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From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Exile - Chapter Ten - Girls on Film (Mf mmf tg teen drugs)
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 17:10:05 -0500
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Exile
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 

 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has
been reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a
journal I kept during these years. 
 
This is a sequel to _Wanderings_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org
site: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html 

 


Chapter Ten - Girls on Film (Mf mmf tg teen drugs)


I stayed there in the abandoned building for three days, eating 
convenience store sandwiches, peeing in the hole in the bathroom
floor, walking to a nearby coffee shop each day for a hot meal and a
real bathroom.  My only concessions to comfort and hygiene were the
newspaper I spread over the mattress, a toothbrush and toothpaste,
and a roll of toilet paper.  I swiped a wad of napkins from the
store, using these to give myself a cold water  sponge bath,
standing next to the sink and taking off one piece of clothing at a
time, putting them back on when I was done.  Even so, I could tell
that I was starting to smell a little ripe.

I saw the taxi driver again on the second day, sucking him again for
another $35.  No tip this time, even though he filled my mouth with
his sperm again.  By now, I had a little over eighty bucks in my
pocket. 

On the third day, I put on my shortest skirt and tightest sweater,
the clothes I'd worn that last night with Father Steve and Father
Ken.  But for the knit tights I wore under my skirt, I would have
frozen my ass off, standing on the corner, watching cars slow down
and drive away.  Two of them stopped, though, a youngish guy, still
in his twenties, overweight and acne-scarred, and an older black man
in a decrepit sedan that smelled like a pine forest inside.  I
sucked them both, one for $25 and the other for $30.  After buying
food, drink, and a fresh newspaper, I still had over $100.

The next morning, the fourth day of hiding, the lights went out.  I
was getting dressed, about to head out for something for breakfast
other than a deli sandwich, looking forward to sitting in the nice
warm coffee shop.  I could almost smell the bacon I'd have with my
pancakes.  The lights just flickered out, leaving me in
near-darkness, just what dim rays found their  way through the
broken and boarded up windows. 

My heart pounded, and I heard or imagined tiny claws scratching all 
around me.  I stuffed everything I could into my backpack and
hurried out of the place, poking my head out of the nook under the
front steps to see if the coast was clear.  A truck from the
electric company was parked outside, the driver writing something on
a clipboard before driving off.  He must have cut the power,
probably because the owner stopped paying the bills.  The electric
meter that was mounted on the facade was gone, just a blank plastic
disk where the meter and glass bubble had been.  I shouldered my
pack and headed down the block, still intent on having a decent
breakfast. 

As I sipped my second cup of coffee, I concentrated on figuring out
what to do next.  I was trying to recall the locations of other
abandoned buildings I'd seen in the neighborhood when I remembered a
sign I'd seen on a brownstone near the convenience store, "ROOMS FOR
RENT".  I paid for breakfast and grabbed my bag, heading to where I
thought the building was located.  It wasn't where I thought it was,
but I found it eventually, two blocks down.  There was another "ROOM
AVAILABLE $35" sign in the lobby, with the name "ANTONELLI" written
on the bottom in a shaky hand.  I pressed the button with that name
on it and the front door buzzed open.  There was a door on the first
floor with that name, so I knocked.

I heard movement after the second knock, a muttering, slow
footsteps.  The building smelled like cooked onions, with a faint
undertone of urine.  I was about to give up and leave when the locks
on the door began to click open.  The door only opened a couple of
inches, a brass chain across the gap.

"Can I help you?" someone said through the gap.

"Um, you have a room for rent?" I asked, trying to keep my voice
from cracking.  The onion smell drifted out of the apartment.

"Who's asking?" the voice demanded, the door opening a bit wider
until the chain was taut.

"Anne," I said.  "My name is Anne."  I saw a faded hazel eye appear 
above the chain, a wrinkled cheek, a shock of snow white hair.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Eighteen," I said.

"Bullshit.  Go away."  The door began to close, the gap narrowing by
an inch.

"No, please, I have money," I blurted out, digging in my pocket and 
coming up with all the money I had, waving it in front of his eye.

"No."  The door closed another inch.

"Please!" I cried, sticking my toe in the gap and leaning against
the door.  "I'll suck your cock," I said, quietly.  "Please?"

"Get away from the door," the man said.  Disappointed, feeling
ashamed for having offered myself just for the chance to rent a
room, I retreated, pulling my toe from the door and stepping back. 
The door slammed shut, but as I was turning to leave, I heard the
scraping of the chain and the door opened again, wider this time, an
elderly man in a white shirt and black trousers standing in the
doorway. 

"Come in," he said.  Mr. Antonelli stepped aside as I walked through
the door.  His apartment was a mess, newspapers and magazines strewn
about, the sink overflowing with dishes, something noxious cooking
on the stove.  Still, you could tell that it had once been
meticulously cared for.  Lace curtains, old photographs carefully
arranged on the walls, pots and pans hanging from the kitchen
cabinets, the remnants of a woman's touch.  I stood in the middle of
his messy living room while he slowly picked his way through the
only clear path on the rug and settled down in an overstuffed easy
chair with a torn armrest. 

"You serious?" he said in his thick accent.  "You suck me for a
room?" 

"Yes, sir," I said, looking down at my feet.

"Hrmph," he grunted, and then he eased himself up from the chair,
going to an old wooden side table next to the front door.  It was
piled high with unopened mail, and when he opened the drawer and
began to rummage around for something, a few envelopes fell off the
stack and on to the floor.  I went over and knelt down, picking up
the fallen pieces of mail.

"Don't bother," he said, pulling a set of keys from the drawer.  "I
show you the room now."  Mr. Antonelli unlocked the door and I
followed him out into the hall, up the stairs, all the way to the
third floor.  He took it slow, one step at a time, but he was
wheezing heavily when he reached the top of the third flight. 
Despite this, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit
one, coughing wetly when he exhaled the smoke.

"This th' bathroom over here," he said, opening a narrow door at the
end of the hallway.  It was tiny, hardly enough room for the tub,
sink, and toilet.  The tiles on the floor and walls were cracked,
the paint was peeling, and the sink looked like it hadn't been
cleaned in twenty years.  A single bare light bulb hung from the
ceiling, swaying back and forth when he pulled the chain that turned
it on. 

"This your room over here," Mr. Antonelli said, opening another door
with the keys he'd fished out of his drawer.

It was only slightly larger than my room at the shelter, but it
faced the south side of the street and the bay window was flooded
with morning sunlight.  I sat down on the bed, hearing the mattress
and boxspring squeak.  Not too lumpy, not too firm, either.  There
was a dresser, a table by the bed, a lamp, and, in place of a
closet, a tall metal cabinet with a rod and hangers.  The wooden
floor was bare, and there was a sink in the corner, white porcelain
with a spiderweb of fine cracks in the glazing.

"Is all right?" Mr. Antonelli asked me.  "Is a good room."

"Yes, it's fine, thank you," I said, twisting the sink's hot water 
faucet.  It coughed, spitting air and fizzy brown water before the 
stream began to turn clear.  It took a while for the water to turn
warm, then hot.

"Okay?" he said.

"Yes."

"Let's go back," he said, shuffling into the hallway.  "We talk."

I followed Mr. Antonelli back to his apartment, his halting gait
beating an irregular rhythm on the broad wooden floorboards.  He
went into the kitchen and stirred whatever he was cooking, and after
a couple of minutes of pots clanging and water running, he returned
with a spoon in his hand, sinking back into his easy chair.

"You suck me now?" he said.  I hoped it wouldn't come to this.

"Yes, sir."  I put down my backpack and knelt between his legs,
putting my hands on his knees.  He stroked my hair with a shaky hand
and smiled. 

I wasn't ready for the smell.  It was as if he hadn't bathed in
weeks, a musty, sweaty scent that permeated his yellowed boxer
shorts.  I had to help him pull his trousers down, and he farted
loudly when he lifted his butt off of the chair's cushion.

"'scusa me" he muttered, seeing me turn my head.  I held my breath
and leaned into his crotch, his cock and balls in my hands, the tip
aimed at my mouth.  Even though his stubby penis never really got
totally hard -- he was even older than Father John -- he seemed to
enjoy my attention, and, after a few minutes of vigorous sucking and
stroking, he came, his cock dribbling a thin stream of foul tasting
semen.  I choked it back, swallowing his cum, despite the awful
taste. 

Mr. Antonelli leaned back in his chair, looking as if he were about
to go to sleep.  Then he snapped out of his trance and had me help
him pull his boxers and trousers up, shuffling over to the table
where he'd fished for the keys, pulling out a receipt book and a
pen. 

"You name?" he said, pen in shaky hand, poised to write on a fresh 
receipt.

"Anne Mercer."

"Anna Mercero," he repeated.

"No.  Anne.  Anne Mercer."

"Right.  Anna Mercero," he repeated.  "Two weeks up front, I give
you the room for $25 a week."

"$25?" I said, puzzled.  "The sign said $35."

"Rent due on Saturday.  You suck me then, no?"

"Every week?"  I shuddered at the thought at sucking him again.

"You want the room or no?" he asked.

"Yes, sir.  I'd like the room, please."  I handed him $50 and he
gave me the keys and a receipt.

"Buono.  I gonna like having you 'round," he said.  "Bella Anna." 
He pinched my cheek like Mrs. Pomerantz had done, his eyes
sparkling, a smile on his face.

"Would you mind if I cleaned the bathroom up there?" I asked.

"'ey, knock y'self out," he said.  "I got some stuff for that."  He 
retreated into the kitchen, returning with sponges, a can of Ajax,
and a roll of paper towels, all sealed and unused.

"Thank you, sir," I said, preparing to take my leave.

"Gustavo.  My name Gustavo.  You call me Gus, okay?  You let me know
if you need anything, okay?"

"Yes, sir.  Thank you...er, Gus," I said.  I'd just sucked his cock,
but I still didn't feel comfortable calling him by his first name. 
He seemed old enough to be my great-grandfather.  I shouldered my
pack and picked up the cleaning supplies, letting myself out of his
apartment as he turned on his television and eased himself back into
his seat. 

The room was drafty and cold, especially at night, until I stuffed 
newspaper in the gaps around the window sash.  Mr. Antonelli lent me
a wrench, and I figured out how to bleed the air from the radiator, 
bringing steam heat into my little room.

Little by little, I settled in, made myself comfortable, made the
room mine.  I kept the bathroom clean, swept the stairs and hallway,
washed years of accumulated grime from my windows.  There was a
Salvation Army store in the neighborhood, and I picked up things to
make my room more of a home, a rug for the floor, a nice warm
comforter, a lamp with a dented shade, a hotplate and some pots and
dishes, so I could make myself a can of soup after a cold day on the
corner. 

I hardly ever saw my neighbors in the rooming house.  There were two
other apartments on my floor.  One was occupied by Luis, a Hispanic
man in his thirties who barely spoke English.  He'd leave for work
early, just as the sun was coming up, and wouldn't return until well
after midnight.  Mr. Antonelli said Luis worked two jobs, as an
janitor at a hospital by day, and cleaning office buildings at
night.  Luis sent almost all of his money back to El Salvador, to
his family. 

Miss Kass lived in the other room.  She was a retired school teacher
in her sixties, rail thin, with the rigid upright posture of someone
who had learned to walk with books balanced on her head.  She rarely
went out, not even to the bathroom, and I began to think that she
peed in the sink in her room rather than walk ten steps down the
hall to the toilet.  She'd peek through the door when she heard
someone coming up the stairs, and once I caught a glimpse of her
room; neat, tidy, cleaner than mine.  I often heard the sound of a
broom behind her door, sometimes two or three times a day.  She had
a large collection of books, old leather- bound volumes stacked on
thrift shop shelves.  On her dresser was a half-gallon jug of S. S.
Pierce vodka, the cheapest brand you could buy, about a quarter
full.  Next to the dresser, stacked in three neat columns on the
floor, were two dozen cans of cat food. 

