Hollywood's Fallen Angels -- Sandy Ch. 2
Hi again fellow Literotica fans. Welcome to chapter 2 of Hollywood's Fallen Angels -- Sandy's story. This story explores how bright, young adults descend into the murky world of the Los Angeles porn industry. Set in 1980 at the beginning of the "Greed is Good" decade Sandy, a 19-year-old Oklahoma native with dreams of stardom flees her abusive stepfather for the bright lights of Hollywood. This is the continuation of her fascinating and torrid story as this starry-eyed dreamer descends into the shady depths of L.A.'s mushrooming porn industry.
Just a head's up this story builds using character development coupled with sex scenes, so if you're looking for only sex scenes and nothing else this may not be the story for you. But if you enjoy getting into a character's life, loves, hopes and dreams coupled with ultra-specific sex scenes than I think you'll enjoy this story.
Note, this is an experiment to see whether you like this type of story pacing and style. If you do, please provide a few thoughts about what you felt about the story. And if not, please let me know that too. Your comments help me adjust my writing style for you, my audience. Thank you and enjoy!
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I wanted to be a Hollywood movie star ever since I was a little girl. My G-ma and I sat for hours in front of her old Zenith TV, tinfoil on the antennas, watching her favorite black and white movies from the '30s and '40s. I remember her absent-mindedly stroking my blonde curls as she whispered how I looked like Shirley Temple. My fondest childhood memories were of the two of us watching the golden age of Hollywood.
I cuddled her on the worn brown couch in her warm little trailer back in the '70s, relishing the safety and security she exuded. Together we were swept into the beautiful world of Hollywood. Ginger Rogers, Garland, Hayworth, Garbo and many more of Hollywood's great assuaged our fears with dancing, singing and performances that spirited us far away from our harsh reality. G-ma's fondness for the glamour of the classic movies rubbed off on me. My little brother and I would perform mini plays for her as she would clap and hoot.
"Sandra, wonderful performance! When y'all are grown leave Oklahoma, go to Hollywood and be a star!"
A few years later she repeated the same mantra after each of my school plays. Her words of encouragement, kindness and support like warm hugs. She was the antidote for my forever-missing father, and my sometimes-here, often gone mom. My mom parachuted into our lives like a sudden storm. Gaunt, agitated, begging for money she would only stay long enough to disrupt our peaceful little world before vanishing again for weeks or months at a time.
When G-ma died my brother and I were sent to live with my Uncle. He was an often drunk, sometimes violent, always bitter man whose hobbies included molestation as I grew older. He and his harsh, bad-tempered wife shattered our world and exposed us to the pain that can consume kindness and corrupt hope. He ignored me as if I was a rug on the floor of his broken, dirty house until I started developing. Then the touching began, leading to more as he exerted his control over me. Broken by my Uncle and imprisoned with my little brother I prayed for escape like Maria in the Sound of Music.
Fast forward to today, 1980, and me at the tender but too experienced age of 19. I packed my car, said a prayer at G-ma's grave and told-off my druggie, good-for-nothing mother. Having closed that painful chapter of my life I drove west, to Hollywood. I was going to meet my destiny. I was going to be a glamorous movie star.
Only, it didn't quite turn out that way.
The happy-endings from so many of G-ma's movies failed to materialize.
Hollywood stardom was impossible to break into. Hundreds of casting sessions led nowhere. Costs increased. Money decreased. Waitressing at Friday's didn't pay the bills. My roommate threatened to kick me out if I didn't pay my rent.
And so I find myself here, in Northridge, California. I'm walking with trepidation down a dark hallway inside a large warehouse now converted into a photo studio. I'm as far away from the Hollywood of my dreams as a bedraggled cat staring through dirty trailer windows at birds on a powerline.
Desperate for money and without options I agreed to pose in a photo shoot in a bikini for one hundred dollars. The offer was up to five hundred if I agreed to model naked. The thought terrified me, partly because of the nudity but mostly because I was considering it.
My eyes adjusted to the dark as I walked down the gloomy hallway. It opened into a small brightly lit foyer, I was surprised to see a large, ornate wooden desk. Behind it stood an older woman with dark skin, short curly black hair with wisps of gray and reading glasses on a gold chain.
"You must be Sandy," she said warmly. She walked around the desk and gently shook my hand. Her clothes were impeccable. Her black pumps looked brand-new. Her pretty knee-length black skirt decorated with small pink flowers glistened like satin. A soft, pink blouse buttoned all the way up with a large string of pearls draped around her neck complemented her round but not plump figure. She looked wealthy, successful. Her perfume smelled rich and luxurious.
