by Sansa Rayne
“Thank you,” she mutters, sounding happier to be finished than proud of her work.
“Yeah, not bad,” Chase adds, patting the top of her head. He and Vanessa rest on neon green lawn chairs that look comical against the plant’s ubiquitous grunge. “I’ll bet you had a pretty good time. You’re not used to getting fucked by a professional, are you?”
“Fuck off,” she mumbles, finding cigarettes and a cheap Bic lighter from her purse.
Chase hoots, softly rubbing his cock through his shorts. “Tomorrow you’re gonna be sucking off some pencil-dicked fat fuck, you’ll be thinking, ‘I wish Chase was here. He’s so big. Oh yeah. That’s what I need right now.’”
“In your dreams,” Vanessa exhales, blowing a dark cloud at him.
Once she’s smoked her cigarette down to the filter, we lead her back through the plant and outside, where a taxi waits. I give her twenty for the fare and open the car door for her.
“Call me when you’re up for another,” I say. “The members will want to see more of you, and soon.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she says, slamming the door shut.
Chase laughs as they drive away. “What a bitch.”
“Lay off. You got what you wanted.”
He shakes his head. “She was good, but I bet Sibel would-”
“I get it.”
Yeah, no shit. I bet Sibel would be great too.
“You hear back from her yet?” he asks.
“Chase, I was filming you and Vanessa. When do you think I had time to check my fucking e-mail?”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever,” he says, waving me off.
I spit on the pavement before we head back inside to collect our equipment. How is he this obsessed with Sibel? He’s never cared about who he fucks, as long as he’s fulfilling his cravings, and he just got his rocks off in four separate scenes. Considering his age and his stamina of late, he should be spent.
What the fuck is going on?
For the next few days, I don’t risk going outside without something to cover my head or face. If I’m going more than ten blocks, I hail a cab. Half a dozen delivery boys have taken my money in an envelope passed under the door, my order left on the floor until I’ve watched them leave. Expensive, but worth it.
Missing all my favorite classes at the gym, I work out in front of the TV, following aerobics DVDs I’ve picked up at flea markets. I wouldn’t especially care if people recognized me there — far bigger celebrities than me show up at public gyms — but I wouldn’t want to be a distraction. Especially if I’m wearing my tightest activewear, leaving so little to the imagination… or would I be more recognizable without my clothes in the locker room after?
At least twice a day I watch the videos or scroll through my latest photo spreads. My favorite is a series of nudes shot guerrilla-style a month before last week’s performance at Galleria Carnale. Taken at sunup on five consecutive mornings all across Manhattan, I appear to be strolling down deserted streets after some kind of apocalypse. My skin is a gorgeous golden bronze against the tangerine skies, a solitary figure of lonesome beauty. For some of the photos, my hands and ankles were chained and shackled; I can still hear the metal links scraping along the sidewalks and subway grates.
On Friday morning, I’m woken by an alert on my phone, a reminder that today I’m to meet Pierce Williams at Dark Asylum Brewing Company in midtown. I think I surprised him, not picking a trendy cafe or gourmet restaurant, and that was the point: obliterate his expectations until he wonders how he ever thought I’d be interested in making porn.
Not that this will be easy — I’ve been trying to pretend I haven’t been thinking about his website, and the twisted hungers it awakens with each visit. How can I despise him for his work if I’m secretly enjoying it? Twice already I’ve gotten out my credit card, on the verge of signing up for membership. It’s taken all my willpower not to go through with it.
At least I’ll get this over with. I don’t have to despise him — I just have to explain that we are not going to be working together, ever. Then he can leave me alone; he better, anyway. I sigh deeply, running a video search on Pierce Williams himself. He’s been interviewed by a variety of news outlets and culture magazines. I watched a few, trying to scoff at his surprisingly enlightened views on sex and the media. As much as I want him to, he doesn’t strike me as some kind of monster.