Miss Kass did not have a cat.


                                  * * *


In the weeks that followed, I developed a routine, a daily and
weekly schedule that kept me busy, kept my mind from wandering into
painful territory.

I'd wake up and make tea, washing my face in the sink while I waited
for the water to boil.  Most mornings I'd have a roll or muffin,
bought at the bakery on Tremont Street the day before, but sometimes
I'd go out for breakfast.  Usually, I'd eat light, because sometimes
I got nauseous when I worked, and throwing up on someone's lap while
you were sucking them was bad for business.

I'd work the streets during lunchtime and during the evening rush
hours.  Those were the busiest times, and I tried to make the most
of them, standing on the corner and waiting for men to drive by and
stop.  I typically had one or two during lunch and as many as five
during the evening commute.

The bulk of what I did was sucking cock.  Some guys just wanted a
hand job, the cheap ones.  They'd usually try to talk me down to
five dollars, or offer some dubious drugs in trade, but I wouldn't
do it for any less than ten.  With the exception of Larry the cab
driver, and another regular, The Photographer, I rarely saw the same
man twice.  Most of them were middle-aged, paunchy, balding.  Too
many of them had wedding bands on their fingers.  Sometimes I'd see
someone younger, like the man in his thirties with the horrible acne
scars, or a young man in his late teens or twenties, driving in from
the suburbs in his parents' car, looking for a blowjob.

Actual fucking was pretty rare, made difficult by the logistics of 
having sex in a car parked on the street.  I let Larry fuck me in
his taxi while we were parked behind his company's garage on Albany
Street, and once I took him up to my room, the only time I ever took
someone up there.  It was his 48th birthday, he seemed so down, and
I felt like doing something special for him.  I put in my diaphragm,
sucked him until he was hard, and then I climbed on top of him,
clinging to his round belly as I rocked my hips over his crotch,
sliding up and down his glistening pole.  Larry closed his eyes and
smiled as I rode him.  I actually would have done him for free,
because he was so nice to me.  But he left $100 on my dresser
anyway, giving me a kiss on the cheek before he left.

I never kissed these men I serviced.  Sometimes one of the younger
ones would try, but I'd turn my head.  The older men knew the score.
 This was business.  Some of them wanted to feel me, to cup my
breasts through my clothes or squeeze my ass while I was bent over
on the front seat, my head bobbing in their lap.  I let them, as
long as they weren't too rough.  It made them come sooner.  It made
my job easier. 

Only a couple of times did I feel scared, in danger.  It was
important to read every situation; my life depended on it.  Was he
sweating too much?  All of them were nervous to some degree, even
Larry, but some just radiated anxiety, and I could tell even before
I opened the door.  Once I refused to go with someone, a cabbie who
said "Get in the car, bitch."  I just gave him the finger and walked
down the block.  He followed me for a while and then drove off in
search of easier prey. 

The cops were a minor annoyance.  The corner I worked wasn't known
for hosting prostitutes, unlike the streets near the bus station and
the Combat Zone downtown, where I'd found that adult bookstore. 
When I saw a police car in the area, I'd start walking, looking as
if I had a destination.  I usually carried my knapsack, empty except
for a couple of cans of soup.  This was my main weapon, and it came
in handy when a drunken homeless man tried to grope me on the
street.  I swung it, and it hit his head with a satisfying "thump". 
After that, he'd cross the street whenever he saw me.  I also
carried Manny's knife, until Larry gave me a small can of pepper
spray, telling me I'd get in more trouble for having a blade if I
got picked up by the cops than for working the streets.

In the afternoon, between lunch and rush hour, I'd do my shopping,
go to the library, browse through used book stores, walk around the
city for a few hours.  Sometimes I'd stay in and read, or clean, or
just take a nap.  At night I'd sit in my room, listening to music on
a cheap radio I'd bought at the Goodwill store, writing in my
journal or reading old textbooks I had purchased.  I felt like I was
missing out by not being in school, that I'd end up like Luis,
working two menial jobs, eighteen hours each day.  Sucking men for
money had no future, I knew that.  Eventually, my luck would run
out, the law of averages would catch up with me, and I'd end up sick
or dead.  

I pored over the texts, trying to do the problems at the end of
every chapter, writing my answers in a spiral-bound notebook.  But
the texts never came with the answer key, so I had no way of knowing
if my solutions were right or wrong.  Math was hard for me, algebra
more than geometry, but I ate up science and English and history,
snapping up every used text I could get my hands on, even
college-level books.  There were plenty of those in Boston.

And there were other nights when I lay in my bed and stared at the 
ceiling, my head full of whatever drugs I could get my hands on,
mostly stuff that Larry had given me.  I'd see him just about every
day; he'd stop by  whenever he knew I'd be on the street, not for a
quick BJ, but just for a minute to let me warm up in his car. 
Sometimes he'd bring me coffee, sometimes he'd give me a couple of
pills, Valium, Percocets, codeine, even a Dilaudid once in a while. 
Larry liked his pills. 

Twice each week, Larry would come by at the end of the rush hour,
I'd get into his cab, and we'd park behind his garage for a while,
sometimes as long as an hour.  We'd smoke some pot, maybe do a line
or two of coke, and I'd suck him, twice on some occasions.  There
were times, though, when all he wanted was for me to talk about some
of the men I'd serviced.  He really liked to listen to me describe
their cocks and balls, what they'd say when I sucked or jerked them,
how their semen tasted.  Larry would sit behind the wheel, jerking
his cock while I quietly described the shape of one man's cockhead,
how spongy it felt between my lips, how his shaft tensed when I
stroked it with my fingers.  He'd close his eyes, his fist working
his tool, and spurt his spunk on the cab's floormats when he came.

As far as my own pleasure was concerned, I'd take things into my own
hands, back in my room, lying under my comforter, late at night. 
Even when I fucked a guy I had no expectation of anything other than
a quick boning.  I'd fake orgasms just to make the guy come, just to
get him off of me, out of me.  Sucking cock, an act I sort of
enjoyed performing when I was with someone I liked, became just
another thing I did with my mouth, like eat or talk, something that
would make the cum and the money flow.  I dipped into my savings,
pressed between pages of an algebra textbook, and splurged on a
better vibrator.  Just because. 


                                  * * *


Weekends had a different rhythm, a different routine.  On Saturday 
mornings I'd take a nice long bath.  I had spent most of my first
week in the rooming house just cleaning that bathroom, scrubbing the
sink, the tub, the toilet, the floor, even the tile walls.  I bought
a small rug at Goodwill to serve as a bathmat, a shade for the bare
light bulb, and except for the peeling paint it looked pretty good.

After my bath, I'd head down to Mr. Antonelli's apartment and pay my
rent, watching him write out a receipt in his shaky handwriting. 
After that was done, he'd pull down his trousers and sit in his easy
chair while I used my hands to work his penis into a state that
somewhat resembled an erection.  Then I'd suck him, fast, the way he
liked it, until he came.  Usually, he was pretty quick, but there
were a couple of times when he just got numb, and my neck and jaw
would get sore.  He never complained, or asked for two the following
week to make up for it.  He'd just zip up his trousers, light a
cigarette, and then we'd have coffee, thick, sweet coffee that he'd
brew on his stove. 

Before I left, I'd tidy his place for a few minutes.  Not too much
or he'd bitch about his stuff being moved.  I'd stack a few of his
piles of magazines or wash a few of his dishes.  Once I found a
telephone under a pile of dirty shirts.  It was dusty, and I
couldn't recall ever hearing it ring, but there was a dial tone when
I picked it up.  Little by little, I cleaned his apartment, and
though he never said anything, I know he appreciated it.

I even got Mr. Antonelli to bathe a bit more frequently.  Sometimes
it was hard to conceal my disgust at his body odor; more than once
he caught me wrinkling my nose involuntarily.  When I stopped by
during the week to get his laundry, which I'd throw in with mine
down at the laundromat, towels and washcloths began to appear with
his boxers and shirts, some of them still damp.  He began to smell
cleaner, not exactly like a rose, but better than before.  And he
started to comb his hair, even getting it cut at the barber shop on
Mass. Ave., looking more like the handsome young man in the old
photographs that hung in his apartment.

As for Sundays, that was my day to catch up on sleep, do laundry,
clean my room and the bathroom down the hall, sweep the stairs. 
Miss Kass would hear the sound of my broom as I swept the hall
outside our rooms, and she'd open her door about an inch and watch
me, just staring, not saying a word.  I'd say "Hello" to her, but
she never returned my greeting.  I sometimes wondered if she was
crazy or just so lonely she'd forgotten how to speak to another
human being. 


                                  * * *


One Saturday in late February, I came down to pay my rent and was 
surprised to see Mr. Antonelli waiting for me, dressed in a sharp 
pinstripe suit, a dove grey fedora on his head, his walking stick in
hand.

"Let's go," he said, holding out his hand.

"Where?" I asked.

"Surprise," he said, trying to suppress a smile.

"I'll get my coat," I said.  I quickly ran upstairs, startling Miss 
Kass, who was peeking through the door, and returned to the first
floor with my jacket just as Mr. Antonelli was locking his
apartment.  We went out to the street, the first time I could recall
seeing him in direct sunlight.  He hailed a cab on the avenue,
flagging down the taxi with his cane.  We headed downtown.

I'd never been to the North End, and there was something about the 
narrow streets that reminded me of the older parts of Coopersport,
near the docks, old brick buildings with interesting shops and
cafes.  Mr. Antonelli bought us espresso and fresh rolls at a bakery
with tables on the sidewalk.  It was still to cold to sit outside,
so we ate inside the bakery, the best smelling spot on the planet.

After that we strolled around the neighborhood.  It seemed like
every other block Mr. Antonelli would run into an old friend, and
they'd have a brief conversation in Italian, shake hands again, and
move on.  After a few hours of window shopping, we walked under the
Expressway to Haymarket, where people sold fresh fish, meats,
fruits, and vegetables from old wooden pushcarts.  There were
stores, too, open to the street, and Mr. Antonelli knew plenty of
people here as well.  While he had a short reunion with the man who
sold fresh poultry, I bought a carnation for his lapel from one of
the pushcart vendors. 

We took a cab back to the rooming house, carrying bags of groceries
with us, fresh food from the pushcarts.  I helped Mr. Antonelli
bring them into his apartment.

"You stay for dinner?" he asked.

"Thanks, but I couldn't," I said, putting his carton of eggs in the 
refrigerator.  I liked to eat out on Saturdays, even just a sandwich
or burger, and I didn't want to impose on Mr. Antonelli.

"Please," he said.  He put his hand on top of mine and looked me in
the eyes.

"Okay," I said.  "I'd like that.  Thank you."  He wanted company,
badly.  Truth be told, so did I.

Mr. Antonelli declined my offer to help.  I would have, anyway, but
he began to work up quite a head of steam as he puttered around the 
kitchen, so it was just as well that I stayed out of his way.  I
went upstairs to drop off my coat, and decided to change, to dress
up for dinner, just for fun.

I'd found some great old clothes at the Goodwill and the Salvation
Army stores, just things I ran across while I was shopping for
things to make my room a bit more comfortable.  There were always
vintage dresses, some from the Sixties, some even older; expensive
dresses with fine beadwork and nice material.  I'd try on a dress or
two whenever I was there, and if it didn't fit perfectly, it went
back to the rack.  Though there were always sewing machines for sale
in the thrift stores, the thought of lugging one back to the rooming
house and up three flights of stairs kept me from buying one, so I
had no way of altering a dress that didn't quite fit.

