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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.

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