Beautiful Something

My gratitude extends to Chris Lambert and the whole Red Fez team for publishing this story and gratuitously bestowing it with an Editor’s Choice Award. To read the story on their dandy interactive site go to redfez.net or let your eyes drift down to the version presented below.

The girls that come in here aren’t all bad. They’re angry and rebellious, sure, but it’s not their fault they endured overbearing parents and strict childhoods. I see a lot of runaways; nine out of ten are under-aged, their tiny breasts jutting out like miniature ski jumps. I’m talking about fourteen and fifteen year olds who don’t hesitate to show me every inch of their smooth, angelic bodies. Girls who feel uncomfortable stripping in front of me sometimes use the name of the person who drove them to this. I’ve been called Daddy, Doctor, Reverend, and worse. Much worse. These girls wear their vulnerability like a badge of honor. They think I hold the key to the future and they’ll do anything to obtain it. Of course, I could make a boatload off of them. The market for child sex in the industry is highly profitable, but I’m not about to hire on one of these girls and exploit her innocence for a few frames of film. I’m not that despicable. They’re good kids as far as I’m concerned, but if they want to work for me they have to prove they’re legal. Other than that I don’t require any explanations. I’m not going to tell them they’re misguided for wanting to put their soft, pink flesh on display for all the world to see. I’m a film director, for Christ’s sake, not a psychologist. If a girl wants to put her gash on the big-screen, I’ll make sure it’s an experience she won’t regret. It’s important to me the girls enjoy seeing themselves on-screen as much as everyone else; and if things turn out right they don’t owe me anything extra. I don’t mix business with business. I want the girls that work for me to feel sensual and empowered without thinking they have to please me on the back-end, because, in my experience, nothing sucks the energy out of empowerment like getting fucked by your boss.

But I’m no pushover. Sometimes a girl will come in for a screen test convinced the ten guys she screwed in high school makes her some kind of expert. I can see the temerity in her eyes. She thinks she’s star material, a moneymaker with a tell-all autobiography headed for the bestseller list. There’s only one little problem: She’s nobody, and that’s not likely to change. Tracy Lords. Jena Jamison. Two in a million. I take the girls who think they’re the next big “It” and audition them with a hard fuck from the biggest dick I’ve got on staff. They grit their teeth like virgins, but afterwards I hear considerably less lip about what they think they know about satisfying a man. It works every time. Having sex on film isn’t complicated work, but if you’re looking to become a star you’ve got a better chance at cracking Hollywood.

In most cases first-timers aren’t that confident. Typically a girl wants to know what she can do for the guy who’s pounding on her like an escaped convict. She keeps saying, “Does it feel good, baby?” over and over again, until I yell cut and explain she isn’t required to please her male counterpart, but the thousands that will watch the video. It takes a few turns in front of the camera but, eventually, a newcomer will pull it together, settle in, and project a steady gaze of satisfaction, one that tells the audience this is the best lay she’s ever had. But when it comes to stable, long-term performers who can keep putting out without losing their appeal in the face of the consumers’ fickle perversions, well, that isn’t easy to come by. I’ve spent sixteen years in the industry and only once have I seen a girl draw that kind of attention. The girls that appear in my films, while dedicated, don’t contain an ounce of star-quality. They’re nameless one-night stands, always identifiable but never recognizable: girl having picnic, cheerleader #2, horny babysitter—everyday fantasies a man can successfully get off to—but seldom does a memorable face pop out, that unforgettable someone that can be accessed whenever the need arises. I’d sacrifice one of my testicles for a girl like that to walk through the door, because, first off, it’d go a long way toward resuscitating my bank account and, secondly, I haven’t been aroused in nine years. Nine goddamn years. Losing a testicle wouldn’t be such a bad deal considering the circumstances, just good business. I’m not saying I don’t get offers anymore. That’s one thing I don’t lack. Girls will sneak into my office and present themselves in the same poses I instruct them to use in the videos. They bend and contort their bodies invitingly, their vaginas wagging like unhinged trapdoors ready to swallow me whole. They’ll allow the advance to go as far as I’m willing to take it, thinking their efforts will propel them up some imagined echelon, one step closer to the glamorous world of pin-up celebrities. But my penis is a pillar of indifference. I tell the girls they’re sweet and I should be so lucky but, really, save it for the camera. Sometimes girls take my refusal the wrong way, accuse me of holding them back and yell like I’m withholding their paychecks, but most of them don’t fuss.

The fact is I lost my sex drive nearly a decade ago while working with my old partner, the industry’s most creative pornographer, Shane Grossman. Back then I spent my time editing endless footage of hard-core sadomasochism that would send performers to the emergency room with expressions of well-trained equanimity plastered on their faces. It took less than five years in this execrable environment for me to become desensitized and lethargic toward the idea of sexual intercourse in a spontaneous and personal capacity. I get by in the business today because I know the angles. Sex on film is easy, but in real life my libido is thick and callused, unresponsive to the most blatant of come-ons.

What’s my problem? I’ve seen it all before. The Kama Sutra, once legendary to me, is now nothing more than a gag gift. Just the other day my leading male star approached me with a glossy, updated copy of the ancient Sanskrit text. He directed my attention to an outrageous position and tried not to laugh. “Look here, Mac,” he said. “We should try this one some time.” He’s a funny guy, always pulls the same prank on the new girls, warning them he’s got satyriasis. Most of them don’t know what he’s talking about. They think satyriasis is some sort of ungodly STD. It cracks me up.

He’s a talent I discovered right here in California three years back, a spring-breaker I recruited straight off Huntington Beach. At twenty-three he isn’t seasoned but he has enough experience to make it look good on film. (He is most famous for his roles in the academic porn spoofs Summa Cum Loud and its sequel Summa Cum Louder.) He’s got a tanned, well-formed body, and a penis my forearm can’t compete with—goes by the name Stratford. I tell him he shouldn’t be working for a smalltime director like me anymore, but he sticks around, seems I’m the closest thing to a father-figure he’s ever known. I appreciate his loyalty but I’m not looking to cheat him out of a better opportunity. I let his contract lapse six months ago and gave a few big-name producers his phone number. He’s free to go anytime he likes.