Still, I had about a dozen old dresses, none of them more than $10. 
I picked out one of my favorites, a burgundy silk cocktail dress
with spaghetti straps.  The only dressy shoes I had were a pair of
black pumps from the thrift shop. They were a size too big, but I'd
stuffed tissue paper in the toes to make them fit better.  Before I
headed back downstairs, I put on a little makeup, just some eyeliner
and lipstick, a hint of perfume.  I'd been wearing makeup on the
street; it made me look just a little older, like I belonged out
there. 

Mr. Antonelli had dimmed the lights and lit candles on the table
while I'd been gone.  The carnation I'd bought for him was floating
on about an inch of water in a brandy snifter.  I picked it up and
inhaled its scent, watching the flickering tapers reflect off the
glass. 

"Ah, there you are," Mr. Antonelli said, emerging from the kitchen. 
He had a bottle of wine and two glasses.  "Bella Anna."  I smiled
and turned around for him.

"Thank you," I said, taking a glass of wine from him.  He poured one
for himself, and then he turned on the old radio next to his couch,
finding a station that played the sort of music that was popular
forty years earlier.

"May I?" he said, putting down his wine and taking my hand.  I had
no idea what he was going to do until he put his other hand on my
hip and began to ease me into the middle of the living room, his
feet moving to the sound of the violins.

I'd seen people dance like this, and I thought it looked easy.  It 
wasn't.  I had to concentrate on where my feet went, trying not to
step on Mr. Antonelli's feet while we danced.  Eventually, I began
to get the hang of it, letting him lead me, matching his steps.  We
swayed together on his living room rug, wine and candles and
violins, our shadows dancing on the wall.

"That's it, that's right," Mr. Antonelli murmured, guiding me around
the floor.  He held me closer, moving in a tighter circle, and I
laid my head on his shoulder as we slowly spun around.

"I like this," I whispered in his ear.  I did like this; I liked the
way his hand felt on my hip, the way his body moved, the scent of
his cologne.  I liked the closeness, something I hadn't felt in a
while, something I missed.  Eventually, we just stood there, not
even trying to dance, just holding each other.  I wanted to kiss
him. 

"Dinner," he said, slipping from my arms.  We held hands and looked
at each other for a moment, and then he left for the kitchen.  I
took a seat at the table and sipped wine while he banged pots and
stirred things for fifteen or twenty minutes.  He emerged from the
kitchen with a bowl, which he set in front of me.  It was some sort
of rice dish, creamy, with snow peas and shrimp.

"What is this?" I asked, picking up my fork.

"Risotto," Mr. Antonelli said.  "Try!"  I tried a forkful; it was
the most amazing thing I'd ever tasted.  He saw my expression and
laughed, clapping his hands together.  "You like?" he asked.  I
could only nod. 

We had baked fish after the risotto, with green beans served with a
bit of garlic and tomato sauce.  For desert, there were fancy
pastries from the North End and sweet, thick coffee.  I helped Mr.
Antonelli clean up after dinner, and then we sipped our wine and
danced some more. 

This time I did kiss him, during a lull between songs, when the 
announcer was giving the station's call letters.  He seemed startled
at first, but then he opened his mouth against mine, his hands in
the small of my back, pulling me closer.  After the kiss, we looked
at each other for a moment, silent, our eyes nearly level.

"Mr. Antonel..." I began to say.

"Anna," he said.  "Call me Papa."

"Yes, Papa," I whispered, kissing him lightly on the lips.  We just
held each other for a while and then I turned in his arms, taking
his hand, leading him to the bedroom.  We stood next to the bed and
held each other again, and then I turned around so he could unzip my
dress.  It had a low back, and I could have easily reached it
myself, but I wanted him to do it.  I shrugged off the thin straps
and let the dress fall to my feet.  I stepped out of the dress and
started to pull off my panties.  I'd worn a plain cotton pair, not
expecting this to happen, that anyone else would see them.  

Mr. Antonelli stopped me from taking them off.  He ran his hands
over my bottom, between my legs, smoothing the white cotton over my
skin, pulling them taut over my labia.  Only then did he let me take
them off, and I stood before him nude except for the black high
heels. 

He looked so sharp in his suit and tie that I almost didn't want to 
undress him.  He stood there, smiling as I helped him out of his
jacket, undid his tie, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, held him as he
stepped out of his trousers and boxers.  Nude, he was like I
imagined Mr. Hubbard looked like, pale, paunchy, greying hair on his
chest and between his legs.  I didn't care.  I wanted to be with him
anyway. 

As we climbed into bed and curled up together, Mr. Antonelli kissed
me and caressed my cheek.

"Anna," he whispered.  "Why?"

"Because you're so nice to me," I said.  He smiled and kissed me
again. 

Mr. Antonelli loved my breasts, as small as they were.  I held them
to his lips, and he suckled my puffy nipples as he ran his hand over
my thighs and belly.  When I curled up between his legs to take him
in my mouth, he was already hard, as hard as I'd ever seen him.  I
sucked him slowly this time, not like the quick blowjobs I gave him
each week.  When it came time to feel his glistening cock inside me,
he wanted to be on top, missionary, like he'd done for years when
his wife was still alive.  But his hips just weren't up to the job,
and he sighed as he rolled on to his back so I could mount him.

Mr. Antonelli gasped as the tip of his cock slipped between my
labia.  I was wet down there, as I had been when we started dancing
together, hungry for his morsel.  I slid down his shaft, laying on
top of him so we could kiss some more, my blonde hair spilling
around his head.  He held me by the hips, guiding me up and down on
his pole, setting the pace of our coupling.  I felt the tingling in
my belly, something I seldom felt with someone else these days, the
feeling growing as I rocked my hips against his.

"Oh, Papa," I whispered.  "Papa...Papa..."  Mr. Antonelli held my
hips tighter, pulling me closer to his hardness as I felt my climax
approach.  I nestled my face in the crook of his neck, my nipples
grinding against his.  He cupped my bottom, fingers spreading my
cheeks as his cock thrust in and out of my sex.  He pressed against
my ass with the tip of his finger and I began to come, moaning and
quivering on top of him, clenching my muscle around his shaft.

I couldn't remember coming that fast, not even with a vibrator.  It
kept going, too, reaching a second, higher peak when he probed my
bottom with his finger.  I wondered if Mr. Antonelli wanted to take
me back there.  Some other time, I thought as he began to twitch
inside me.  He let out a low, hoarse grunt when he came, and I
wasn't sure he did at first.  I couldn't feel his spunk, that
sensation of warmth.  But as my hips slowed down and stopped, he
softened and slipped out of me, and I felt something drip from my
cleft. 

I rolled off of him and we curled up again, facing each other. 
"Papa," I whispered.  He smiled, and our lips brushed together,
lightly, briefly.  Then he closed his eyes and slept, still smiling,
still happy. 

I watched him for a while, and then I kissed his forehead and gently
smoothed his snow white hair back, slipping out of bed and back into
my dress, snuffing out the candles that still flickered on the
table, letting his door click behind me.  I felt like just lying in
bed, savoring the afterglow of the evening.  Then I noticed the case
to my diaphragm on the dresser.  I hadn't worn it when I slept with
Mr. Antonelli.  I felt a sudden chill.

On the verge of panicking, I ran to the bathroom and started a bath.
 While the tub was filling, I went back to my room, stepped out of
my dress, and grabbed a towel, running back to the bathroom in just
panties and heels.  I sat on the toilet until the tub was half full,
and then I stripped and got in, frantically washing my pussy with
soapy water.  It burned.

I washed myself out three times, all the while hoping that Mr. 
Antonelli's little swimmers had the same hip problems he did.  Back
in my room, I slathered spermicidal jelly over a tampon and stuck it
deep inside me.  In retrospect, that probably wasn't the wisest
thing to do.  I should have just let my vagina's natural cleansing
flow take its course.  Fortunately, my period started a week and a
half later, right on schedule.  I'd been lucky, but it was a pretty
tense ten days. 


                                  * * *


It was March when I met the Photographer.

I'd been doing pretty good.  When the weather went from frigid to
merely cold my business on the corner picked up, especially in the
evenings.  I started charging $40 for a blowjob, and no one
complained.  I stopped working the corner during lunchtime, except
to meet Larry for lunch and a quick suck every so often.  Instead,
I'd stay out later, working until 8 or 9.

It was almost nine on a somewhat balmy March night when I met him. 
I was waiting for Larry to come by; he had some pot for me.  A young
man with long black hair and a leather jacket crossed the street,
heading for where I was standing between parked cars.  I tightened
my grip on my pepper spray as he approached, mid-twenties, torn
jeans, sneakers.  He stopped about two feet away.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"You're, um, working, right?" he asked, a tentative expression in
his eyes.

"What's it to ya?"  I tried to sound tough.

"Well, how much just for me to shoot you?" he asked.  I stepped back
and was about to give him a shot of pepper spray when he added
"Photographs.  Shoot photographs, I mean."

"What kind of photographs?"

"Like fashion poses and stuff.  Nothing dirty."

"Nothing dirty?"

"No," he said.  Too bad.  I thought he might pay more for dirty.  I 
wondered what I should ask for.

"How long will it take?"

"An hour or two," he said.  I looked him over.  He wasn't really
cute; stringy hair, a bit of acne, stooped posture, hawklike nose. 
What the hell.  I've done worse.

"Hundred," I said, picking the first number that came into my head.

"Okay," he replied, not even batting an eye.  "Can you come to my 
studio?"

He had a loft, not far from Michael's, but I still wasn't sure about
him.  Larry had been talking about snuff films not long before.  I 
didn't think they really existed, but he claimed to have a buddy
that saw one once, a grainy 8mm strip where a woman had sex with two
men and was killed afterwards.

Just then, Larry pulled up in his cab and rolled down the window.

"Everything okay?" he asked, seeing me edge around the man in the 
leather jacket, towards Larry's cab.

"Fine," I said to Larry.  "Just a sec."  He leaned back in his seat
and rolled up the window.

"What's your name?" I asked the man.

"Cecil.  Here," he said, reaching into his pocket for a card with
his name and address on it.  I slipped it into my coat.

"I'm Annie," I said.  "Listen, I'll do it.  But can I bring a
friend?" 

"Who, him?" he said, motioning towards the cab.

"Yes."

"Don't trust me?" Cecil asked.

"No."

"I wouldn't either.  Sure.  Bring him.  Not a problem."  He walked
off down the street and I climbed into Larry's cab.

"He bothering you?" Larry asked.

"No, not at all.  He wanted to take pictures."

"Nudie pics?" he asked.

"No, clothes on."

"How much?"

"Hundred."

"Damn," Larry said.  "You should do it."

"Will you come with me?" I asked him.  "It's just going to be an
hour or so."

"Sure," he said.  We drove behind his garage and smoked a joint, and
then I sucked him.  Then I called the number on Cecil's card from a
pay phone at the garage.  It was only a couple of blocks away, but
Larry drove me there.  He parked the cab and Cecil buzzed us into
his building, waiting for us at the door to his loft, second floor.

He had a bigger place than Michael's.  He wasn't an amateur, either.
There was a big white scrim at one end of the loft, a forest of
lights, a darkroom built into a windowless corner.  He lived here,
too, but it didn't look like he cooked for himself.  There was a
trash barrel overflowing with wrappers and bags from fast food
restaurants, flanked by a empty beer bottles and  soda cans.

