I never called Lionel back. The webcast thing sounded kind of tempting, especially the idea of a regular shift, with a steady flow of cash, but since the site wasn’t supposed to be up until the end of August anyway, and I now had regular income through my new “day job,” I didn’t feel too pressed to commit one way or another. In the interests of intellectual infiltration, I thought I should experiment with a few different sites, anyway, before committing to a single one—which is why I answered the ad in the Village Voice for nude shots, $75/hour.
A guy named Larry returned my call, asking about my measurements and experience. Apparently, I fit the bill, because he set up an appointment for the shoot. Just like that, without even looking at a picture. It would be at one in the afternoon later that week. I would leave my real job, meet him at the agreed location, and come back to the museum right after the shoot. It would all fit in my lunch break. I described myself to him over the phone, but I couldn’t believe that was enough. He was going to shoot me without ever having seen a photo, much less engaging me in an interview. Maybe he didn’t care what I looked like as long as I had the appropriate parts?
I was instructed to show up, with proof of age and assorted lingerie. He would shoot for about an hour. If the results were good, I’d get invited back. I guess he didn’t have anything to lose. The porn industry really was an equal opportunity employer — someone out there would be turned on, regardless of what I looked like, guaranteed. Even if I was short and fat, someone would still be willing to pay for the pleasure of seeing my wet, naked body.