In fact, with every interview I watch, I’m struck by how handsome he is. Before his introduction at the gallery, I expected him to look like Ron Jeremy or Larry Flynt, but he’s absolutely stunning, and only in his late thirties. He’s got some years on me, but not enough to really matter. Why would it? His button-down shirts, always short-sleeved and open at the collar, cling to his cut physique. Faded, small scars on his clean-shaven face give evidence of a past from which he admits few details. Whatever happened to him, he hasn’t forgotten — even when he smiles and runs his hands through his short brown hair, his eyes betray a hardness that’s still calcifying.
Dammit, don’t feel bad for him, I remind myself. I swing over to his company’s site for a refresher on the real Pierce Williams. Just last night, a new update was posted on the page: a skinny, new blonde “kidnapped” outside some kind of factory.
Bound and fucked hard, used every which way until her captor is satisfied, left alone in the dark…
How awful, right?
Unbidden thoughts play out in my mind: my arms raised above my head, duct tape wrapped around my wrists and mouth. Pierce behind me, groping my ass, fingers probing my drenched pussy. His thick, rigid cock spreading my flesh, warm breath on the back of my neck. The blinking red dot of a running camcorder, its viewfinder angled so I can watch…
Then all I see are stars as I come hard, gasping for air as my body shakes. I recline in my chair so far I nearly tumble out of it, screaming as I fall forward to right myself.
I slam my laptop shut.
Enough’s enough.
I’m going to meet Pierce Williams, decline his offer without the slightest hint of ambiguity, and hopefully never hear from him again.
—
Slipping the hostess at Dark Asylum a twenty gets me a table on the lower level of the brewpub, which normally only opens for dinner. Down here we’ll have more privacy; I don’t want to be recognized, especially sitting at the same table as Pierce Williams. And if I have to throw a drink in his face, well, I’m not here to cause a scene.
Straight jackets and surgical instruments hang from the walls between framed posters from classic horror films. Caged light fixtures cast shadowy webs across every surface. From the menu I order an Antiseptic Ale — it was that or the DSM, a dark stout malt. I’m intentionally early to arrive and have time to drink half the glass before Pierce trots down the stairs to meet me.
Wearing a navy blue blazer, a white button-down shirt and khakis, his look is impeccable. Seeing me, he smiles politely and approaches with confident swagger.
“Ms. Isaacs,” he says, looking me in the eyes. I’m wearing a little black dress with a plunging neckline, daring him to check out the goods, but his laser focus doesn’t deviate. “Thank you for meeting me. Can I get you a drink?”
I raise my glass, lines of foam clinging to the inside. “Got one, thanks.”
Unfazed, he takes a seat. “I’ve never been here before. What’s good?”
“First time for me too,” I reply as a waitress comes to our table.
“Excuse me,” Pierce says, checking out the beer list. The waitress — a cutie with a sharp face and an asymmetrical, jet black bob — lists forward, tits half popping out of her tight black top.
What is he, a skank magnet?
He orders the Psychotic Saison and flashes his perfect smile. “Are you eating?” he asks me.
“This isn’t a date,” I blurt.
The waitress steps back, depositing her order pad in her white apron. “I’ll be back right… right back… with your beer.”
“I get it, Sibel,” Pierce says
when she’s gone. “This is about business. That’s fine. I just asked because I’m hungry.”
I sigh, annoyed at myself. I meant what I said, but I didn’t intend to sound so blunt. He’s the one who should be acting defensively, not charming and patient.
“I could eat,” I admit. I don’t have anywhere else to be right now anyway.
“Good.” He opens the menu and scans it patiently. I try to do the same, but keep eyeing Pierce, hoping to get a read on him.
When the waitress comes back, he defers to me to order first. I opt for a burger and another Antiseptic; Pierce gets steak and a beer flight.
“Can I start with some flattery?” he says. “Your exhibit last week was great — unapologetic and mesmerizing. I really wanted to understand what you were communicating.”