"Beer?" Cecil said.  I declined but Larry accepted one, a long brown
bottle of Budweiser from Cecil's mini-fridge.  It was cold in the
loft, and I huddled in my coat.

"You'll be plenty warm under those lights," he said.  "Wanna get 
started?"

"Sure," I said, heading over to the scrim.  There was a chair in the
middle of it, and I sat down while Cecil turned on lights and
fiddled with his camera.  He was right: it did get warm, and soon I
shed the jacket.  It was bright, too, and I could hardly make out
Larry from under the lights.

"This okay?" I said, sitting down in the chair, crossing my legs at
my ankles and folding my hands in my lap.  I felt sort of awkward,
self- conscious.

"Yeah, that's fine," Cecil said, holding a small brown gadget next
to my face.  "Light meter," he said.

Then he picked up one of his cameras and started to shoot, three of
the lights flashing every time he hit the shutter, the bulky green
boxes on the floor next to the scrim emitting a high-pitched whine
in between flashes.  He coaxed me out of my stiff pose, telling me
to lay across the armrests or stand behind the chair, always
reminding me to relax, to enjoy myself.

I began to get into it, posing like I thought a real model would do,
pushing my hair up with my hands, stretching my leg across the
chair.  I was wearing the clothes I had on when he met me, a flouncy
little black skirt and a red turtleneck sweater, just tight enough
to show off my small breasts.

Cecil pulled the chair away and had me lay on the scrim, propping my
head up with one hand and resting the other on my thigh.  My skirt
began to ride up my legs, and the way Cecil was clicking away with
the camera, I could tell that he could see my panties.  I began to
draw the hem higher up my thigh.

"Take five," Cecil said.  "Film change."  He disappeared into the 
darkroom while I stood up and stretched.

"He seems okay," Larry said.  "Still want me to stay?"

"You have somewhere else to be right now?"

"No, no.  I just thought you might want to be alone."

"Stay.  I don't mind," I said.  I could tell Larry was enjoying
himself by the way he was playing pocket pool while he watched Cecil
photograph me.

Cecil emerged from the darkroom with his cameras, and Larry asked
him where the bathroom was.  I stretched out on the floor again as
Cecil resumed his shooting.

"He your pimp?" Cecil asked while Larry was out of earshot.

"No," I replied.  "Just a good friend."

"Oh," he said, puzzled.  "I thought all of you had...nevermind."

"I don't," I said.  Cecil seemed to relax when he heard that, and I 
wondered if he'd had run into some kind of trouble with another
girl's man.

"You do this a lot?" I asked him, standing with my back to him,
facing the white scrim.

"What, photography?"

"No.  Well yes, but with girls."

"No, not really," he said, putting down his camera.  "I shoot rock 
bands, mostly, some actors.  Headshots, you know."  I didn't know,
but he pointed to a wall where he'd pinned up some of his work,
glossy pictures of bands, portraits of handsome young men and women,
a few artsy shots of flowers and factories.  Larry returned from the
bathroom, a curtained off corner of the loft, zipping up his fly.

There wasn't much more conversation.  I posed for Cecil, getting a
bit more daring, lifting my skirt for him, for Larry, kneeling on
the floor with my hem flipped over, showing my bottom, touching
myself suggestively, giving the camera come hither looks.  I posed
until Cecil ran out of film, about an hour and a half after we
started. 

"Great stuff, Annie," he said, helping me to my feet.

"Thanks.  When can I see it," I said.

"Tomorrow, day after.  I have to get some more developer.  Almost
out," he said.  He disappeared back into the darkroom with his
cameras and came out with money, $100.  Larry finished his beer, I
put on my coat, and we started to leave.

"I'd like to shoot you again," Cecil said.  "If that's all right."

"Sure," I said.  I'd had fun, pretending to be a model, and it was
easy money.

"Maybe next time you can bring some different clothes, maybe one or
two nice outfits," he said.  I agreed to come back later in the
week, to model some more.  This would give him time to get the film
developed. 

"You looked really good tonight," Larry said.  He had driven me back
to my place and we were parked there, smoking a joint in his cab.

"Thanks," I said, reaching into his lap and unzipping his fly.  "I
could tell you liked to watch."

"Yeah," he said, settling back into the seat.  I scooted over,
snuggling up next to him while I fished his hard cock out of his
pants and stroked him.  I didn't even have to suck him, he came so
quickly.  He liked to listen to me tell him about the men I'd been
with, so I knew that seeing me pose for Cecil was a sexy treat. 
Larry wanted to pay me for the hand job, but I told him to keep his
money.  This one was on me, because he was sweet enough to come with
me to the loft and keep an eye on things. 

That's how I started posing for Cecil.  He hated his name,
preferring to be called "Ceece", which rhymes with "fleece", and he
joked about how he always thought he was named after Cecil B.
DeMille, an old Hollywood director, but his mother had actually
named him after a hand puppet from a television show.  I always
thought of him as "The Photographer", and that's how I referred to
him when I was with Larry, but never to Cecil's face.  He could be
pretentious sometimes, explaining the finer points of photography in
a somewhat patronizing manner, so that was my way of deflating his
sense of self-importance, at least to myself. 

Larry was with me the next time I posed, but that was one of the
last times  he accompanied me.  I could tell that Cecil didn't like
having him around, and his discomfort rubbed off on me.  I gave
Larry one of Cecil's pictures to keep, a shot from that first night,
taken from behind while I was on my hands and knees, with just a bit
of white panty peeking out from under my skirt.  I gave Mr.
Antonelli a picture, too, not a sexy one, a shot of me in my
burgundy cocktail dress, the one I wore for him that night we first
danced, almost a formal portrait.  He loved it, had it framed, hung
it on the wall in place of a sepia print of his great-aunt
Mirabella. 


                                  * * *


I posed for Cecil once or twice a week, always for $100, even when
the session went past two hours.  My poses got racier, sexier, more
daring, and I started looking for short skirts and sexy dresses to
wear for him.  He began bringing clothes for me to wear, too,
thought not all of the things fit properly at first.  I started
going shopping with him, to stores that sold punky, rock 'n' roll
fashions, studded leather and leopard prints, high boots and
microskirts, corset tops and chokers. 

I was wearing my old school clothes when I crossed the line.  Up
until then, I'd always posed clothed, showing a lot of leg and
panty, but never exposing my breasts or my sex.  I'd touch myself,
too, but it was all part of posing, just a suggestion of sex, never
explicit.  But that night Cecil had his lights set up around his
bed, and after an hour my plaid skirt was hiked up around my waist,
my white blouse partially undone.  

The school clothes had been my idea, really more of a joke, a change
from the slutty rock chick look he liked to shoot.  But I could tell
Cecil was loving it; an obvious erection in his trousers made it
hard for him to squat and shoot from a low angle.  He kept focusing
on my cotton panties, the white triangle between my thighs, like he
was chained to my cleft.  I reached down and smoothed the material
between my nether lips and I thought I heard him grunt.  Lifting my
skirt a bit higher, I slipped my fingers under the waistband of my
undies, teasing my moist slit.

"Yeah," Cecil said, encouraging this new development.  "Yeah, more
of that."

"Like this?" I said, pulling the crotch of my panties aside.  I
didn't care if he was shooting at this point.  I didn't care if he
watched.  I felt horny as hell and I wanted to do something about
it.  I parted my labia and began to tease my clit, dipping a finger
into my hole, seeing it glisten when I pulled it out.

"Perfect," Cecil said.  "Keep going."

I lay back on his bed, under the hot lights, reaching into my shirt
to cup my breast, circling my nipple with my wet finger while my
other hand danced over my button.  I pulled my panties down around
my thighs, squirming on his futon while he shot from one side and
then another, pausing only to switch cameras.

"Last few frames," he said, clicking away, as I brought both hands
to bear on my pussy, rubbing my clit and banging my box, arching my
back as I came for him, shooting the last frame on the roll as I
fell back to his bed, spent and sweating from having climaxed under
the lights. 

Cecil looked flushed as he headed towards the darkroom to remove the
film from his cameras.  It was the last roll of the night, so I
climbed off his bed and took off my school clothes, intending to
change back into a sweater and jeans.  He was usually done with the
film pretty quickly, but this time he was taking a while.  I changed
into my other clothes and waited for him to come out with my money.

It was taking longer than ever.  I walked over to the darkroom,
standing outside the double curtain that kept out the light.  I
could hear a faint slapping sound, heavy breathing, a low moan.  I
slipped through the curtains, into the red light of his little
booth. 

"Cecil?  Is everything okay?" I asked, my eyes still adjusting to
the tinted light.  

"Annie, he gasped, surprised.  A moment later I could see him,
standing next to his work bench, his pants down around his ankles,
holding his cock.

"Cecil," I said again, almost laughing this time.  "Let me..."  I
cupped his balls as he let go of his penis, and then I began to
slowly stroke him.  His hips began to move, pushing against my hand
with each stroke.  I got on my knees in front of him.

It was hard to see him in the womblike red darkness, but I could
feel him just fine.  Nice long cock, sort of thin, tight foreskin,
hard shaft, a small glans, almost arrow-like, and an upward curve to
his cock that made me wonder what it would feel like inside me.  I
leaned forward and guided him between my lips, tasting the precum
that dripped from the tip.  I could take all of Mr. Antonelli's cock
in my mouth, most of Larry's, but just slightly more than half of
Cecil's before I felt his pointy glans hit the back of my throat.  

He'd been alone in the darkroom for a while, whacking away before I 
entered, so I sucked him slowly, knowing he was close.  I slid my
lips up and down a few times, swirling my tongue over the underside
of his shaft, and then he came with a twitch of his cock and a blast
of semen.  It was bitter and beery from all of the crappy food he
ate, but I choked it back, letting it slide down my throat so I
wouldn't have to taste it.  Cecil sighed deeply, rocking back on his
heels as I milked the last of his spunk with my lips and hands.  I
released his cock with a slurp and sat back on my feet, looking up
at his shadowy red face. 

Cecil gave me an extra $50 that night, and every other night I
sucked him.  He started buying toys at a store in the Combat Zone,
dildos and vibrators, beads, a feather boa.  I was posing nude at
this point, taking my clothes off for the camera and then
masturbating for him while he click click clicked the shutter.  I
never knew what he did with all these pictures, whether he jerked
off to them alone or sold them somewhere.  

I knew I was too young to be posing for pictures like this, and none
of the magazines would buy them, not even the really raunchy ones
that Larry liked to buy in the Zone, the ones that came
shrinkwrapped, three to a bundle, some in foreign languages.  They
reminded me of the ones Luci showed me, the ones I shared with Del
and Paco, the ones that sparked our naughty experiments together. 
All of the girls in the magazines were older than I was, even the
ones who put their hair up in pigtails and shaved their pussies.

One evening I went over to Cecil's loft, to pose in some new clothes
I had bought, a pair of short skirts and a sexy sundress I picked up
downtown.  Larry had picked me up after shopping and we'd had dinner
together at a cafeteria-style place on Washington Street.  He seemed
down again, and his ex-wife was giving him trouble because he was a
week behind on his child support payments.  His daughter was
seventeen, looking to go to college, and Larry didn't know how he
was going to afford tuition.  I invited him to watch me pose for
Cecil, thinking it would cheer him up.

Cecil was fiddling with something on his workbench when we entered
the loft.  It was bigger than a camera, with a longer lens and a
pistol grip.  He was attaching a cable with a big silver connector,
hooking it up to a boxy contraption that had a leather shoulder
strap.  He picked up a black cassette, about the size of a paperback
book, and inserted it into a slot in the boxy thing, pressed a
couple of buttons, and picked up the camera-like device, aiming it
at me. 

