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Feeling like I was in some twisted Hollywood story, I left the museum at 12:30, neat black briefcase in hand. I looked impeccably professional. I had a break between school groups, so no one would notice I was gone until 2pm. Arriving at Suite 3B, right off Times Square, I stood outside the door. I could feel the familiar adrenaline. 

Was this why I was deliberately disobeying all the rules that had been programmed into my head since childhood?  For an adrenaline rush?  The kick of being naughty?  It wouldn’t be hard for some psycho to place an ad in the Voice, lure some fetching female to his apartment, and then have his way with her.  I’d been lucky until now, but the more chances I took, the more my luck might change.  I’d left a post-it note in my office with Larry’s address and phone number.  At least, if I did disappear, the police would be able to track him down. Of course, by then I could be dead or dismembered. 

Imagining my mutilated corpse, I rang the doorbell and wondered why I kept doing this to myself.

I figured Suite 3B would be a photographer’s studio or office space.  Nope.  It was Larry’s tiny studio apartment, and the only person there to run the shoot was Larry.  With his slicked-back curly brown hair and small gold-rimmed glasses, he looked at bit like a young Geoffrey Rush.  The shoot took place, miraculously, in this cramped one room apartment, using a small digital camera and a few floodlight bulbs clamped up to the top of his shelving unit. 

I lay on the bed.  The bookshelves and his desk were to the left.  Two windows were to my right.  Other than a small bathroom on the side, that was pretty much it.  Larry squeezed in between. It was a far cry from the Delmonico Hotel. 

I didn’t mind the small quarters, though, since Larry seemed so nice. He wasn’t nearly as awkward or sleazy as Jeff, but he was still definitely flustered.  Surprisingly enough, considering the circumstances, he even appeared normal, or as normal as any guy shooting a naked girl during her lunch hour for his internet porn site, which he was programming and running himself, could possibly be.  I wondered how many girls he’d already shot, or if I was the first.  His nervousness made me think there hadn’t been too many. 

He made hesitant conversation for a few minutes, until I busted out with the professionalism.

“So what should I wear?” I asked smoothly.  “What vibrator do you want?”

Even though this was only my second shoot, I already felt like a veteran.  I opened up my briefcase, and we talked lingerie and g-strings.  He selected the black slip as the first outfit and asked if I wanted to use the bathroom to change. 

I kind of blinked at him, saying, “There isn’t much of a point, since you’ll be seeing everything anyway.”

He laughed awkwardly, while I consulted with him about makeup and hair.  I didn’t miss a beat, and I certainly didn’t blush.  He did.

In contrast to Jeff and Nathan, Larry wanted everything to look natural.  Minimal makeup and styling.  No problem—that just made the shoot, and my transition back to work afterwards, easier.  I asked for music—we put on some Bowie—and got started.

This was all old hat to me now.  I lounged on the bed, looking seductive and catlike while Larry jumped around, snapping picture after picture.  For the most part, he let me do my thing, only occasionally offering suggestions or asking me to hold a pose.  I looked cute and sexy, ran my fingers up and down my chest, thighs, and waist, stimulated masturbation, licked my lips, teasingly removed clothing, etc.  The usual. After a while, I suggested a change of clothes, and we used the favorite zip-up pleather dress.  Then back to some more nudity.  We closed with my black fur-trimmed bustier.  All in one hour— wham, bam—porn star, take two.

It really did feel easy.  The room got hot with all the lighting, but the posing itself was a breeze.  What did get bizarre and sort of frustrating, strangely enough, was Larry’s conversation.  He kept talking me to during the whole shoot, about computers, movies, HTML, fiction, music, Guiliani.  I think carrying on a conversation made him feel more at ease, perhaps less like an exploitative pornographer and more like a friend or coworker, but it made me more uncomfortable as it became increasingly hard to focus on answering his questions while staying in character. 

I needed to play at being an erotic sex-breathing porn star.  Maintaining Karla meant keeping Adrian at a certain distance.  It’s hard to feel sexy while you’re discussing computer programming, but somehow I did it.  Karla and Adrian blended, with only a little mental drain on my part, and he paid me nicely for my efforts.  It was supposed to be $75/hour, but I got $90.  I was back at the museum by 2pm, a little sweaty but not so anyone would notice. 

A girl could get used to this sort of thing.

These various experiences made me wonder what it would be like to do porn for an established site. Larry, like Jeff and Lionel, was still in the early stages. There he was, a twenty-six year old determined to make money off the internet, and if he was like almost everyone else in the world of online porn, he stood a good chance of making a fortune.

Incredible. One guy in a studio apartment with a digital camera and some clip-on lights.  That was all you really needed.  That, and a large wet pussy ready to be spread wide open.

Convenient, then, that there were girls like me.

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