Like I said, these aren’t bad people. If anybody wants to play troublemaker I’ll put them out on the street. Drama I don’t need. Keeping a dozen oversexed girls happy tends to keep a man busy, and there’s always at least one nymphomaniac in the bunch, hungry for the numb pleasure of incessant sexual contact. It doesn’t matter if the camera is rolling or not, she’s gonna be fucking something. These days the girl I have to keep an eye on is Lori Bangs—never has a performer picked a more appropriate alias. It’s like she’s got clitoral ADHD. She’s all do’s and no don’ts. Her licentiousness would fill up a reel in the Ripley’s archives. I tell Ollie, my longtime cameraman, to follow her around. “If she hops on a barstool, get it on film,” I instruct.

Ollie grins. He loves the job. “I’m on it, Mac.” He says it like a mantra, like he’d scanned my thoughts a minute beforehand. He always keeps a camera within his reach and is happy to oblige any requests or directions I give him.

In the beginning I kept two cameramen on-hand, but quickly discovered Ollie did a better job juggling three cameras at once than any counterpart could do handling one. So now Ollie does the brunt of the work on his own, allowing me to sit behind the stationary camera if I ask where he needs help, which, of course, doesn’t do much towards lightening his load, but it’s the way he likes to work and that’s fine by me. He gives me some of the best footage in the business and, all things considered, he’s not a bad set designer either. The strangest thing about Ollie is his refusal to have his name attached to the production credits.

“It’s a religious thing,” he says.

I’m not too surprised by his confession. This sort of explanation is used with regularity by the girls we audition, almost as if they’ve conspired together before coming in. Getting into the porn industry is a way for them to say “fuck you” to their parents or the church or whatever else. It’s the biggest transgression they can think of to extirpate the walls of their despotic upbringings. But Ollie’s motivation spawns from something different. His numinous reverence actually affects his conscience; but instead of quitting he stays quietly anonymous. I don’t press him in the matter. I respect him the way he is. In this business, what kind of man would I be if I didn’t?

Six years ago, exhausted with the hard-core scene, I sat down with my partner Shane Grossman and told him I wanted out. I would sign my half of the company over to him and be out of his hair for good. All I wanted in return was Felicia Lockhart.

Shane stared at me upon my request. “Shit, Mac, Felicia’s the biggest star we’ve got.”

I sighed. “My half of the company in exchange for one girl. It’s easy math.”

Shane fondled the calculator on his desk compulsively. “Fine,” he agreed. “Take her. It’s one less headache I gotta deal with. But you’re crazy if you think she’ll stick with you. She’ll flake out. They all do. Then where’ll you be?”

“I never said I trusted her.”

“It’s your call.”

Ten months later my newly founded production company released its inaugural video but, much to my consternation, Shane’s prediction rang true. On the day the video was released Felicia overdosed on a fistful of Halcion. The video teetered in limbo; then the reviews came in. One critic hailed it as “Sex without the X,” labeling the sex featured in our film as tame and predictable. Of course, that had been my plan from the beginning, to create a video devoid of tired fetishes and pornographic clichés, a video in which viewers could actually appreciate the sex without having to deal with the attachment of some implausible fantasy. Even the film’s title, Artico, was the antithesis of standard labeling. I know, fantasy is what most viewers are looking for, but I wasn’t out to trick the audience, otherwise I would have signed on to direct an episode of Real Sex. I wanted the material to be relatable, not like most pornographic features that hit you with penetration within the first two minutes and go hard until the lubricant runs out. These days directors will tell girls to ditch their panties before the cameras are even rolling in order to accommodate the breakneck pace of ramrod action. The only fantasy there is that a woman can be ready for intercourse in less than thirty seconds. There isn’t anything subtle about that.

I wasn’t interested in another instant on-screen orgy, my intention was to reintroduce foreplay to the pornographic feature, to make the sex itself a turn-on and not the situation. There are sex films and there are films about sex. The former focuses on sex, the latter on the idea of sex. People who buy films about sex can just as easily get off to a picture censored by a black bar or a red dot. They don’t have to see the desired object. They bask in the general idea, because, in reality, nothing can satisfy them. It isn’t the sex they’re addicted to, they’re fascinated by the unattainable.

Pornography is a strange business. If people were just a little more outgoing, or if they set more attainable standards, then they wouldn’t be lonely. They’d be loved and happy, and I’d be out of business. I realize that, as a business maneuver, infusing realism into pornography isn’t the shrewdest course of action but, in this business, no matter how hard or soft the content is, there’s always an audience, because people are lonely. Human insecurity will always make pornography a mainstay.

But with my new production company just getting on its feet, my dilemma was no longer about making a return on my first investment, but rather about the abrupt and unexpected death of my leading female star—my only star.

By the time Felicia’s suicide made headlines it was too late for stores to back out on selling the film, so they ignored the soft content, the bad reviews, the artsy title and wisely advertised the film as “Felicia’s Final Fuck!” It became the top-selling adult video for sixteen months straight, keeping my suddenly fledgling new business afloat and giving me time to hire a few no-name performers to fill in until the next Felicia Lockhart walked through my door.

That was five years ago. I’ve spent every day since sifting through snapshots of potential pin-ups, wishing to God there was someway for Ollie to get me a Polaroid of something more than these girls’ generic spread-eagle poses. They all look the same with their constipated smiles, like they’re trying to pick a winning lottery number. Not one face stands out.

I’m ankle-deep in these sorts of photos and seriously considering the bottle of single malt sequestered in the bottom drawer of my desk when my receptionist, Jules, pokes her head into my office, a cool, windowless den that often betrays my linear sense of time.