"Video," he said.  "Shit.  Not enough light."

Larry and I watched while Cecil set the camera up on a tripod, and
then Larry helped him drag his futon from his bed, carrying it over
to the scrim, under the lights.  Cecil adjusted some of the lamps,
removing the umbrella-like shades that covered them, turning the
bright diffuse light to an intense glare that fell upon his futon. 
I changed into my new sundress in the bathroom and returned to see
Larry peering through the camera's viewfinder while Cecil explained
something about the camera, which he apparently had borrowed from
the school where he was taking graduate courses.

"Ready, Annie?" he said, taking Larry's place behind the camera and 
making a small adjustment to the lens.

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille," I said.  It was a line I'd
heard in an old movie I'd seen once, something about a boulevard, an
old movie star who looked like Miss Kass who had a weird affair with
a younger man.  Cecil didn't catch the reference, but it made Larry
laugh.  He must have seen the same movie.  I sat down on the futon,
cross- legged, while Cecil fucked around with the lights.

I pleasured myself twice under the hot lights, hiking my dress up
over my breasts, pulling my sexy black sheer panties down around my
knees, fingering myself, toying with my sex, arching my back and
lifting my bottom off of the futon when I came.  I couldn't see
Cecil or Larry because of the intense light, but I knew they were
there, watching me, reaching into their pockets for a quick stroke. 
The first time, Cecil kept the camera on the tripod, pausing only to
move from the foot of the futon to the side, for a different angle. 
We took a short break afterwards, so Cecil could change tapes and I
could get a cold drink of water.  Then he shot me again, holding the
camera in his hands this time, zooming in to my breasts, between my
legs, my face as I came. 

Cecil didn't have a television, so we watched the tape playback
through the tiny black and white viewfinder on the camera.  I
thought it was pretty cool at first, until we got to the part where
I began to come.  I looked spastic, like I was having a seizure, my
mouth forming a silent "O".

"That's what I look like?" I said.  It was like the first time I
heard my own voice on a tape recorder, Julia's answering machine. 
My voice didn't sound anything like what I thought it sounded like,
what I heard when I spoke.  Seeing myself climax felt much the same.

"You looked great," Larry said.  "Very sexy."

"Yeah, it was perfect," Cecil said.  "Really."

"If you say so," I said, still unconvinced.  Eventually, I got used
to seeing myself on video, and after that night it was pretty much
all we did.  Sometimes Cecil would shoot stills, before and after
taping, but after he bought his own camera and recorder, and a large
television monitor, video was all we did.  Cecil started paying me
$200 a night, not including the blowjobs I gave him, which were
worth an extra $50.  He had a pretty good business shooting bands
and actors, but he also had money from his family; they were paying
his grad school tuition. 

It didn't take long before we were shooting hardcore scenes.  It
started when Cecil began to tape my after-session blowjobs, and soon
after that sucking became the session itself.  He'd position the
camera on the tripod so his face was out of the shot and then I'd
curl up between his legs and go to town on his long, thin cock.  He
didn't want to come in my mouth; he wanted me to stroke him to
completion, letting his spunk jet on to my face or my breasts.  It
was something he called a "money shot".

My first video fuck wasn't with Cecil.  It was with Larry, who was
with me that evening.  I sucked him for the camera, and it took him
a while to get hard.  He joked about stage fright and all, but soon
I had him erect, and while Cecil circled the futon with his camera,
Larry entered me from behind, fucking me doggy-style while he groped
my titties and lightly slapped my bottom.  I was going to fake an
orgasm, so it would look good for the camera, but I came anyway,
falling forward on to the futon while Larry pounded my bottom with
his thick cock.  Cecil kept saying "Money shot, money shot," and
Larry, porn hound that he was, knew exactly what to do, pulling out
of my pussy and coming all over my back and bottom.  I smiled for
the camera, exhausted from fucking under the hot lights, rubbing
Larry's cream into my skin. 

Of course, Cecil had to get into the act.  He was really nervous the
first time, and I wondered if he was a twenty-five-year-old virgin. 
I sucked him until his cock was hard and glistening, his foreskin
taut against his thin, veiny shaft.  Then he mounted me, sliding his
hardness inside me.  The upward curve of his long cock pressed his
glans against the top of my tight hole, rubbing against my sensitive
spot.  It was heavenly, and even though he didn't last very long, he
had me coming hard in no time at all.  I felt him begin to twitch
inside me, and as he began to pull out to do the money shot thing on
my belly, I grabbed his ass and pulled him back in me, clenching my
cunny around his tool, squeezing the cream from his balls.  I'd
taken to wearing my diaphragm to these sessions even before we
started fucking, and I wanted to feel him come inside me.

Cecil was a little pissed off about not getting the money shot, and
he insisted on rolling tape while he kneeled next to me and jerked
himself off and shot his spunk on my tummy.  There was some
consolation in the sight of his first load dripping from my pussy,
and Cecil gleefully shot a few minutes of sperm oozing from my hole,
glistening under the bright lights.  He said he wished that he had
more tape, so he could make a twelve hour movie of a dripping pussy,
like a porn Warhol. 

He talked about doing different things, too, like finding another
girl for me to play with or getting a guy from one of the bands he
shot to join in on the fun.  He bought me more toys, too, vibrators
and dildos, even a butt plug.  One night, Cecil taped me while I
fucked myself with the neck of an empty beer bottle, zooming in as I
licked my juices from the glass after I came.  By this point, at the
end of April, I had been over two months since I first posed for
him, and I'd pretty much do anything he asked, short of anything too
icky or kinky or painful.  He was paying me good money, and I
stopped working the streets during the evening unless I needed some
extra cash for clothes or something special, like a new fedora for
Mr. Antonelli.  I'd still see Larry at least twice a week, sometimes
just for lunch or dinner, sometimes just to give him an ear to bend
with his troubles. 

What Cecil really wanted to do was to make a full-length porn movie,
with a script and scenery and costumes.  He was a terrible writer, 
something he blamed on his dyslexia; it made it hard for him to even
read, let alone write a script.  It took him a couple of weeks of 
banging keys on an old typewriter he'd found in a dumpster which was
missing the letters "s" and "a", letters he'd add later with a
pencil, and in that time he only produced three pages and an outline
of the story.  It was enough, though, because this movie wasn't
about dialog or plot, really.  It was about fucking and sucking and
groupies and rockers; all the rest was "foreplay", as Cecil liked to
say. 

For the price of a case of beer, he got a couple of kids from one of
the bands he photographed, Matt and Luke from the Pragmatics, a punk
band that rehearsed down the block from Michael's loft.  They were
brothers, identical twins in their late teens, scruffy looking but
not scrawny like a lot of the musicians in town.  They grew up in
Dorchester, a working-class neighborhood, and used to work out in
their basement together when they were younger, lifting weights and
doing one-handed pushups.  You could tell that their healthy years
were behind them; they looked pallid, like they never saw the sun,
with dark circles under their eyes.  They were nervous, too, and
they didn't talk to me when we first met at Cecil's place.  They
just chain-sucked cigarettes and drank Cecil's beer while he ran us
through the story behind the movie and worked out a three night
shooting schedule. 

Cecil shot everything in sequence, and the first scene was out on
the street.  He borrowed a new camera, one that didn't need as much
light, though he had me stand under a streetlamp, anyway.  The basic
story was that I was a groupie or hooker or something, and I was
fucking both brothers but they didn't know the other one was doing
me.  In this first scene, I meet Matt for the first time, though his
name was Pete in the script.  Luke, his brother, was Paul.  Matt
looked over a copy of the script, his lips moving as he tried to
memorize his lines. 

"Ready?" Cecil said.  "Okay, 'Punk Rock Hookers', scene one, take
one.  Camera...action!"  He hunched down a bit, the camera balanced
on his shoulder while Luke held the heavy recorder.

"Hey there.  You got the time?" I said, leaning on the lamp post and
thrusting out my hip suggestively.  Matt looked flustered for a
moment and then he remembered his line.

"Um, it's, um, midnight.  What are you, um," he said.  "Cecil? 
What's my line again?"

"'What are you doing here?'" Cecil said, a bit annoyed.  "Keep
going, I'm rolling here."

"Oh, right," Matt said.  "It's, um, midnight.  What are you doing,
um, here?"

"I'm waiting for you, Pete," I said.  "You wanna go up to my place
and have a good time?"  Cecil's attempt at a script was awful, and I
had a hard time keeping a straight face.

"Um, okay," Matt said.  We were supposed to walk together towards
the camera and Cecil was to turn and follow us, but Matt started
walking in the wrong direction, heading away from the camera.  I
grabbed his arm and yanked him in the right direction, but by this
time I was cracking up, nearly doubled over laughing.

"Cut!  Cut!  Goddammit!" Cecil swore, stopping the deck and
rewinding over the first take.  Between Matt's inability to remember
two lines, my hysterics, and the odd pedestrian passing by, it took
us a dozen takes to get it right, though a few of those were shot
from another angle. 

We wrapped up that shot and headed back upstairs to shoot inside. 
The next scene was supposed to be me and Matt/Pete partying and
making out on my bed.  Matt and Luke helped Cecil set up lights
around his bed, and then they helped themselves to his beer, puffing
on Marlboros and watching Cecil set up the camera and tripod. 
Cecil's bedroom was just like Michael's, a screened-off area of the
loft with a futon on a board supported by cinder blocks, and a stack
of milkcrates with clothes, shoes, a couple of books, and a lot of
taxi-cab yellow boxes of photographs and negatives.  He had a
spiral-bound portfolio, too, and I leafed through this, looking at
his old art school stuff while I waited for him to set up the
camera. 

Finally, we started shooting again.  Matt and I sat on the bed, an
array of intoxicants arranged on a small table at our feet: lines of
coke, rolled joints, beer, pills, a pint of bourbon, even an empty
plastic syringe with the needle partially broken off.  Except for
the syringe and the pills, which were really aspirin, all the rest
were real, meant for on-camera consumption.  Verite.

"...and action!" Cecil said.

"So, um, you want to, um, get high?" 'Pete' asked, even though this
was supposed to be my place, and Cecil had draped a feather boa over
the lamp to accentuate that point, the only feminine detail in a
bedroom that obviously belonged to a reclusive photographer.

"I really love to get high," I said, following the script, "I like
to have a good time with a cute guy like you."  Crap, did Cecil
really think people talked like this?  How hard was it to write?  I
always found it easy; the words just flowed from my pen when I wrote
in my journal, as soon as they popped into my head.  Maybe it was
different, writing things that hadn't happened yet.  But sitting on
the bed, in front of the camera, I could think of a hundred
different ways to get across the idea that I was a horny little
groupie who was going to fuck this kid.

Fortunately, those were the only two lines in the scene.  Cecil
zoomed in as we did the lines, smoked the joints, drank the liquor. 
My short, tight skirt was riding up my thighs, exposing my shaved
cunny inside my sheer black panties.  My tube top had started to
fall, and I didn't bother to tug it back up, something I usually did
every 26 seconds.  I wasn't big enough on top to keep it up, and I
could hear Cecil adjusting the lens as I leaned over the coffee
table to hoover up a line, trying to catch a quick shot of my tits.

And then it was time for sex.  Matt shrugged off his black leather 
jacket and pulled off his t-shirt -- he'd worn one with the name of
his band on the front -- and while I slipped off my black mini and
pink tube, he struggled out of his sneakers and tight blue jeans,
the tightest pair he owned.  He didn't have underwear on beneath his
dungarees, and his cock was hard and throbbing, as big as Manny's,
but circumcised.  As I leaned over into his lap, I wondered if he
and his brother had identical cocks, too.  I'd find out soon enough.

