what they've been through so I can help with what they're going to go through. So you won't ever find me asking you to give me a little blow-job on the side. Other guys will do that as part of the audition. I don't fuck my daughters."

I was silent.

"All right. You don't have to tell me."

"No, no. I will. I was thinking about what to tell you." I closed my eyes. "I wasn't sexually abused by my father. He tried a couple of times but only when he was drunk and then he was so wasted that he couldn't do anything without falling all over himself. Once he said, 'Suck my cock,' and pulled it out and then passed out in one movement."

"I see," Bernard said.

I went on to tell him that a friend of my father's named Peter, of all fucking things, screwed with me a few times from age eight. That, and the fact that I had a woman's body at twelve, caused me to start fucking the boys of the 7th, 8th, and 9th grade. When I was fourteen, Peter came at me again. He was actually a pretty good-looking guy, the best looking of my parents' homely friends. He had kept all his hair and it had turned a dignified gray. And he wasn't round in the middle like my father. By the time I was fourteen I was already world-weary and ready to deal with him. He came into my bedroom when my dad was in the bathroom taking one of his long shits. My mom was off somewhere else. Peter sat on the bed and pulled me onto his lap. He pulled out his little Peter and was about to shove my head down when I poked him in the eye with a finger, hard enough so I stuck my finger halfway inside his head. He let out a scream, so loud and so genuinely fearful that my dad screamed from the bathroom, "What the fuck?" and ran out half-shit with his fly open. Peter, my father and I stood in the hallway. "What the hell happened, Peter?" my father asked. Black blood was trickling down Peter's face like a thick tear. He looked at me with his good eye and said, "I fell on a candlestick," and walked calmly into the living room. He couldn't tell the truth. He had a wife and kids. His daughter, a pretty girl named Rhonda who was almost a rival of mine for taking boys, was in my class. My father took Peter to the emergency room and never seemed to wonder that there wasn't a candlestick in our house. I learned later that I had blinded Peter completely in his right eye.

That was all I told Bernard. That was about all I could handle in one sitting. It was difficult to go over these things, especially out loud. And I didn't want to dwell in the past. There were too many dark closets there. I was happy to think about the future which seemed as bright as those umbrella lights.

"We're outlaws," Bernard said. "From a brutal, brutal society." He looked somberly at his desk. "I think I have a job for you now."


"Yeah. Is that all right? Can you start today?"

"Sure, I just didn't think I would be starting today."

"Well, this isn't a normal job."


"There's a movie being filmed at Dick's house in San Fernando that needs another girl. Are you ready for it?"


"Five-hundred dollars."


"Five-hundred dollars. That's what it pays."

"Sure as hell, I'm ready for it."


I’ve been writing for awhile now. People tell me it reads like fiction. I’ve thought about getting it published. Then again, why bother. I’ve made enough money in the sex industry. More people will read it online. I live online--you can see my videos all over the place.

So I’ve started this journal. If I could figure out how to post a picture here, I would. But maybe it’s better that I don’t. Names will be changed to the protect the innocent, but mostly to protect the guilty--including myself.

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