Money Shot

Coco Latte and Roxette DuMonde are available, or I’ve got this new kid, Molly May. She’s a knockout, a legit redhead—carpet matches the drapes. Fresh, petite girl-next-door type but she also glamours up real nice. She’s only a B-cup, though. It’s not a busty line, is it? Bethany Sweet is my only current double-D and she’s booked today.”

“Actually,” Sam said. “Jesse asked for you.”

“Come on,” I said, laughing nervously and turning back toward the treacherous mirror. “Sam, you know I’m retired.”

“Angel, please, I really need your help on this. Jesse is threatening to walk out on me and I promised him I’d get him any girl he wanted. He wants Angel Dare. He says he cut his teeth on your movies, that you were his favorite since he was fifteen.”

Now you have to realize that Jesse Black was probably the hottest new male talent in the biz. He was twenty-one, Hollywood handsome and legendary below the belt. The bluest blue eyes. Bad boy smile. More than half the women who who’d come to me looking for work in the past six months said they got into porn specifically because they wanted to work with Jesse Black. Now Jesse Black wanted to work with me.

“It’s pretty short notice, Sam,” I said, already finding my mind shamelessly wandering over the details of Jesse Black’s famous anatomy.

“No anal,” Sam replied. “Just a simple little boy/girl scene with a facial pop. I can give you fifteen and a cover. It’ll be like old times.”

I had to admit it was appealing. It’d be a phone-in, plus Jesse Black, plus helping Sam, plus an easy fifteen hundred bucks and a big fat box cover ego boost. Proof I’ve still got it. I could feel my resistance wearing down fast, but I had to keep trying.

“I don’t have a current test,” I said. “It’s been almost seven months.”

“You can just fax it in to me by Monday,” Sam said. “Look, I’ll make it two grand.”

“Sam... I...”

“Okay, twenty five, what do you say? I’m in a jam here, Angel. My last three videos tanked and if I screw this one up too, I’ll probably get shitcanned from Blue Moon. But with Angel Dare and Jesse Black on the box cover, I got a sure thing.”

He was starting to sound desperate. If it had been anyone else, I probably would have held my ground, but Sam had always been there for me whenever I needed anything. No questions asked.

“Okay, Sam,” I said. “Jesse knows I’m condom only?”

“Sure,” Sam said. “It’s no problem. Look, I’ll put him on, okay?”

“Wait,” I said but it was too late.

“Angel?” a new voice said. “Is this Angel Dare?”

“In the flesh,” I said. “This Jesse?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Angel Dare, wow. I can’t believe it’s really you.”

“It’s me alright,” I said, having no idea what else to say.

“God, you’re so hot,” he said. “I swear I must’ve worn out, like, three copies of Double Dare. That scene you did with Nina Lynn in the shower.” He made a breathy little purring noise. “Damn.”

“Thanks,” I said, eyeing my reflection again. Back when I shot Double Dare, Jesse probably still thought girls were icky. It seemed so wild that a toddler like him would have the hots for me. “You’re not so bad yourself, kid.”

“Will you do it?” he asked. “Please say you’ll do it. It’ll be like my best fantasy come true. Me and Angel Dare.”

“Well...” I said.

“I’ll make it good for you, Angel,” he said, voice raw and earnest, like my first boyfriend. “I promise.”

“Put Sam back on, okay?” I said.

There was some quick shuffling and then Sam’s voice came back on the line.

“Come on, Angel,” Sam said. “Make the kid’s day. He’s gonna start humping me if you don’t get here soon.”

I sighed and grabbed a pen.

“What’s the address?”

2.

The location was one of those sad old mansions in Bel Air. Ostentatious, but had seen better days. Money is so fickle here in L.A. and a big old house is like an aging mistress with a plastic surgery fetish. It’s more economical to just buy a cheap, flashy new one than keep on renovating the old one. Otherwise, you wind up renting the place out for porn shoots just to break even on the roofing bills.

There was a pair of twisted pomegranate trees guarding the open gate and the ground beneath them was gory with broken crimson fruit that crunched and splattered under the wheels of my little black Mini. Pulling into the wide circular driveway, I kept expecting to spot Norma Desmond burying her pet chimpanzee in the overgrown rose garden. I felt better once I saw Sam’s red ‘84 Corvette with its vanity plates that read HAMRXXX. It was parked near a massive wooden door that looked like it ought to open into a medieval Spanish dungeon. I parked behind Sam and got my old shoot bag off the passenger seat. There were a few other cars I didn’t recognize in front of Sam’s, a generic mid-sized rental and a tricked out, over-the-top black Ferrari that had to be Jesse’s. Car like that just screamed dick-for-hire. Parked directly in front of the Ferrari was the battered blue Honda Civic with which I would soon become so intimately familiar.

I’ve spent a lot of time since then going over and over those short minutes in the driveway, wondering why I didn’t sense something wrong, why I just waltzed right in like some barely legal bimbo from Indiana. I try to tell myself it was because I trusted Sam, because he was my friend for nearly twenty years, but if I’m honest I have to admit that was only part of it. The simple truth is, I had a girl boner. All the blood had run out of my brain and down between my legs. I’d had this semi-regular thing with a rockabilly bass player that had lasted nearly six months, but it had recently gotten stale and predictable and I’d decided it was time to move on. It had been three weeks since I’d gotten any new action. Now I found myself in a ditzy hormonal fog, gone blonde at the thought of putting Jesse Black’s lean, hard, twenty-one-year-old body through its paces. So I walked, crotch-first, right into a trap.

The wheels of my little roller suitcase bumped along over the cracked pavement and the lonely echoing sound seemed way too loud in the deserted courtyard. The door wasn’t locked. I thought they might be shooting some dialog or pick-up footage so I didn’t knock. I just slipped quietly inside.

The first thing I noticed was that there was no furniture. It was a huge, hollow room with a cathedral ceiling, Spanish tile floors and a massive iron chandelier on a chain that looked like something Zorro would use to swing over the heads of the bad guys. There were several large windows, but they were covered with opaque plastic, letting in only a soft, muted fraction of the afternoon sun. It smelled like fresh paint.

“Angel?” Sam’s voice called from the top of an elegant, curving staircase. “That you?”

“Yeah,” I replied, squinting up the stairs.

“We’re up here,” Sam said.

I pushed down the telescoping handle on my case and hefted it to carry it up the stairs. Luckily, it was just the small shoot bag and nearly empty. Sam said I’d only need lingerie and heels so I had run by the house on my way over and thrown together a couple of sets and stockings to give him some options. It’s been years since I had my shoot bags packed and ready all the time, everything organized into neatly labeled Ziploc bags and categorized with titles like fetish, slut, or GND, which stood for Girl Next Door.

“Sam?” I called when I got to the top of the steps.

“Come on in.” Sam’s voice came from the far end of a long hallway.

There was a partially open door with a bright light inside and I walked toward it. There were no fat yellow cords duct-taped to the floor, no adjacent rooms full of giggling girls powdering their implant scars and gluing on false eyelashes. There was no one hanging around smoking or talking on a cell phone. Just that long empty hallway. I like to think I was starting to wonder a little at that point, but I didn’t leave. I just pushed the door the rest of the