“There’s a girl in the lobby,” Jules says.

I nod absently. “Tell Ollie to get her information.”

There’s a sign posted on the outside wall of the building, right by the entrance, which lists appropriate times for anyone wanting to audition. I can’t remember the last time someone showed up in accordance to its posted recommendations, if ever. We get walk-ins at all hours, every day. If the doors aren’t locked someone is bound to traipse in for an audition.

Jules snaps her steely fingers when I fail to look up. “Would I be bothering you if Ollie was here?” she asks, annoyed by the fact I have unconsciously overlooked her unfaltering work ethic.

I consult my wristwatch. It claims it’s five p.m., but God knows if that’s right. I haven’t reset it for daylight-saving time for several years running. It’s right half of the time, I just don’t know which half anymore. To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t tell you what day it is either. Feels like Monday. This is my perpetual state thanks to my windowless workspace and poor timekeeping.

“You’re right. Sorry. Give me two minutes,” I say, brushing the pictures from my lap.

Still wanting a drink I scuffle to retrieve the bottle from my desk. Because of a broken handle I have to jimmy the drawer with a tripod leg. It only takes a moment to pry the drawer open, but my repeated efforts have rendered this particular tripod bow-legged and unusable. I don’t know where I’ve left my coffee mug, so I drink straight from the bottle. It’s not a name-brand, so it goes to work fast.

I take another swig. I’m not having a hard time envisioning the girl in the lobby: She’s 5’9 in six-inch heels, a chain-smoker, wears a C-cup with her breasts mashed together and hoisted skyward like two merry cherubim, and she’s not ashamed of her rub-on tan or dyed blonde hair. It all comes with the territory. I don’t expect to find anything more than another soulless Polaroid I can add to my collection.

“Two minutes,” Jules prompts me. “Three minutes.” Her voice drifts through the air vents like a poisonous gas.

I wedge the bottle of liquor back in its cubby and kick the drawer shut. Already my belly feels warm. I comb my fingers through my hair, try to rub the wrinkles out of my shirt and head for the lobby.

The girl waiting to see me isn’t pacing the floor or smoking a cigarette like most applicants do; rather, she is inspecting the Tomaso replica hanging on the wall. No one does that. When she sees me enter the room she aims her thumb at the painting and says, “Harbor in Spain is one of my favorites.”

Jesus, she knows the title. I can’t remember the last time a girl caught me off-guard. Which begs the question: How much did I just drink? Clearly she’s educated and, by God, drop-dead gorgeous with her clothes on—and she’s not even trying. Her simple attire includes brown flip-flops with clear straps, toenails dressed in a French pedicure, and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants that hides her fire-ladder-long legs and the smooth flesh underneath. The plain white T-shirt she is wearing accentuates all the right spots without being too revealing, and the upward slant of her breasts works against her efforts to keep the shirt from revealing her firm waistline. It’s just enough to grab a man’s attention, but not the disdain of his wife. This one knows what she’s doing, I’ll give her that. Her skin is swarthy and toned. Her sandy-blonde hair is all-natural. Her fingernails: real. She’s got class, something I don’t see a whole lot of these days.

I reach out and clasp her outstretched hand. “I’m Molly Filmore,” she says.

“Is that you’re real name?”

Molly smiles sheepishly, her green eyes pierce right through me. I honestly can’t remember the last time I noticed a girl’s eye-color. I don’t have to look twice to know this one is about to make the last five years up to me.

“You know what? I don’t wanna know. It’s perfect either way.”

“Thanks,” Molly says, curtsying herself playfully.

“Listen, I wouldn’t normally ask but, just to be clear, you do know what you’re applying for, right?”

Molly feigns embarrassment. “Prurience,” she says. “Isn’t that what the kids are calling it?”

“Close enough.”

“Anything else you need to know?”

“Yeah. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You got proof?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“In my heart.”

“Cute. How many partners have you had?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t kept track.”

“But if you had to guess.”

“Fingers and toes, maybe more.”

“So you’re confident?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“How would you put it?”

Molly shrugs. “I’m comfortable.”

“Fair enough. Where’d you go to college?”

“Princeton,” she admits, surprised by my perspicacity.

“Clever you.”

“I have my moments.”

“What made you pick this place?”

“I’ve got a thing for art deco.”

“It’s dilapidated.”

“But very fetching.”

“Have you ever worked in the business before?”

“No.”

“Strip club?”

“How do you think I paid for college?”

“Are you diseased?”

“God, no.”

“Have you been checked?”

“Yes.”

“Ever had an abortion?”

“No.”

“Kids?”

“Definitely not.”

“What about drugs?”

“I’ve been known to frolic in the grass.”

“Nothing harder?”

“Nope.”

“Any scars I should know about?”

Molly leans forward and pulls the hair off her neck. “See it?” She tilts her head so that the skin goes taut. The delicate flesh around the exposed isthmus of her slender neck is smooth and unblemished, quixotic even, like a passage out of the Song of Solomon.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Look closer,” she urges, using her finger as a cursor. “There’s a little indention, an old chickenpox scar. There are two more on my leg”—she taps her left foot involuntarily—“my left leg, below the knee.”

I shake my head. “Don’t sweat it. I was thinking of something a little more tragic.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I don’t think so. Let me check my purse.”

“You’re a smart girl.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything you wanna ask me?”

“There is one thing.”

“Shoot.”

“You never told me your name.”

“Mac,” I say, wincing at my own forgetfulness.

“You own this place, Mac?”

“For almost six years.”

“So you’re a producer then.”

“Owner, producer, director. My cup runneth over.”

“Well then, I suppose you’ll want to see the rest of me.”

“Not today.” I say, fingering a crinkled Polaroid that’s managed to find its way into my pocket. “We’ll have a look tomorrow.”

“Does that mean I’ve got the job?”