How many times did he practice that in front of a mirror? I wonder, but smile. “Thank you. And I’ve seen your website. It’s very… uh…”
Uh?
“It’s hot,” I finish, blushing.
He laughs. “That’s good. That’s what we’re going for.”
Nice. Real smooth.
“I have to ask: how did you decide to use eroticism as an art form?”
A weight drops in my chest and my face ices over. “Read the bio on my site.”
After I got home that first night, I calmly stripped, as I’d done more than once throughout the evening, and stepped into the shower. Leaning against the hard tiles, I laughed, stung by the scalding water. I forced myself to keep laughing. If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry instead, and then I wouldn’t stop.
Is this all I’m good for? I asked myself. Is every night going to be like this, until I’m an old, worn out husk?
The second night was worse than the first. At least then I didn’t know how bad it would be. After the first night, every time I saw a car slow down, I wanted to vomit. And what if I still didn’t know how bad it could get? I’d only just begun, after all.
Smoothing the cash I’d made into a neat stack, I wondered, Maybe this will get better? What if I learn to enjoy it?
By the next night, I decided that would never happen. Knees numbed by the icy pavement, I’m still shaking as my first customer leaves. The whole time he wouldn’t stop crying. What was I supposed to do? Comfort him? Wait patiently? For all I knew, he was about to stab me to death.
“Please don’t be scared,” he whispered, like that would help. I guessed he didn’t know any better either.
At least he paid before walking away, weeping deeply.
“Your website is purposefully vague,” says Pierce, like he’s one to talk. It’s not as though his site’s bio offered any deep revelations. “I’m sure for good reason. Forgive me, I’d just like to get to know you a bit better.”
“Actually, I’d rather get straight to business.”
He leans back in his seat as the waitress returns with his flight. Served in glasses in the form of large pill bottles — thin, cylindrical and orange — the beers are identified by imitation prescription labels. Pierce chuckles at the presentation, tasting the DSM first.
“We’ve got time for both,” he says. “And I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“That assumes we’re dealing.”
He licks his lips and tries the next beer. “I’ll start, if you want. I’m from Newark. My family fucking sucked. I did some shit I regret when I was young. And I’m not perfect now, but I do my best. How about you?”
“You could’ve stopped at Newark,” I joke, unable to resist the jab.
“Hey, don’t shit on Jersey unless you’re from Jersey. You have to earn that.”
I shrug. “Oh well, I guess. I’m from Scranton.”
“Pennsylvania?”
“Yeah.”
“What brought you here?”
The beer in my stomach curdles, thinking about the nights I wouldn’t have had if I’d never left home. At the time, I’d have rather died — but now I can look back and see Scranton wasn’t so bad.
“I wanted to get into modeling. Manhattan was the obvious choice.”
“Sure, yeah.”
Our food arrives looking juicy and irresistible, so we both dig in. Our conversation devolves into small talk about the meal, similar restaurants and the movie posters on the walls. Somehow, we haven’t seen a single one between us.
“God, that’s depressing,” I mumble.
“What is?”
I point to a poster at random. “People probably worked on that for months, and now no one’s ever heard of it. All that’s left of their work is some ironic decor.”
Pierce sips his beer, thinking for a minute. “I dunno. Most of us are lucky to leave behind that much.”
“Now that’s depressing.”
“I guess, yeah. But is that what you really want?” he asks.
I take a bite out of the pickle served with my burger. I hate pickles, but don’t want it going to waste. “Doesn’t everyone want to be remembered?” I say after swallowing.
“Sure, but that’s not your goal, is it? Your work is timely, not timeless. It serves a purpose, here and now.”
Oh, here we go.
“I didn’t realize you were such an expert.”
He scowls. “You might not believe this, but I know what it’s like.”
“No, you don’t,” I snap. “You have no idea where my art comes from, or why I do it. What would you know about art? You sell rape fantasy videos. That’s not art.”
He darkens, lips locked in a sneer. “I never said it was. And you’re pretty judgmental, considering our fans are mostly after the same thing. You just found a really creative way to get paid a lot less.”