Matt groaned when I sucked him, leaning back on the bed as I took
his shaft in my mouth, bathing it with my tongue, licking the tip,
cupping his balls.  Cecil had the camera off the tripod, in his
hands, taking close-ups of Matt's glistening penis disappearing
between my lips.  Cecil decided that this was enough sucking, so he
had Matt pull down my panties, and I laid down on the bed, on my
back, legs spread. 

Matt wasn't much for foreplay.  He was an adequate kisser, but I had
to practically grab his head and press his lips to my breasts before
he'd suckle me.  I figured cunnilingus was out of the question, but
I needed at least this to get wet enough to take him in me.  By the
time I was ready, he was half-hard, so I had to revive him with my
lips.  Matt positioned himself between my legs, and I guided his
cock to my sex.  He still wasn't completely hard, but I managed to
stuff him into my pussy, his cock stiffening as he began to thrust.

"Damn," he whispered as he started to pump my tight hole.  "How old
are you?"

"Fourteen," I said.  I'd worn a lot of makeup for the camera, heavy 
eyeliner and mascara, deep red lipstick that stained his cock when I
sucked him, a studded leather choker.  He'd seen me without much
makeup on when we first met, but I guess I looked older this time.

I rocked my hips against his, holding his waist as he began to pound
my cunny, fast and hard, right from the start.  Cecil had him
support his weight on his knees and elbows, so he could the camera
could catch Matt's shaft plowing between my legs.  I looked down and
saw the lens, Matt's swinging balls reflected in the dark glass,
Cecil twisting the focus ring as he shot us.

Matt had his eyes closed and was starting to sweat as he fucked me,
and I figured he wasn't going to last much longer before he came, so
I began to fake an orgasm for the camera, squeezing my breasts,
screaming and flailing in the bed beneath him, humping my hips
against his and curling my toes.  Cecil was smiling, unable to tell
my act from the real thing.  Maybe he could but didn't care.  It
looked good on camera, and that was what really mattered.

"Money shot, remember the money shot," he said to Matt in a stage 
whisper.  Matt pulled out of me, jerked his cock a couple of times,
and he erupted, sending four hot jets of sperm over my body, the
longest one landing on my chin, the rest falling on my breasts and
belly.  Cecil zoomed in on the pearly grey strands and then said
"...and cut!", putting down the camera and clapping his hands, a big
smile on his face. 

"Perfect!  That was perfect!" he said, twisting open a beer and
handing it to Matt.  While Cecil, Matt, and Luke clinked bottles and
toasted Matt's performance, I grabbed the towel next to the bed and
wiped myself off, wrapped myself in the blanket, and sat up on the
futon, lighting the remains of one of the joints.

"Oh, shit.  Sorry Annie," Cecil said.  "Here you go."  He opened a
beer and handed it to me.  I didn't really like beer that much, but
I was thirsty, and this time it tasted pretty good.

That was it for shooting for the night, and we sat on Cecil's futon
and smoked and drank for an hour.  Matt and Luke were my best
buddies by this point, telling me about their band and how they were
psyched, psyched! to start recording the soundtrack for Cecil's
movie.  Cecil was pretty quiet, and I could tell that he couldn't
wait for us to leave so he could go over the footage he had shot,
and maybe jerk off while he watched.  I finished my beer and got
dressed, and the brothers gave me a ride home in their big, old
sedan, a clunker with about fifty different band bumper stickers
slapped on the rear. 

Back home that night, I took a nice long bath, wrote about the
evening's events in my journal, and then slipped under the covers,
finishing what Matt had started with my vibrator.  As I pleasured
myself, I thought about all the men who would watch this movie,
should it ever get released, much less finished.  How many orgasms
would this movie bring?  Hundreds?  Thousands?  How much cum would
be spilled on carpet or spurted into a tissue or a hand.  Pints? 
Gallons?  I knew that at least one orgasm, one palmful of jizz would
result, provided Cecil was jerking off while he watched the tape we
made. 

It was a delicious thought, though, trying to picture all the
penises this movie could please, big ones, little ones, fat ones,
thin ones, men who jerked fast, men who stroked slowly, teenagers in
their bedrooms, old men who never left the house, the morbidly obese
and the underweight, maybe even a woman or two, watching by herself
or with a boyfriend or husband.  Despite how avidly I sought out
porn when I was ten, that was just to sate my curiosity about sex,
and I came to know that those magazines and movies were mostly for
men, gay or straight, rich or poor, married or single.  Even old
Papa Antonelli had some, stuffed under his mattress.  I'd seen a
corner of one peeking out when I was tidying his apartment.  Larry,
of course, couldn't get enough, the raunchier the better.

So I was imagining a thousand jerking, spurting cocks when I came, 
seeing them all in my mind's eye, like that video effect where the 
screen splits in two, and then those two split into four, and then
those four split into eight, and before you know it there are 1024
little cocks on the screen, 1024 jets of cum, 1024 hands relaxing,
releasing 1024 softening shafts.  I came so hard thinking about them
that afterwards I heard Miss Kass open her door, her footsteps in
the hallway outside my door.  I was quiet at that point, and she
didn't knock or anything.  She just went back to her room and closed
her door.  I turned off the light and went to sleep.

We shot again, a few days later.  I tried to drop hints on Cecil,
asking if I could help him with writing the dialogue, but he was
oblivious.  What's more, he thought his script was great, Oscar
material.  I could tell that even Matt and Luke thought it was
cheesy; they knew their porn, having spent their adolescent years
hoarding magazines and trying to sneak into Combat Zone peep shows
to watch the film loops.  In the end, I let the subject drop, not
wanting to antagonize Cecil.  He had a tendency to sulk when he felt
that his genius as a photographer or filmmaker wasn't properly
appreciated. 

This night of shooting was just like the first, except with a few 
important differences.  For starters, it went smoother.  Luke/Paul
had a some time to go over his lines, so the first scene we shot,
where he meets me under the street lamp just as his brother had, had
only taken about six takes to get right, and two of these were
redundant, shot from the other angle.  I didn't crack up, either,
which helped a lot.  We then went upstairs, up to Cecil's bed area,
though this time it was meant to be Paul's loft.  Instead of a
feather boa draped over the lampshade, there was a guitar leaning
against the table by the bed, the only prop.  Same bed, same coffee
table with drugs, same milkcrates full of yellow photo paper boxes.

The other difference was that I was dressed like a school girl
instead of a slutty groupie, with my hair up in pigtails, white
cotton panties under my skirt instead of sheer black ones, sneakers
and socks instead of knee-high vinyl boots.  This was a major plot
point, and was meant to explain how two brothers could bang the same
girl without knowing it, Schoolgirl Jekyll and Groupie Hyde.

Other than that, everything else was the same.  We did the drugs,
Luke and I undressed, I sucked him, and he screwed me just like his
brother, the only difference being that he lifted my legs over his
shoulder and fucked me nice and deep, lasting longer than his
brother and almost making me come.  Cecil was running out of tape,
though, so I had to fake it again.  Like Matt, Luke pulled out and
whacked his cock a few times, though he didn't shoot any on my chin
and managed to get all his spooge on my tits.  I looked at the
camera, licking my lips as I massaged Luke's juice into my breasts.

"Cut...perfect," Cecil said, lowering the camera.  Matt was there
with a towel this time, and Luke wrapped the blanket around me as we
sat on Cecil's bed and toasted another successful night with
longneck bottles of Bud.  I sort of wanted someone to finish me off,
but I figured I could wait until I was home.  They were in the mood
to party, do some lines, drink some beers, smoke a joint.  I stayed
for an hour, got dressed, and headed back home.

For the record: Matt and Luke did have identical pricks.

The next night was supposed to be the last night of shooting,
starting with Pete and Paul fighting each other, the big secret
having been revealed.  Instead, I helped Cecil carry his camera and
other gear over to Matt and Luke's loft, where their band rehearsed,
and Cecil shot footage of the band playing a few of their songs.  

The drummer and bass player were pretty cool, cute even, and I
wondered how much they knew about the movie.  They must have known
something, because they talked to Cecil about doing the soundtrack
in a certain recording studio, and how much that would cost.  But I
didn't know if Matt and Luke had talked about their roles in the
movie.  Fucking a fourteen-year-old whore on camera didn't seem to
me like something you'd brag to your friends about.  It didn't
really matter, though, because like that first night I'd met the
brothers, the other guys in the band didn't say a word to me.  I
thought it was just coldness, acting cool and aloof and all that,
but after getting to know Matt and Luke, who were really very sweet,
I realized it was actually shyness. 

I followed Cecil around the space as he shot from different angles,
the heavy recorder hanging off of my shoulder, trying not to trip
over all of the band's cables that snaked along the floor.  They
were loud, awfully loud, and I ended up with cigarette filters
plugging my ears.  By the time we were finished shooting, I had a
horrible headache.  A cup of tea and one of Larry's Percocets took
care of that back in the quiet of my room, though when I woke up the
next day, my ears were still ringing.

We had a long day of shooting scheduled for a Sunday, and Cecil
hoped to wrap up the movie then.  We all started out on the street,
walking towards the camera and then walking away, alone and in
pairs.  Cecil said that he needed more footage in order to "flesh
out his vision".  He shot Matt and Luke sitting on the steps of his
loft, just hanging out and smoking cigarettes, trying to look like
rock stars.  He shot me sitting on the same stairs, both dressed
like a rock slut and as a schoolgirl, holding a few of his old
textbooks to my chest as I sat with my knees together, trying to
look demure. 

After a couple of hours of this, we headed over to the rehearsal
space for what Cecil said were "the climactic scenes", not a trace
of irony in his voice.  I could tell that he thought he had a
monster of a movie on his hands, a huge hit just waiting for an
eager audience.  I had no doubt that there were plenty of people
willing to watch teenagers fuck on video, but the script wasn't the
only awful thing about this movie.  Cecil's camerawork was pretty
grim, shaky and hard to watch even when he used a tripod.  Some of
the handheld shots bounced up and down rhythmically, and you could
sort of tell that Cecil had his hand in his pocket, stroking his
hard-on while he shot the scene. 

Up in the Pragmatics' loft, Cecil and I set up the camera and lights
while Matt and Luke prepared for their scene.  It was Sunday, and
the liquor stores were closed because of some 300 year old law, so
the beer supply was dangerously low.  Larry knew where to get some,
from one of his cabbie friends who sold liquor out of the trunk of
his taxi on weekends.  I called him from a pay phone on the street,
and about an hour later he showed up with a case of Naragansett and
a bottle of Jack Daniels.  He even had ice, plastic cups, and some
pot and coke, too.  We partied for a while and then Matt and Luke
started their big scene. 

The idea was that they were supposed to start fighting, having found
out that they were both boning the same girl.  How they found out
wasn't really clear, though Cecil said something about identical
brothers knowing everything.  He saw me roll my eyes at that
explanation, so he conceded that he might have to write and shoot
another scene that would clear things up.

"She's mine, Paul," Matt said, reading his lines from a big piece of
cardboard that was leaning up against a guitar stand, stage right,
out of the shot.  "She's a bone slut who craves cock.  Mine."  As
bad as Cecil's script was, he still managed to get some things
right. 

"You're wrong, Pete," Luke said reading his lines from a card placed
stage left.  "She's a sweet girl and she's gonna be mine."