“Off the record, yeah.”

“Thanks, Mac.” Molly beams. “Is there anything I should bring with me?”

I aim my finger at the sticker plastered on the wall above the exit. It reads: “Less is more.”

“Is that the company motto?”

“No,” I admit, “it was here when we moved in.”

“That’s convenient.”

“No, just out of reach.”

“Tomorrow then,” she says. “We’ll make it official.”

“It’s a deal.”

Molly has barely vanished from sight when Ollie shows up, walking backwards through the doorway and pointing mutely down the now empty sidewalk.

“You saw her.”

Ollie nods his head, still slack-jawed from the experience. “Who was that?”

“Molly Filmore.”

“That’s her real name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Sounds fake,” Ollie says; then reconsiders. “Yet believable.”

“She graduated Princeton.”

“So what, she’s overqualified?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Did you see her—?”

“Naked? No, we just talked.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. Ivy League graduates don’t wander in on a regular basis. I mean this girl is intelligent, personable, and looks—well, you saw her. You don’t see those qualities very often, not around here at least.”

“So what’s not to know? She sounds perfect, and looks—what’s that word you’re always using?”

“Unattainable.”

“That’s the one. Do you think this girl has what it takes?”

“I think she could sell a lot more than fur coats with a body like that,” I say. “But it’s odd, a girl like that coming here. Why this place? Why would she choose us?”

“You’re overanalyzing.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad. I just wonder…”

“What about the other girls?” Ollie asks.

“I’m willing to write recommendations.”

“Seriously,” he says. “Shouldn’t we keep one or two around? Just in case.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. Lori’s dedicated.”

“Are you kidding? She’s the Energizer Bunny-fuck. I’ll bet she’s the one you’ve been chasing around all day.”

“You can’t sack the girl because she’s a nympho. Isn’t that like firing a workaholic?”

“You’re calling Lori dedicated? That’s politely understating her compulsion.”

“I’m just saying. Don’t you think we need a safety net?”

“You let me worry about that. Right now I need you to setup a dry shoot. Something we can use tomorrow. I wanna see exactly what Molly Filmore has to offer.”

Ollie nods dutifully. “You got it.”

He disappears up the staircase leading to the large open studio that takes up the entire second floor of the building. The room contains and is decorated intermittently with several beds and couches. When a non-furnished environment is desired we have a monarch’s pick of plush carpeting to choose from. The room is white except for one corner Ollie painted red on account he heard it described as a visually conducive color while watching Jeopardy! On the front wall four arched windows tower side by side and bathe the room in natural light, but because the ground floor is built into the earth the windows are barely high enough to thwart curious pedestrians from peeking in on us.

While Ollie bangs around in preparation above me, I spend the entire evening scribbling out new script ideas. No more wanton repairmen sauntering in to fix the water pressure in a sorority house during pledge week. For years I’ve paid my bills with this sort of filmmaking. It’s not a legacy I’m proud of, but the subtle and intimate formats are hard to sell without the right female lead. Most directors don’t even consider this. Their idea of intimate is a plunging close-up that resembles a training demonstration on how to unclog a toilet.

I’m outlining a third script when I realize there are no sounds coming from the small reception area Jules works in or from Ollie upstairs, for that matter. I check my watch: two a.m., which could mean one or three depending on which side of daylight-savings time is the current standard. Either way, Jules is sure to have taken her leave at a respectable hour, locking the two of us in on her way out. Ollie probably finished setting up hours ago and has since flipped a mattress and dozed off. (Like a coin there are two sides to every mattress in our possession, a side for Ollie’s head and a side for the tails of everyone else.) I close my eyes in tired meditation. I could use a little sleep myself. I don’t have to go far, the couch in my office is a broken in Broyhill I picked up at Goodwill. It’s an unbelievably comfortable stick of furniture that often persuades me from going back to my apartment.

I recline on the old sofa, prying a misplaced Polaroid free from the soft twill crevasse beneath me. The figure captured upon its face is of a pale teenager, ass-up, looking over her shoulder with forced seduction. The image works on me better than a warm glass of milk. I’m asleep in no time.

“Wake up,” a far-away voice says.

I roll onto my back and crack open my eyes to the sight of Jules hovering over me, coffee mug in hand.

“Are you awake?” she asks.

“I think so. Is that coffee?”

Jules gives the mug in her hand a thin smile. “No. This is ice water, in case you didn’t wake up.”

“I’m up. Jesus,” I say, scrambling to right myself.

“That girl’s back in the lobby.”

“Molly?”

“You tell me.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Is Ollie up yet?”

“He’s toweling off upstairs.”

Poor Ollie, he’s a heavy sleeper. “Thanks, Jules. Tell Molly I’ll be right out.”

It takes me five minutes to tidy myself up before retrieving Molly and leading her upstairs to meet Ollie. As we make our way up the staircase I can’t help but notice the stark contrast in the outfit she’s now wearing compared to yesterday’s loose attire. Today it’s all business: black slacks, a well-ironed white blouse and two-inch heels. She’s even bundled up her hair in a conservative manner but, remarkably, she is no more or less attractive than she was in her gray sweatpants.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs Ollie makes his way over and greets Molly politely. “Pleasure,” he says briskly, doing his dead-level best not to show any signs of appetency.

“So this is it,” Molly says, moving to the center of the room. “Well, let’s have it. How’s this gonna work?”

“Like you might imagine,” I confess. “You’ll strip and pose. We’ll ogle and take pictures.”

Molly raises an eyebrow. “Two points for honesty.”

I sit down next to the digital camera Ollie has set-up and motion to the oversized ottoman arranged before us. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say.

“Am I expected to use that?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Good.” Molly puts her foot to the ottoman and sends in skidding across the room. She takes a quick, resolute breath and peels off her blouse without bothering to undo a single button. The bundle of hair on her head comes tumbling down in neat succession. In the same motion she kicks her shoes off and slides effortlessly out of her slacks. She’s down to her bra and panties in ten seconds flat.