“Fuck you, Pierce. It’s not my fault if men just want to jerk off to my performances. At least I aspire to be something more.” My heart pounds, and my hands are balled into fists against the table. If I hadn’t already finished my beer, I would have thrown it at him.
We stare at each other, both fuming, until he relents. “Sorry. I was out of line. Really, I admire your work. It’s good commentary on sex in the digital age. All I meant was… there’s a private reason I do what I do too.”
I nod, breaking eye contact. What guesses has he made about my past? No matter how guarded I am with my secrets, I feel transparent, like it’s so obvious to everyone. At the same time, I have no idea what Pierce’s referring to; it’s not fair at all.
“I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth,” I say. “Despite what you do, you seem like a nice guy.” I open my purse and find my wallet. “Still, I’m an artist, Mr. Williams, not a porn star, so I don’t think there’s anything else for us to discuss.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, his ears prick up, like a panicked rabbit. “Sibel, hang on. Hear me out.”
I leave a couple twenties on the table and realize there was something I’d forgotten. “I’ll stay if you can answer one question: why are you trying so hard to book me?”
His mouth freezes in place, jaw hanging slightly.
“It’s… it’s just business,” he says.
“Well, stay out of mine,” I reply, already headed for the exit. He doesn’t follow me.
“Wake up!” four voices scream as one.
I roll out of the bed like it’s on fire, landing on my back. My brothers roar, laughing as though they hadn’t played the same trick on me each of the last five years. At least this time I don’t smack my head into the top bunk like last time; I still have the scar.
My radio alarm clock reads ten past twelve. I overslept. Sweltering summer heat kept me awake half the night, and no one has thought to get me up until now.
“Happy birthday, retard,” says Jake, the eldest of my older brothers. The leader of the pack.
Today I’m eighteen. I’d like to think I’m a day closer to leaving home, but Jake’s still here, and he’s twenty-eight.
“Get a job, dickhead,” I snap at him, rising to my feet.
He tries to shove me, but he’s predictable, and now I’
m awake; I slip past him and the rest of the pack. I tear through the house, stopping at the kitchen. Last year there was a plate of scrambled eggs and pancakes waiting for me. I sniff for the scent of maple syrup, but there’s no sign of cooking anywhere, just a note on the table.
Justin, I had to leave for work. Sorry! Look in your shoe.
I smile, knowing what that really means: Look under the TV. By now my brothers would have seen the note, checked my shoes and found nothing. Odds are my sneakers will end up hidden in the crawlspace under the floor, or soaking in the kitchen sink, but at least they don’t know about the TV.
Lifting it up, I find a twenty dollar bill and another note. Sorry it’s not more, but it’s all we can spare. Enjoy, but no cigarettes!
“Thanks, Mom,” I mumble.
“No, thank you,” says Freddy, swiping the money out of my hand. Second oldest, but easily the meanest, he tries to run but doesn’t get far before I tackle him.
Grabbing his arm, I yank it behind his back and pull until I can feel the limit of his flexibility. “I’ll fucking break it, I swear.” I try to sound gruff, but my voice cracks and Freddy laughs. “I mean it!” I growl, pulling his arm harder.
Freddy shrieks, and for a second I’m not sure if he’s faking, if I actually broke the bone or if it just really hurts. He relents and holds the money out with his other hand. I take it.
“Asshole,” he mutters, cradling his limp arm.
I don’t wait around for Eric and Doug to gang up on me; I get dressed, roll on two coats of deodorant, and find my shoes in the trash bin underneath banana peels and Pop Tart wrappers. I think I’m free and clear at the front door, but I open it to find my father sitting on the front porch.
Facing out into the street, he watches the neighbors mow their lawns and wash their cars while sipping Natty; there are already four empties arranged in a row to his side.
“Hey,” I say, stepping over the cans. “Mower still busted?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll fix it later.”
He’s been saying that for six years now.