She impressed the man at the agency. Although she was nearing her mid-twenties she'd pass for less than sixteen at a push, if the lighting was tasteful. Perfect for the Loving Lolita series, she was obviously legal; nevertheless she possessed sufficient charm to satiate the sweetest of appetites, and she didn't have the risibility factor of the blowsy old tarts in their thirties swishing around in gym slips. She's a little flower, a red red rose. This he tells her. Sucking on lollipops. Petite and mousy.
He'd call her Lollipop, her label for the business.
The guy wasn't what she'd expected. She thought he'd be a greasy sleaze despite what her friend, who turned her onto the guy, had told her. Balding, prime rib of life, lean, gruff voice, tanned, quite posh really, smelled of soap and money.
No, she'd start with pictures. Photography. An afternoon's work, roughly the same pay as a good night at the club, but not as much hard work. And she'd be famous of sorts. That's what she wanted, a fragment of her to live on, and when she was old she could look back and see herself in all her pomp, and when she was old she could look back and see herself in all her pomp, and say, that was me, I was something for a flicker. Everyone wants to be written up. Of course, there was the other stuff, not whoring because it was all on videotape, art, like, it was strictly optional, that path, no pressure, but that's where the real money lay and sometimes you got to go abroad and got put up in nice hotels, even the divine MM did it, and her friend said it was preferable to fucking Arabs to pay for the refurbishment of her flat. They sheeet on the carpet, make a steeenk.
Still, it was preferable to bawdy panto.
Lollipop says maybe probably to the solo photo shoot and minor and a minor possibility of girl on girl softcore but the other, the invitation to join the clitterati...well, a girl can but demurely blush.
Shark teeth and chewing gum.
He is respectable, yes, children and wife gleaming at her from within the boundaries of the silver picture frame. The man is large on respect, or the Big R as he calls it. That is why he left advertising. Lack of. In relation to. Self. Clawing it back. Grand launch title; Jungle Dollies. Black on black.
He says he'll keep her on file. Sometimes they supply their employees to private contractors, every once in a while, every now and then. All above board, catering to the specialist tastes. She'll do some stills, yeah, private stuff, maybe, if it's not too out there, girl on girl, well, at a push, just playing around.
They'll call.
She does the photo shoot. Outdoors in next to nothing, gets the wind up her kipper. Parts them. Photographer a bit fly but treats her like a lady. Gynaecological scrapbook. Thinks of the gas and electric bills. Her child. Maybe going to Harvey Nicks. In clover. Pair of shoes she'd always looked at.
"You don't need to know the man, we, the agency, are merely acting as his intermediary."
"His what?"
"Go between if you like. He tells me what he wants and we all get together and provide him with what he requires."
"It sounds weird."
"I'm not asking you to break bread with him."
"Take bed?"
"It's a crap line. I'm on my mobile."
"So who'll I be working with?"
"A couple of my lads."
"I don't get it, what you want."
"Look, he's a Jap bastard. They run on a different frequency. I can pass this on, but you're pretty, girly yet feminine, and your body is kinda boyish in a sexy way."