I hold up my hand to stop her from carrying on.

“Look at you,” Ollie says, peeking over the top of his camera.

Molly wrinkles her nose flirtatiously. “And it’s not even my birthday,” she says.

“Well, if it was, you’d be a Gemini,” Ollie says, chuckling to himself.

“I hope that wasn’t your regular routine at the strip club,” I say, gesturing to the clothes discarded on the floor around her.

“I was under the impression this was just a formality.”

“It is, but a little showmanship never hurts.”

“Do you want me to start over?”

“No, I want you to tell me why you’re here.”

“I thought I already did.”

“That’s debatable. Do you wanna know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re here because we’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you didn’t walk in here yesterday on account of the architecture. You tracked us down. The question is why?”

“No, I just”—Molly falters uncharacteristically—“It’s not like that at all.”

“A Princeton grad walks into a porn studio. Sounds like the opening line to a dirty joke, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“So let’s have it. What’s the punchline?”

“No punchline,” she says. “I just want to earn some money.” Still standing in a déshabillé state Molly doesn’t lose her sense of business. “Why not here? This is a multi-billion dollar industry, after all. I’d like to take some of it home.”

I draw a deep breath before playing along. “Well, I don’t know what they’re teaching at Princeton these days but, I’ve gotta tell you, performers don’t make that much.”

“No, but producers do,” she replies, “and it just so happens I’ve got a little cash saved up.”

“Clever you.”

“I have my moments. Would you care to see what else I can contribute?”

“I would,” Ollie says.

“You tracked us down,” I repeat, ignoring Ollie’s impatience. “Why?”

Molly stiffens her left leg and leans into her hip, crisscrossing her arms loosely behind her back. “I thought you wanted to be teased.”

“I never said that.”

Molly levels her green eyes on me. “Are you sure?”

I resist the urge to reiterate myself and think back to our previous conversation. I’m still locked with Molly’s eyes when the pieces start coming together. “You’re quoting Artico,” I say at last, recognizing the words to be my own, spoken years ago by Felicia Lockhart in her final starring role. I could see now that Molly Filmore was more than an incredible body, she was a sly businesswoman.

“I wasn’t trying to fool you, Mac. Not really.”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it. You’re here because you see an opportunity. I respect that; but this job doesn’t come with guarantees. If you wanna give this a try, you’ll have to put in the work.”

Molly nods along without interrupting.

“This is what I’ll do,” I continue. “Five videos to start—you star, I’ll direct and produce. After that we’ll split production fifty-fifty, until you’ve had your fill. Sound fair?”

“That’s a generous offer,” Molly says. “And I accept the conditions, but don’t you want to see the rest of me first?”

“By all means,” I concede.

Next to me Ollie comes to life with a start. He resets the camera and focuses it on Molly as she reaches around and unhooks her bra, deftly tugging it from her breasts, which hover steadily without the support. Finally she slips out of her panties and poses herself with a cool sense of aplomb. It amazes me that in all her stances she never once grabs her ankles or resorts to splaying her legs in a graphic manner, nor does she use the ottoman as a deviant prop. She poises herself so the shadows silhouette her curves and so that, later, Ollie and I will strain our necks reviewing the prints.

“So what do you think? Do we still need a safety net?”

Ollie is sitting on the Broyhill in my office, balancing a heavy stack of 8x10s on his lap. Somehow he managed to snap more than two hundred shots of Molly in the nude. “Safety net,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t hurt.” He selects a photo and angles it away from the light to minimize the glare.

“Do you think Lori is the right one to keep on staff?”

“I don’t know,” Ollie deliberates. “She is high maintenance.”

“You think we can trust her?”

“It’s your call.”

I’m suddenly reminded of my old partner Shane Grossman and his doomsday prediction when I put it all on the line five years ago. Growing up I watched my father bet every penny he earned at the racetracks. He was a good man, but reckless. He made terrible decisions. It was a lifestyle that cost him everything: his money, his reputation and, eventually, my mother. I’ve never gambled on a horse but I’m still my father’s son. I place my bets just like he did; the only difference is I’m gambling on people, a greater risk than his ever was.

By the time Saturday arrives Ollie is ready to roll film. He has transformed the upstairs studio into a cozy bedroom scene. The natural light that usually saturates the room has been replaced with a warm yellow tungsten glow and there’s a fireplace I’ve never seen before situated against the far wall. It looks functional from where I’m standing, but Ollie says the hearth is carved from a block of Styrofoam.

“What time is Stratford supposed to get here?” he asks.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

Ollie knows as well as I do Stratford isn’t running late—he’s already in the building—we can hear him downstairs flirting with Jules.

Molly hasn’t met Stratford yet. She is in the studio with us, taking in Ollie’s set decoration while we wait. “Why is one corner of the room painted red?” she wants to know.

Ollie dodges the question. “We’re not using that section,” he says.

“But why red?”

“It’s a homage to Alex Trebek,” says a wry voice. Stratford takes two steps at a time as he strides up the stairwell. “Sorry I’m late, Mac,” he adds.

I wave off his apology. “Stratford, I’d like you to meet Molly Filmore.”

Stratford leans in and sniffs her playfully. “Mm, you’ve got that new-car smell.”

Molly gives him a wan smile. “I assure you I’ve been ridden in before.”

Stratford doesn’t attempt to play it cool. He does everything but slap his knee in amusement. Her reciprocating one-liner wins him over completely—he doesn’t even spring his infamous satyriasis joke on her. They continue to riposte one another flirtatiously while Ollie double-checks the cameras to make sure they are adjusted to his liking. Once he’s done I take a seat behind the monitor that displays all the angles and cue Stratford and Molly to take their positions. Ollie already has the stationary camera rolling so he can jump back and forth between the other two cameras according to my direction.

