The ad was somewhat cryptic – "Must be broadminded". It was only an afternoon's work, and at minimum wage. But I was a student, I was broke, and beggars can't be choosers. I was the right sex – male; the right age - under twenty-five; and I was desperate enough to be up for pretty much anything, within reason. So I phoned, then and there, from my mobile.
The voice was young and female, with a crisp, cut-glass accent. She asked if I could come over immediately – she'd already seen several people, but hadn't yet found anyone suitable. The address she gave was only a couple of streets away, so I told her I'd be there in a matter of minutes.
The place turned out to be a rundown block of factory units. Number Seventeen, she'd said. Number Sixteen was a denture repair business, so the crudely-painted sign declared. Eighteen was unoccupied, all its windows smashed in. Sitting in the open doorway of Seventeen, sipping at a mug of coffee, was a person I immediately recognized.
I didn't know her name, but I'd seen her here and there around the campus, and I knew she was studying art. Petite and curvy, with short-cropped, fluffy blonde hair, and invariably clad in close variations on a uniform of long gypsy skirt, black Converse sneakers, a biker jacket and, under it, a T-shirt – today's was printed with Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe portrait - she had seemed aloof, unapproachable, unobtainable, far away on her own private planet.
I walked up to her, my stomach churning with trepidation, curiosity and excitement. I thought it unlikely that she would recognize me, a mere Mr Average at best, one of a thousand extras populating the background of her daily life on campus. So had she, of all people, placed that ad?
Glancing up at me, she poured away the dregs of her coffee. Her smile, warm and welcoming, contained not so much as a flicker of recognition. And no wonder. This was surely the very first time my existence had registered.
I told her I'd come about the job.
"Hi." She held out her hand and we shook. "Shall we go in?"
Inside, Number Seventeen was as bare as a minimalist stage set. White-painted brick walls, concrete floor, a heavy old office desk, a worn-out swivel chair with foam rubber erupting from a big jagged rent in the seat, a couple of switched-off photographic lights, a camcorder on a tripod and, arranged in front of it, an ancient, coffee-coloured sofa that belonged on a rubbish tip. On the desk lay an open laptop, a stack of plastic cups and two bottles - one of expensive water, one of cheap vodka - plus a plain white carrier bag containing a cardboard box which might have held a takeaway pizza, and lastly, curiously, a bicycle pump.
"I'm Agatha", she said. "And you are..?"
I told her my name. I'd thought of giving a false one, but I felt a curious urge to be truthful. Perhaps it was because I had a good feeling about Agatha, a strong sense that she was someone I could trust. And I would be having to place a lot of trust her, if she gave me the job.
"OK." Agatha leant against the desk. "As the ad implied – or should have implied – some nudity is involved." She spoke slowly, deliberately, measuring her words like someone accustomed to being misunderstood. "It's not porn. I know it'll sound like porn, but it's not porn. It's for an art project. I asked for someone broadminded. Maybe you didn't realise just how broadminded I meant, so I apologise if this is too far out of your comfort zone. OK?"
I nodded. "So those others weren't broadminded enough?"
"It appears not." Agatha shrugged. "Like I said, this isn't porn. Even though it does maybe ... overlap to some extent."
This was all fine and dandy by me. If Agatha wanted me to star with her in a homemade skinflick and label it art instead of porn, I would happily play along.
She eyed me earnestly. "So you'd be willing to let me shoot some footage of you having sex? Right here?" She indicated the tatty old sofa.
"You said you've seen other people, and no one else was up for it?" I found that very difficult to believe. She was offering money, for fucksake! How often in a lifetime did dream scenarios like this come along?
"You're the seventh I've seen today. Only one of your predecessors showed any enthusiasm, and he was seventy-four, well outside the age range I specified." Agatha ran her fingers through her spiky blonde boyish hair. Her wry smile reappeared. "I suppose you're thinking all of this is pretty ... quaint?"
I shrugged again. "What do I know about art? My subject's philosophy."
"So does that constitute a yes?" Agatha's eyes were full of hope, like I was her last resort. She was so cute, so huggable. How could I disappoint her?
She held up the vodka bottle. "I thought maybe a little alcohol might be of help. Sorry about the limited choice, but I'm doing all of this on a very tight budget." She took a plastic cup from the stack, poured me a generous shot and held it out to me. I thanked her and downed it, despite having no particular fondness of neat vodka, especially the dirt-cheap variety.
Agatha didn't bother with a cup, She took a swig straight from the bottle. Her hand, I noticed, was trembling, her eyes gleaming with excitement. Evidently she had been on the point of giving up, writing off the whole thing as a stupid idea. I was glad to be able to help. I'd had her down as way out of my league, too chic and exquisite, and unlikely to be impressed by some scrawny philosophy student who was perpetually strapped for cash.
"OK." Agatha switched on the array of lamps and nodded for me to sit down on the sofa. As I'd guessed, it was none too comfortable. The lights were hot, the glare unpleasant. I had to squint to see anything. Agatha grabbed the carrier bag from the desk, took from it the slim cardboard box and offered it to me. Food as well as drink? So thoughtful of her to have provided refreshments...
I froze, holding the box in my hands and staring down at it. Surely not ..?
It wasn't a takeaway pizza. Or anything at all to eat, except in a manner of speaking. It – or rather, she – had a name: SLINKY LINDA. She was made, according to the label on the box, from super-durable polyurethane, guaranteed for several years of sterling service. Although she was capable of withstanding a good deal of rough treatment, nonaggressive handling was recommended in order to maintain an optimum life cycle. She boasted a full complement of "three fully penetrable orifices (lubricant not supplied)" and "authentic vulval detail". She had been manufactured in China.
So Agatha wanted to video me doing it with a blow-up doll? And not even a state-of-the-art plastic partner, but a mere bargain-basement model. And not only literally, physically fuck the thing, but first of all manually inflate it. I'd wondered what that bike pump was doing on the desk.
"I'm sorry." Agatha already had the camcorder running, and was sitting behind it on the swivel chair, peering at the tiny screen. "I would've warned you, but I wanted to capture your initial reaction. So now I guess you're having second thoughts?"
Of fucking course I was having second thoughts. Was she some twisted sister who got off on seeing males humiliated? No wonder all the rest had turned her down.
On the other hand, if I spurned Slinky Linda, that would be the end of it. I'd be chickening out, letting Agatha down, plummeting in her estimation. No money. No more warm, friendly smiles. And almost certainly no further chance, at some happy future moment, of graduating from Agatha's good books to Agatha's bed.
"Well," I finally managed to say, "It's not every day you get asked to perform with a polyurethane playmate." I was quite proud of my eloquence, especially when it earned an appreciative grin from Agatha.