With that brief exchange, it was time for Matt and Luke to pull off 
their shirts and start grappling like a couple of Mexican wrestlers.
 And as weak as their line reading had been, this was their true
m�tier.  They knew all the tricks, having watched professional
wrestling on television since just about the time I was born.  Body
slam, piledriver, the fake punches and slaps, the simulated kicks
and stomps.  The hardwood floor rumbled as they rolled around, Cecil
trying hard to stay out of their way and shoot them at the same
time. 

Larry was holding the recorder for Cecil, so I just sat on a beat-up
old couch and watched Matt and Luke fight, smoking one of Larry's
cigarettes and sipping a bourbon and coke.  Cecil had insisted that
I smoke during some of the scenes, so I'd look just a bit more
slutty, and though I hadn't liked it at first, now I did.  It gave
me something to do with my hands and mouth, burning off a bit of
nervous energy while I waited to do the final scene.

Ten minutes of fighting was enough for Cecil, and the brothers were 
getting tired and sweaty.  He gave them a five minute break to towel
off, have a smoke and a beer, while I got ready.  The outfit I wore
was my idea, a fusion of schoolgirl and groupie.  I'd spent hours
hemming the plaid skirt by hand with a needle and thread and a
thrift store iron, so it was extra short, barely covering my bottom.
 I wore fishnet stockings and boots, and a tight black turtleneck
sweater with the sleeves cut off and reattached with safety pins. 
Larry called it "Frankensweater".  My makeup was heavy on the
eyeliner and lipstick, but I had my hair in pigtails.  Cecil loved
the look; so did Larry for that matter.

It was time for the last scene.  Like the fight, this one was shot
with the band's drum kit and amplifiers as a backdrop.  Cecil had
Matt and Luke lay on the floor, to show that their fight had ended
in a draw.  Then, on his cue, I entered the shot, kneeling next to
them with a towel, blotting the fake blood Cecil had squirted on
their lips and foreheads before he rolled tape.  I mumbled my last
line, something about how they could both have me, I was woman
enough for two, blah blah blah.  I was just glad that I didn't have
to speak Cecil's stilted lines anymore.  All that was left was sex,
and I didn't need him to tell me how to do that.  Cecil had tried,
before we rolled tape, to sketch out what he wanted to see in
general terms, like he had before the other sex scenes with Luke and
Matt. 

"Cecil," I said, cutting him off in mid-sentence.  "Just trust me
and hold the fucking camera.  I know what I'm doing."  He'd been
getting on my nerves lately, and it felt good to put him in his
place. 

After I cleaned their fake wounds, I helped them to their feet and
stood between them, kissing 'Pete' and then 'Paul', kissing Matt and
then Luke.  Sandwiched between them, their hands all over me, I
began to undress them, unzipping their jeans and pulling them down,
stroking the two identically hard cocks that popped out.  Sinking
slowly to my knees, I began to suck them in turn, beginning with a
kiss planted on each bobbing cockhead, and then a longer, deeper
suck, until their shafts were shiny and wet.

Cecil paused the tape to let Matt and Luke wriggle out of their
tight jeans and then we were rolling again, both boys, now naked,
helping me out of my skirt and sweater.  I wore the lacy black
crotchless panties Father Ken had bought for me, without the
peekaboo bra, just to be "accessible" for this scene, and I stood
between them, stroking their cocks while they felt me up.  I had
just started to be able to tell Matt from Luke -- they had beauty
marks in different places -- but now I was having trouble
distinguishing between them.  Was it Matt with his fingers in my
pussy or Luke?  Was it Luke sucking my nipples or was it Matt?  It
didn't matter and I didn't care.  All I knew was that their hands
and lips on my body felt wonderful. 

We paused again, and while Cecil cleared a space on the floor,
rerouting cables and picking up bottlecaps and cigarette butts, Matt
or Luke pulled a rolled-up sleeping bag from underneath the couch,
unrolling and laying it on the floor on top of some of the foam
rubber sheets they used to soundproof the loft.  Despite the
apparent lack of continuity, this would be our bed for the last
scene. 

I got down on my hands and knees, Matt on one side, Luke on the
other, two hard cocks poised at my mouth and pussy.  When Cecil said
that the tape was rolling again, I guided Matt (or was it Luke?)
into my sex and parted my lips to take Luke (Matt?) into my mouth. 
They began to thrust at the same time, at the same speed, one
pounding my slit while the other fucked my face.  Cecil had promised
me $500 for the day, so I put on a convincing show, wiggling my ass
and twisting my head, pleasuring the two cocks inside me.

I didn't have to fake it this time.  There was something about
fucking and sucking for the camera, identical twin cocks in my mouth
and pussy, on the floor of a rehearsal space, that really pushed my
buttons.  It also helped that in this position it was easy for me to
rub my clit and squeeze my breasts, keeping me ahead of the
twitching tools inside me.  I felt my pleasure begin to rise, the
tingling between my legs becoming a fire in my belly.  I began to
moan around the cock in my mouth, releasing it when I began to cry
out.  Suddenly, the hardness in my sex withdrew, and I was left with
this emptiness, just as I was about to reach the peak of my climax.

"No...please...don't stop...don't stop," I pleaded.  It had been
Cecil's idea to have Matt and Luke switch places, which they did
quickly, and a moment later I had a different cock in my pussy, and
the one in my mouth tasted just like me.  My pleasure resumed, just
where it had been interrupted, and I began to come, clenching my
muscle around the hard shaft in my sex, milking the cunny-flavored
penis in my mouth. 

They didn't last long after that.  They couldn't.  The cock in my
mouth withdrew, spurting cum all over my face.  Then I felt the one
in my cunny pull out, and I could feel hot semen squirting over my
back and ass.  Cecil took close-up shots of the sperm on my face and
body and then we were done.

"That's a wrap," he said, handing me a towel.  He had an obvious 
erection in his trousers, as did Larry.  It wasn't until I was
sitting down on the sleeping bag, wiping the cum from my face, that
I noticed Danny, the band's drummer, sitting on the couch, smoking a
cigarette and drinking a beer as he watched.

"So, this is the movie you guys are making," he said.

"Punk Rock Hookers, man," Matt said.  He had his black jeans on,
whereas his brother was wearing blue jeans that day.

"Punk Rock Hookers!" Luke shouted, pleased at his performance. 
Cecil had called the movie "Punk Rock Hookers", even there was only
one punk rock hooker in it.

I'd brought my kimono with me when I packed some clothes for the
shoot, and I wrapped it around me as we toasted the end of shooting,
barring some supplementary scenes that Cecil might want to do later.
 Larry went out to get some pizza, and we relaxed and watched as
Cecil played back the tape, hooking the video recorder up to a
television that the band had.

Larry returned about a half hour later, and we ate pizza and drank
beer while we watched all of the footage, even the scenes of the
band playing.  Especially the scenes of the band playing.  It made
me realize how vain musicians were, listening to Matt, Luke, and
Danny pick apart their performances.

"Annie, you see that?" Cecil asked, rewinding to a spot where Matt
and Luke looked at each other while they played.  "That's when they
know.  That's when the truth comes out.  Am I right?  Am I right?" 
I wasn't in a mood to disagree.

"Yeah, Ceece.  I see what you're saying.  Maybe some more close-ups
is all you need," I said.

"Close-ups!  Yeah!  Let's do a shot right now, while we're still set
up.  Matt, Luke, get your guitars on," he said, bounding up from the
couch, his slice of pizza flopping around in his hand.  While Cecil
scrounged through his equipment case for a fresh tape, I gathered my
things together and changed my clothes, getting my money from him
and leaving with Larry.

"It looks pretty good," Larry said, when we were in his cab, heading
back to my place.  "Could be a hit."

"If Cecil ever finishes it," I said.  I'd heard him talk about his
movie enough to know that shooting wasn't even half of it.  He had
to edit it, assemble a sound track, and then find someone to
distribute it.  Home video systems were extremely rare back in 1981;
most porn videos were still sold as 8mm and 16mm film.

Just editing the video was a problem for Cecil.  He only had one
video tape recorder and he'd said that he needed at least two,
preferably three to edit the movie and dub the soundtrack.  At the
Pragmatics' loft, he talked about renting a couple of decks or
taking the raw footage to his school and doing it there, during the
late hours. 

"Lousy band," Larry said as he maneuvered the cab out of its parking
spot.  I could tell he didn't like them, wrinkling his nose while we
ate pizza and watched the video of the band's rehearsal.  Then
again, Larry didn't like anything recorded after 1972.

"I liked them," I said.  Even though they were the loudest thing I'd
ever heard, louder than a planeload of tourists landing at Miami 
International, they were fun to listen to, full of energy.  They had
a song about one of their strict parochial school teachers, "Sister 
Sabrina", and it reminded me of Sister Josephine, who ruled her
class at Father Ken's shelter with an iron hand that gripped a
wooden ruler.  I wondered if any of the boys in the band had met a
priest like Father Ken, or Father John, or Father Steve, or Father
Bernard, or Father Kevin...

Larry drove me back to the rooming house, and we parked down the
block.  I gave him a blowjob, knowing how horny he was watching me
fuck, and how nice of him it was to get us beer and bourbon on a
Sunday and then go out for pizza after we wrapped up the shooting. 
He caressed the back of my head, stroking my hair while I sucked
him, holding me close after he came.

"Thanks," I whispered in his ear.

"For what?" he said.

"For being so sweet," I said.  It was true, he was nice to me, 
protective, like an uncle or a big brother.  Or a father.

"I wish you could live with me, Annie," he said.  "I'd always take
care of you."  It was a tempting offer.  I knew he had a house in
the suburbs, not a big house, but the way he described it made it
sound like a cozy place.  But I knew his ex-wife had a private
detective watching him, watching how he spent his money, waiting for
him to fuck up so she could drag him into court and garnish his
wages.  He bitched about her every chance he got.  Having me live
with him was his pipe dream, something he knew would never happen. 
I kissed him on the cheek for being so nice and grabbed my stuff,
heading back to the rooming house and a nice hot bath.


                                  * * *

I called Cecil at his loft a couple of days later and got a busy
signal.  I called him again that evening.  Still off the hook.  I
decided to walk over to his place.  It was a warm spring evening and
I was feeling sort of restless anyway.  I arrived at his building
and was about to press the intercom button so he could buzz me in
when I noticed that the front door was broken, like it had been
kicked in or something.  I went inside and headed upstairs to
Cecil's studio. 

His door was padlocked, and there was a bright orange sticker above
the lock that read "BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT - CRIME SCENE - DO NOT
ENTER".  The sticker was placed in such a manner that opening the
door would have split it in half.  There was also a handwritten date
on the sticker; the loft had been sealed the day before.

My heart pounded in my chest.  Were the police looking for me?  Did
this have something to do with Megan and Father Ken or the men who
were looking for me at Trish's place?  Trish had disappeared shortly
after I left her apartment, and her phone had been disconnected a
few days after that.  Not even Mrs. Pomerantz knew where she had
gone. 

Maybe Matt or Luke would know something about Cecil.  I flew
downstairs, checking for cop cars on the street before leaving the
building, and ran all the way to the band's loft, leaning on their
intercom until someone buzzed me up.  Matt was sitting on the ratty
old couch, changing strings on his guitar.  I was out of breath from
running and had to sit down and pull myself together before I could
even speak. 

"Cecil...where's Cecil?" I gasped, still short of breath.

"Cops raided his place yesterday," Matt said.  "Me and Luke were
going over there to redo some shots when we saw the cops kick in the
front door.  Must have been twenty of 'em.  Started bringing all his
shit down in boxes, cameras, photos, everything."

"Why?  What happened?"

"Danny's girlfriend goes to the Museum School and she said that
Cecil was editing the movie there and someone saw some of the last
scene we shot," he said.  "Cops were there in like five minutes and
about two hours later they raided his loft."