On the set Molly and Stratford act out the dialogue I’ve written with flawless precision. They’re behavior off-camera bleeds into their performances with credible accuracy. They tease each other for ten minutes, building up to a playful striptease and all the sexual favors one would expect to follow. The display on the monitor indicates we’re fourteen minutes in when Stratford scoots Molly’s mile-high legs apart and eases himself inside her.

I watch as they entwine themselves and seamlessly transition from one position to another without breaking rhythm. As they slowly work their way to a climax I think for a moment my own libido might emerge from its hibernation. Molly proves she’s capable of beguilement when she looks at what’s happening between her legs and bites her lower lip in delight. It’s a simple image, universal and, in my opinion, overused, but somehow she makes it look erotic again. I’d love to give Stratford some credit but his technique isn’t any different from the last ten films we shot together.

It only takes an hour to get all the footage we need. With three hours of tape and just as many angles to choose from me and Ollie spend five long nights in front of the computer monitor editing the material into one cohesive video. I title the film Nouveau, in light of the fresh start and because I can’t think of anything else. It’s an inside joke more than it is a title, but in an industry overrun with amateurs I figure the risk is minimal.

Ollie nods when he sees the final production. “Looks like we’re finally getting lucky,” he says. “It’s about time.”

“Lucky is the name of a dog. My mother used to say that,” I recall.

“What’s it mean?”

“It means there’s no such thing as luck.”

The final leg of production takes longer to finish than the filming and editing combined. Ollie handles the art design and packaging while I send out publicity cards to retailers, hyping Nouveau as “the must-see sequel to the soft-core hit Artico.” If my guess is right stores will request copies based on the first film’s merit alone. It takes a few weeks to get the video on store shelves, and another three months before it shows any signs of life. But I know the film is a hit when an Internet search lists Nouveau above Gustav Klimt and Western art.

The next thing I know someone from the Playboy Mansion is inviting us to a lawn party. Sixteen years in the business and suddenly I’m a hot new talent. Magazines from Primrose to Penthouse vie to feature Molly first on their covers. Eager producers call Stratford’s cell continuously, trying to capitalize on his lapsed contract. Ollie is the only one who manages to avoid celebrity status. His anonymity in the production credits keeps him safely under the radar.

It doesn’t take long for industry trade magazine Adult Video News to recognize Molly’s talent and nominate her for the honor of Best New Starlet. We make the trip to Las Vegas to attend the AVN Awards, an event that mimics the Academy Awards with frat house panache, from the over-ambitious award categories to the Oscar-esque trophy itself, a statuette aptly named Woody.

“I suppose you’ll want a raise once you win,” I say, checking the name cards on the table to see if we’re in the right spot.

“You mean if I win,” Molly corrects me.

The huge conference room is dotted with tables. Each table is encircled with eight chairs and assigned seating. We share a table with three girls, two of whom are twins, nominated in the Best All-Girl Sex Scene, a first-year director and a male performer I instantly recognize as Buck Tanglewood, a twenty-year veteran. Even at the relatively young age of thirty-eight he deserves a lifetime achievement award for lasting in the industry this long. The eighth chair at our table isn’t occupied or marked with a name card so everyone is spread out comfortably.

With polite nods to our tablemates Molly and I sit down, scooting close to one another so our conversation doesn’t spill over to the rest of the table.

“Trust me, you’ll win. I’ve seen the tapes. The girls you’re up against don’t stand a chance.”

“You think so?”

“Do you really wanna play this game?”

“I’m not playing, I’m basking.”

“You’re bragging about sleeping your way to the top.”

“So? Half the girls in my graduating class work for conglomerate organizations. They’re doing the same thing I am. There’s only one difference.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re not allowed to brag.”

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice says. “I hate to interrupt this… whatever this is.”

Startled, we turn to find Shane Grossman hunched over and listening in on our persiflage. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he says. “Is this seat taken?”

Shane grabs the neglected eighth chair before we can think to replay, spins it on its heel and straddles it with his stomach pressed against the back. Then, reaching past me, he offers his hand to Molly. “You’re Molly Filmore, right?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“This is Shane Grossman, my old partner,” I say.

“Business partners,” he clarifies. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Unlike me Shane still has a healthy sexual appetite and a legendary reputation to go along with it. I wouldn’t say he has a homophobic personality, he just wants to make sure the twins sitting at our table don’t get the wrong impression.

“So tell us,” I say. “How are things?”

“I can’t complain.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I saw your film. Nice work, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“I was surprised by how well it was received. It actually gave me an idea.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Well, it got me thinking, if your film—what’s the title?”

“Nouveau,” Molly inserts.

“Right. That. It got me thinking, if a soft-core creampie flick like yours can draw a big crowd, why not a biblical feature?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Think about it, Adam and Eve buck naked in the garden, what else are they gonna do? I looked into it. There’s tons of sex in the Good Book.”

“That’s an interesting idea.”

“It’s money in the bank.”

“I trust you’ll send me a copy.”

“You’ll be the first,” he says, rising from his seat as the house lights go dim. “It’s good to see you, Mac.”

“You too.”

“And you.” Shane produces his business card and offers it to Molly. “It was real nice meeting you.”

“Keep it,” Molly says. “I needed a blood transfusion when I finished signing my contract.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Shane withdraws his card reluctantly. “In that case, best of luck on your nomination tonight.”

“Thank you.”

The ceremony begins as Shane zigzags across the room in search of his assigned seat.

Onstage the first category is announced. I focus my attention on the presenter as he tears open the night’s first envelope. Winners are declared in nineteen different categories before the Best New Starlet category is revealed. Molly’s smile is almost invisible when she hears her name listed with the other nominees. Last year’s Best Male Newcomer is onstage to present the award. He breaks the envelope’s flimsy seal and leans into the microphone. “And the winner is…” he says deliberately, “…Molly Filmore.”

