Exile
(c) 2003 Anais Ninja anais_ninja@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr.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.org site:
http://www.asstr.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, it 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 métier.
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.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html