"So where is he now?"

"In jail, I guess," Matt said.  "They took him away in handcuffs and
grabbed  the tapes."

"Shit."

"Yeah, shit," he repeated.  "We canceled rehearsal tonight.  I'm
just waiting here for the police so they won't have to kick our door
down." 

"I better go," I said.  I got up to leave.

"Hey, Annie," Matt said.

"What?"

"You take care of yourself, 'kay?"

"Thanks," I said, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek.  He 
smiled wanly and went back to tuning his guitar when I left.

I walked around for a while, sort of aimlessly, down the block past 
Michael's loft -- his lights were on -- and past the taxi garage
where Larry kept his cab, up to the Herald where Trish had worked,
and then back towards the rooming house.  On the way back, I stopped
in front of Shelly's store, still vacant after all these months.

"She closed up last year, right after Thanksgiving," a voice behind
me said.  I turned around and saw a young woman, mid-teens, creamy
milk chocolate skin, miniskirt and tube top, a working girl.

"You knew Shelly?"

"Sure did.  Nice lady.  Used to let me warm up in her shop when it
got cold out," she said.  "Maggie liked to make me tea."

"Do you know where they went?"

"San Francisco.  Shelly's brother got sick, so she closed the shop
and went out to the coast to take care of him."  I was glad that I
finally knew what had happened to her, but it didn't do much to lift
my spirits.  I felt like crying.

"Hey, you okay?" the girl asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied, even though I wasn't.

"I seen you on the block, near where I live," she said.  "Been a
while, though."

"Yeah, I was making a movie."

"Cool.  When's it coming out?"

"Never.  Guy got busted yesterday," I said.

"No shit," she said.  "Hey, I'm Cami.  Short for Camille."

"Annie," I said, taking her hand.  "Long for Anne."  She laughed and
gave my hand a squeeze.

"Hey, I'm heading back to my place, smoke a joint or something.  You
smoke?"

"Yeah, sure," I said.  "Sounds good."  I needed the company more
than the pot, and Cami seemed pretty nice.  We started walking down
the avenue towards her place, which was just a couple of blocks away
from my room.  Occasionally a car would slow down at the curb, but
Cami just ignored them.

"Sometimes I think I need one of those 'off duty' signs like cabs
have," Cami said, making me laugh.  There was something different
about her, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Her hands
were big for a girl's, as were her feet.  I figured she was still
growing or something, and that the rest of her would catch up
eventually.  Even so, she was pretty tall, but her breasts were
fairly small, smaller than mine. 

Her apartment building smelled like boiled cabbage instead of the
onion aroma that permeated Mr. Antonelli's rooming house.  We walked
down to the basement, where her apartment was, and she fished out a
key from her purse.

"Shhh...Dee might be taking a nap," Cami said.

"Dee?"

"Delia.  Lady I live with."

"Oh."  We entered her apartment, and the cabbage smell became
something else, something spicy and smoky.

"You mind rolling?" Cami asked, handing me a lumpy plastic bag and a
pack of papers.  "I gotta change and take a leak."

"Sure, I don't mind at all," I said, sitting down on the couch. 
Cami pulled a record from a shelf next to the old stereo, an Eartha
Kitt album, handing it to me so I could use it to clean out the
seeds and roll a joint.  Then she left, disappearing down the hall,
past the bathroom, into her room.  I looked around the living room
of this basement apartment.  Everything was old but nice, like Mr.
Antonelli's place but maybe ten years newer.

I rolled a joint from Cami's bag.  Larry had taught me his secret, 
pinching the ends of the paper before rolling it into a tube, which
kept the weed from spilling out.  I was shaking it like a
thermometer, trying to dry the adhesive, when I heard Cami come out
of her room. 

She walked into the bathroom but didn't close the door.  I saw her
stand in front of the toilet, open her short yellow silk kimono, and
a straw- colored stream of urine began to arc into the toilet.  When
she'd finished, she shook something and closed her kimono, reaching
down to flush, and walked out of the bathroom to join me on the
couch. 

"What's wrong?" Cami asked.  "You look like you saw a ghost or 
something."

"How did you do that?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Pee standing up," I said.  I remember trying it once when I was
little and making an awful mess of the bathroom.

"It's something called a penis," Cami said.  "You've seen one or
two, right?"

Now it all made sense, but at the same time I was as confused as
ever.  I was sort of aware of transsexuals and people like that;
there was that tennis player who was in the news a few years before,
the one who had a sex change and then was barred from playing in
professional tournaments.  And there were times I got into some
guy's car to blow him and he'd be wearing panties under his trousers
or a bra under his shirt.  More often than not these guys had
wedding rings.  But I'd never met someone like Cami, someone halfway
between male and female. 

"Light that joint," she said.  I snapped out of my trance and lit
it, taking a drag and passing it to her.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"Sure."

"Are you going to get an operation?"  Even though I didn't have a
penis, the thought of having one cut off made me squeamish.

"Costs a fortune," Cami said.  "Right now I'm just saving up for 
titties."  We passed the joint back and forth a few times and Cami 
started telling me her story.  She'd grown up in Georgia, in a small
town north of Atlanta.  Always felt different, always felt like a 
stranger in her own body.  When she was just five she used to tuck
her penis between her legs and wish she had a cunny like her older
sister, used to pray every night that she'd wake up with a vagina. 
At nine, she started wearing her sister's hand-me-downs, at twelve
she was wearing eyeliner and lipstick to school.

To say that this didn't go over very well in rural Georgia would be
an understatement.  Cami, who was still Charles at that point, would
get beaten up on a daily basis.  When she had been caught at age
fifteen, sucking her cousin's cock at a family picnic, her father
kicked her out of the house.  Cami went to Atlanta first, and then
Boston, where she had a sympathetic aunt.  But the aunt's health
started to fail so she moved down south, leaving Cami alone in a
vacant Roxbury apartment.  She stayed there as long as she could
before ending up on the streets, sleeping in bathrooms and parked
cabs, just like I had before ending up at the shelter.  A couple of
months later, Delia took her in, letting her have her spare room.

We were just about finished with the joint when I heard a door open,
and a figure entered the bathroom and closed the door.  Running
water, a flushing toilet, and the figure emerged, a statuesque black
woman in a long silk robe.

"Who's your friend?" she asked Cami.

"Dee, this is Annie."

"Pleasure to meet you," Delia said, extending her hand.  As I took
it, her robe opened slightly, revealing a small brown penis between
her legs.  "Sorry," she said, closing her robe.  "I just woke up." 
I just smiled, stunned that this tall woman with the lovely
cheekbones and luscious breasts had a cock.

"Honey, you know I don't want you using Miss Eartha for this," Delia
said to Cami, picking up the album cover I'd used to roll the joint.

"Sorry, Dee.  Forgot," Cami said.  She offered the roach to Delia,
who lit it and inhaled it through her nose.

"S'okay," Delia said.  Her voice was husky, smoky, sexy, while
Cami's was sort of artificially high with a touch of Southern belle.
 "Annie staying for dinner?"

"Want to?" Cami asked.  "It's gumbo.  Good stuff."

"Yes, thank you," I said.  Delia went into the kitchen to cook some
rice  while Cami rolled another joint, this one on an old Diana Ross
album cover.  She brought it into the kitchen for Delia and returned
to smoke the rest with me.  We sat on the couch, getting stoned,
listening to pots banging in the kitchen.

"Cami?"

"Yes, Annie?"

"Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Can I see it?"

Cami smiled and put down the roach, standing up from the couch and 
opening her kimono.  She wore lacy yellow string bikini panties, a 
slight bulge at the crotch.

"Go ahead," she said.  I tugged at the waistband and pulled the
panties down her chocolate thighs.  Her cock popped out, having been
tucked between her legs, and dangled pendulously, the pinkish purple
tip peeking out from a foreskin that was just a bit darker than the
rest of her skin.

"Touch it.  I know you want to," Cami chuckled.  I looked up at her,
into her heavily lidded eyes, still bearing a trace of blue
eyeshadow that matched the skirt she'd worn on the street.  It
wasn't the first black cock I'd seen or touched, not by a long shot,
but it was the first one I'd seen attached to a body with soft skin,
swelling hips, budding breasts.  I held it gently, feeling Cami
harden between my fingers.  Her balls were shaved, as was the rest
of her pubic hair, just a bit of stubble and a few ingrown bumps.  I
leaned forward and took her in my mouth, making her hard with my
lips and tongue.  She sighed and tilted her head back, rocking back
and forth as I began to suck her. 

"Nice," Cami whispered, stroking my hair.  I bathed her shaft with
my tongue, swirling it over her head, sliding her foreskin back and
forth as I pleasured her with my mouth.  Her skin was so soft, so
smooth, her bottom so round and full.  I couldn't keep my hands off
of her, and I wondered how it would feel to have her inside me, to
slide up and down on her pole as our breasts rubbed together.

I'd have to find out some other time, because I could tell Cami was 
about to come.  I sucked her harder, cupping her hairless balls,
dipping my fingers between her cheeks, pressing a fingertip against
her ass and feeling it yield.  Cami gasped when I did that, squeezed
my shoulder, and her cock began to twitch in my mouth, a couple of
spurts of semen flowing from her purple glans.  She began to soften
almost immediately, and Cami tugged at my shoulder, pulling me up
from the couch. 

"Cum kiss," she said, pressing her full lips against mine, her
tongue scooping her semen from my mouth.  Our breasts pressed
against each other as we kissed, Cami's hands roaming over my body,
inside my sweater, under my skirt.

"Dinner's ready," Delia said, interrupting our kiss.  "Pull your
panties back up, girl."  Cami tugged them up from her knees and tied
her robe, leading me into the kitchen where she helped Delia set the
small table. 

Dinner was delicious.  I'd never had gumbo before; I didn't even
know what it was.  Delia had lived in New Orleans for a few years,
and she'd picked up some Louisiana cuisine there.  She'd lived in a
lot of places, having been in the Army when she was younger, before
she became what she called a "female impersonator".  Bit by bit I
began to pick up pieces of her story.  She'd been on female hormones
for years, and they'd made her balls shrivel and her dick shrink. 
Her breasts were implants, a gift she received years before from a
wealthy man who may or may not have been her lover.  Delia was coy
about it, saying that it wasn't proper for a lady to tell all of her
secrets, even if he had been dead for over a decade.

Delia performed five nights each week, mostly in nightclubs or at
the gay bath house near the Expressway, singing songs made famous by
Miss Eartha Kitt.  It was always "Miss Eartha" or "Miss Kitt" with
Delia, and she said her name with a reverence most people reserved
for God or the Virgin Mary.  She'd even met Miss Eartha once, and
the autographed glossy photo Miss Kitt had given her had a place of
pride on the living room wall, right next to the shelf of her record
albums.  Delia also had a Catwoman costume, just like the one Miss
Eartha wore on "Batman". 

Delia sang a few bars of "Love for Sale", acapella, at the dinner
table, rolling her Rs and purring just like the lovely and talented
Miss Kitt.  She'd been singing like her for almost twenty years, and
had her voice down perfectly.

I helped Cami clean up after dinner while Delia showered and got
dressed for her evening show.  Then we smoked another joint in the
living room, sitting on the couch, watching television.  Delia came
out from her bedroom wearing a long red sequined evening gown, a
mink stole wrapped around her shoulders, looking like the long lost
twin sister of Miss Eartha Kitt.  She had a few hits of the joint
and then she was off, leaving the sound of rustling sequins in her
wake. 

 
                                  * * * 
 

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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