The static strand of applause fills the auditorium. “Congratulations,” I say.

Molly hugs me. “By the way,” she says, pressing her lips to my ear. “You don’t have to give me a raise.”

We return to Los Angeles the following day and immediately start preparing for our next feature. With the sudden acclaim and widespread popularity of Nouveau we don’t waste any time capitalizing on our newfound celebrity. We produce four films in less than six months. Each one has a better return rate than its predecessor. Everything seems to have fallen in place. Molly Filmore is the most recognizable name in the industry, a superstar before her Best New Starlet trophy can collect any dust. She keeps her composure, takes it all in stride, a corporate girl working her way to the top in an express elevator. Interviews, photo ops, she never reveals too much. She’s smart, she knows how to present herself—what to say, how to pose—in order to keep her audience coming back for more. And they always come back.

The week following the release our fifth feature together Molly shows up at the office to discuss the incipience of our partnership, or at least that’s the impression she gave over the phone. The papers are already drawn up, all we have to do is sign on the dotted lines. Molly is always telling people about the airtight contract she’s committed to when, in fact, air is the only thing holding us accountable. There’s nothing that states she has to stay with me or that I have to make her a partner, but I have no intention of breaking my promise to her. I’d be a fool to back out on our agreement now. I can only hope she feels the same way.

Through the intercom-like air vents in my office I can hear Jules greet Molly in her usual warm manner. “Look at you, girl,” she says. “You’re glowing. Black women don’t glow. For us it’s either matte or gloss. What’s your secret? Tanning bed? Blemish cream?”

Molly says something about vitamin E oil and a strict all-carrot diet. Whether or not this is Princeton knowledge or a ritual she actually practices is debatable.

Molly sticks her head into my office a minute later. She taps on the door to let me know she’s there. When I look up I see that Jules was being more literal than she was polite. Molly actually has a pleasant glow about her.

I wave her in, but Molly has already taken the initiative and is closing the door behind her. She leans against the door and exhales. The congenial attitude she shared with Jules goes flat once we’re alone.

“Was it something I said?”

Molly cockles her face grotesquely as if withholding a need to retch something toxic from her body. “I don’t know how to say this, Mac,” she finally says.

In a fraction of a second my brain attempts to calculate the degree of severity in her forthcoming news. Dozens of possible scenarios scroll by, the most obvious being her departure for a better offer. I suppose it was bound to happen. I should have made her my partner sooner. What was I thinking?

Molly crosses the room and flops down on the Broyhill. Her light frame scarcely puts a dent in the cushions. “I’m going to see a doctor this afternoon,” she says. “I’ve got an appointment. I want you to come with me.”

This is not a scenario I anticipated. “It isn’t serious, is it?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Your point of view,” she replies. “Will you go with me or not?”

“Don’t you think I deserve to know what’s going on first? I mean fair is fair.”

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

She’s not asking a question, she’s giving me fair warning. “I’ll do my best.” My brain goes to work again throwing up red flag scenarios.

Molly takes a sharp breath. “I’m pregnant.”

“That’s unexpected.”

“I know.”

Molly’s decision to inform me is not an altogether good sign. Thanks to modern birth control pregnancy is a low percentage occurrence in the industry. When it does happen girls view it as an inconvenience more than anything else, choosing to abort the fetus without discussion. It’s a career move like any other.

“How far along are you?”

“Four weeks. That means there’s a heartbeat.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to have a baby,” Molly says. Her voice is missing its usual witty thrust and her blunt, factual tone sidesteps any potential rebuttals. That doesn’t stop me from trying, though.

“What about our partnership? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“I did, but—I’m sorry. I can’t do it anymore. Not now.”

“Nothing has to change.”

“I know this wasn’t a part of our plan, but I can’t terminate this pregnancy. I’m not that selfish.”

“So that’s it? You’re gonna drop everything to raise a child?”

“It’s my decision, Mac.”

“I understand, but I don’t want you to throw this away. You walk out now and that’s it, you can’t come back.”

“I know I’m letting you down right now, but I need your support.”

“You’re beautiful and intelligent, you’ve got a business savvy unheard of in this industry. You want me to encourage you to give that up?”

Molly sighs. “No. I just want you to go see a doctor with me. Can you do that?”

I exhale. Suddenly Felicia’s abrupt exit isn’t such a bitter pill. Molly is bowing out in the most painful manner possible: with irrevocable certainty and to my face—and not only that, she wants me to hold her hand in the process.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll go with you.”

“Thanks, Mac.”

I don’t know if I’m really such a nice guy or just a masochist at heart. After all, I’ve got a business to run. This isn’t my responsibility. Yet here I am, driving Molly to an appointment that will inevitably slam the doors on any future ventures.

The doctor’s office is near La Mirada, located in one of those medical clusters known primarily for its curative specialists. On the outside the facility looks like a futuristic outlet mall, but on the inside no one is offering discount prices.

I sit next to Molly in the waiting room while she fills out several sheets of paperwork. When her name is finally called she beckons me to join her. Somehow we’re in this together, a pregnant woman and an impotent man.

Thankfully the checkup doesn’t last too long. Molly’s obstetrician, Dr. Olshine, works his medical magic, verifying her pregnancy in no time. “We’ll perform an ultrasound during your next visit,” he says, making a note on her chart. “Are there any questions you need to ask me?”

“I don’t think so,” Molly says. “There’s still a lot I haven’t processed, though.”

“Well, if anything comes to mind,” he says, “don’t hesitate to call.”

Once we’re out of the examining room Molly sets up a new appointment before we head back across town. I park the car in the small lot behind the studio and cut the engine, but neither of us moves to get out.

“Thanks for doing this, Mac.” Molly pivots her body, curling her left leg under her as she turns; then, leaning across the console, she hugs me. I can actually feel the finality in her embrace and for whatever reason—considerate, masochistic—I can’t let go. I can’t let it end this way.

