My next job was a video shoot.  I’d be the only performer—just me, getting  $300 for four to five hours—for Lance, an art photographer who had decided to expand into making porn videos.  I had found him through another flyer in my neighborhood.  This one asked for exhibitionists to do nude modeling and nude video work.  I called, and we set up an appointment for my interview.

Sitting on the futon in his studio, he started off by showing me videos of other girls that he’d shot.  He was really big on extreme close-ups—of breasts, assholes, and pussies.  He fast-forwarded from close-up to close-up, telling me cheery little anecdotes about the girls as I tried to avoid staring into their anuses. 

As we looked at the naked women that he so freely and casually discussed, he still couldn’t say cunt.  He had no problem saying asshole, he had no problem shooting extreme close-ups of their assholes, but he kept saying “the c-word.”  I had to struggle to keep from laughing.  Pussy was okay, but he couldn’t say cunt. I wanted to laugh at the irony: a pornographer with a prudish streak. 

“Do you want to make an appointment?”  I asked briskly, standing up and gathering my belongings, trying to convey of sense of Time to Wrap Things Up.

“I just have to see your body first.”

Oh, right.  That made sense.  If he was going to be shooting extreme close-ups, it stood to reason that he’d want to make sure I didn’t have a bad case of warts or welts or some other deformity.

I stripped without blinking an eye and stood in front of him, trying to focus my mind on things other than the mustached man playing gynecologist with my pussy and my asshole.  He didn’t touch me or anything, he just peered, his face inches from my private parts. It felt clinical, which, I suppose, it was.

“You’ll be fine,” he said thoughtfully as he pulled away, moving his eyes up from my crotch to my waist to my breasts to my eyes.

I looked away. I was ready to go.

We made an appointment for the following Tuesday at 6:30pm. 

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