“Listen. If you want me to take you to your next appointment, I will.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Molly studies me with her eternal green eyes, her face only inches from mine. I try to match her gaze, but I don’t fool myself. Finally she kisses my cheek and climbs out of the car. “I’ll call you then,” she says.

I walk into the studio a few minutes later feeling good, if not slightly confused about my decision. I sift through the mail Jules has left on my desk, pausing when I come across a small orange parcel. I’ve forgotten about the conversation I had with Shane Grossman at the AVN Awards, but my memory quickly returns when I spot his FNA Productions logo stamped on the package. I find a copy of his first attempt at biblical pornography sealed inside. The film is titled The Big Bang and depicts the Garden of Eden in a manner that is both credible and tasteful. Of course, “Adam’s” penis is tinged with attrition and “Eve’s” vagina is cooked medium rare, its browned edges and moist pink center are a far cry from virgin territory—but still, I’m impressed. The vignette doesn’t stray beyond the boundaries of the original text, at least what I’ve read of it. The production value is good and the wardrobes (while they last) are authentic-looking. They could air Shane’s film on TBN if it wasn’t for the diagrammatic sex scene following Adam and Eve’s eviction from the garden.

Seeing his success is a stark reminder of just how far Molly’s departure has set us back. I have no choice but to give Lori Bangs the predominate female role and, as much as it pains me, start auditioning new applicants on a daily basis. It’s strange to be working with eager inexperience again after witnessing the calm professionalism Molly brought to the table. It’s not as gratifying but it’s easy to revert back to the old format. I’ve got stacks of generic script ideas piled around my desk and, now that I’ve earned name recognition, there are twice as many soulless Polaroid’s to choose from. But whenever Molly calls to see if I can take her to a checkup, I always make the time. I’m happy to get away from the studio, even if it’s just to chauffeur her across town. I’ve all but given up on trying to define my motivations—I don’t need an excuse to keep her company. I guess Ollie is right: You don’t have to have your name attached to something to feel good about it. Sometimes it just works better that way.

During our second visit to Dr. Olshine’s office he takes a routine ultrasound. I can’t make heads or tails of what I’m seeing on the monitor, if anything, but as he moves the transducer across Molly’s abdomen he announces she’s pregnant with twins.

“Congratulations,” he says.

Molly gazes upon the embryonic images with motherly compassion. She doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about raising two children on her own. It’s amazing how quickly the news alters her perception. The monitor reveals a couple of indistinguishable blips and somehow it’s breathtaking, somehow reality becomes more real in the face of such fragile and rudimentary life.

“That’s strange,” her doctor says. He is still carefully studying the monitor.

“What is it?” Molly asks.

“The embryos don’t appear to be developing at a normal rate.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Early-stage scans can be tricky, but if we do a prenatal test the cell structure might give us a few hints.” Dr. Olshine goes on to discuss the test in detail with Molly and she allows him to take a sample of something he calls “chorionic villus.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dr. Olshine assures us.

Molly is silent as we leave the doctor’s office and drive back to her place. I don’t try to get her talking or offer any reassuring words, nothing seems appropriate but the silence we’re already sharing. When we reach her apartment she climbs out of the car but immediately stoops her neck to look back in on me.

I hold up my hand. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Her lips part briefly despite my offer. “Thanks,” she whispers.

I’m reluctant to leave, but there’s no point in lingering when she wants to be alone. I make sure she gets into her apartment before driving back to the studio. I won’t see her for almost two weeks unless her doctor calls sooner with the results from her prenatal. All I can do is go back to work and wait for her phone call.

It’s not much of a plan but, as it turns out, putting her troubled pregnancy out of my mind is short-lived. I’m barely through the studio door when Jules rushes over and presses the telephone into my hand with an urgent gesture.

“Hello?”

“I need you,” Molly’s voice says in my ear.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m having contractions.”

“Is that normal?”

“I’m in my first trimester, Mac. It’s definitely not normal.”

“Have you called your doctor?”

“He’s on his way.”

“Okay, good. Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you come over?”

“Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I pass the phone back to Jules and race back to my car without giving her an explanation. With the hazard lights flashing I speed across town in record time. When I reach the apartment I don’t bother knocking on her door. Molly has a bad habit of leaving it unlocked, even when she’s not anticipating guests. The warm metal knob turns in my hand just as I expect and the door swings open. I step inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim interior. In all my visits I’ve only been inside her apartment once, so I automatically move toward the only doorway I see framed in light.

A few seconds later I’m standing in the threshold of a tiny bathroom. Molly and her doctor are already there, but neither of them notice my arrival. Molly is sitting in the bathtub, naked from the waist down, her eyes transfixed upon the water in a hypnotic fashion. Dr. Olshine is kneeling at the foot of the tub, the sleeves of his blue oxford are soaked up to the elbows. His eyes, too, are set on the water.

“Is everything all right?”

Dr. Olshine straightens himself at the sound of my voice, but never takes his eyes off the water. Like an ancient statue coming to life his lips part noiselessly as he tries to formulate the right words. “In the water,” he finally manages. “Hippocampus hudsonius.”

“Hippo-what?” I follow his gaze down to the water but can’t make out anything beyond its reflective surface.

“Sea horses,” he says incredulously. “She’s given birth to sea horses.”

I lean closer, looking past the sparkling surface into the clear bathwater and there, floating gracefully in the quiet current swirling around Molly, are the two inexplicable arrivals. I watch with fascination as one of the tiny creatures coils its tail around one of her submerged toes to steady itself.

Kneeling next to the tub, I dip my fingers into the warm, brackish water Molly has created and gently rub the underside of its tubular snout. My gesture stirs Molly from her trance-like state. She raises her eyes to meet mine.

“Congratulations,” I say.

Molly blinks in disbelief. “You don’t find this at all strange?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I haven’t seen anything this normal in a long time.”