"Welcome dear! Right on time, that's nice. I spoke with you on the phone yesterday. My name's Emily, but everyone calls me Em. It's wonderful to meet you in person sweetie. Please sit down."
I don't know what I had been expecting, but whatever it was it certainly wasn't this. I sat in one of the two large and comfortable leather chairs facing the desk as Em walked back to her seat.
Tucking her skirt under she sat with grace, reaching for a folder in a drawer. She placed it on the table in front of her and ruffled through several papers. I took the time to look around.
Expensive-looking throw rugs were spread on the concrete floor. Antique lamps, tables and credenzas were sprinkled around the room. Candles wafted the smell of spice and flowers. Large framed pictures on the walls featured a variety of semi-nude and nude men and women in artistic poses.
The women were beautiful, sensuous, stunning. The men were handsome, their tight abs and hunky bodies gleaming with health and vigor. I felt out of place. Compared to those gorgeous Gods I felt ugly, insignificant, a plain-Jane Okie from Muskogee.
Em finished sorting the papers and passed several to me.
"Here's the contract, the release, your measurements sheet and a payment receipt. Just read through these, complete this form and sign everything sweetie." I hesitated. Ted the photographer hadn't mentioned any paperwork.
"Do you have your Book with you hun?" She asked with a pleasant smile. I blinked at her with a blank expression.
"Is this your first-time modeling, sugar?" She asked delicately.
I nodded, my anxiety at a high level. My lips were dry, and I didn't trust my voice. I might squeak if I tried to reply.
"I thought so." She said, smiling reassuringly. "A Book is a portfolio which has your best photos, kind of like a scrapbook. Models use Books to show agents their best shots. It's alright if you don't have one. You'll be able to start one with the photos we take today."
She must have noticed my confusion and nervous fidgeting.
"You don't need to be nervous sweetie! You're going to be fine," she said with a soothing tone. "I think you'll enjoy your first shoot, everyone does."
She turned her attention to the paperwork, placing each paper in front of me.
"I'll help you with this dreary paperwork, hun. Don't worry about a thing. This first paper is a contract between our photography firm and you. It gives us your approval to take your pictures in exchange for payment. The release gives the studio your permission to use your photos. The next paper is your measurements sheet, we'll use this when we provide your wardrobe. And here's your cash payment invoice and receipt, we'll complete it after you finish your shoot. How much you get paid will be up to you. And if you decide you like modeling you should probably get an agent and manager. It's their job to handle all this for you. But we can talk about all that later."
I skimmed the documents, feeling very confused but better because Em was so nice and helpful. The contract and release were in legal-speak and made zero sense to me. From what I could tell they said the photo studio could use my photos in any way they desired.
I didn't really feel comfortable about that, but I saw no alternative. I signed my name. The measurements sheet was extremely detailed. It required shoe, bust, hat size, eye color, height, weight and much more. I completed as much as I knew. I filled in the first part of the payment sheet which said I would be receiving a cash payment for my work today.
"Em? Why a cash payment?" I asked passing the papers back to her.
"Oh hun, everything is cash here," she said as she gave me a knowing wink, "that's the way things are in our line of work. No hassles with taxes. Isn't that nice?" I realized Emily was as smart as she was beautiful.
She placed my papers back into the folder, then stood.
"I'll give you your copies at the end of the shoot. Now let's go touch-up your hair and makeup, shall we sugar?"
She led me down another hallway and through a door that opened into a large dressing room. A wall-sized mirror with round, bright lights and a counter with several makeup chairs took up the entire length of one wall. On the opposite wall were racks and racks of clothes and props.
Em rifled through the hangers of clothes. Most still had cleaner's plastic bags on them. After a brief search she pulled a hanger out with a black bikini. She handed it to me.
"Here you go sweetie. Freshly cleaned and close to your size. Just put this on. Oh, and here's a robe to keep you warm while we do your hair and makeup. There's a locker over on the far wall where you can put your things."
I walked stiffly to the far wall, where old, metal school lockers had been repurposed as storage units. I shivered more with fear than cold as I took off piece by piece, folding them with care as I placed them into a locker.
Oh shit. I'm really doing this.
The black string bikini was very tight, and very tiny. The thin strings of the halter dug in around my neck from the weight of my boobs in the barely-there top. The bottoms had single strings tied high on each hip attaching the narrow front and back. Lots of skin showed between them. I felt embarrassed, I hadn't thought to trim my bikini line. My hands shook, and my ice-cold fingers struggled to position the thin fabric to try to cover as much of myself as I could.
With the bikini in place I looked in the mirror. Half my butt was exposed and my boobs were almost completely on display and squished tight, the top barely covering my areolas. My cleavage burst out like two melons squished together. I wrapped the thick white terrycloth robe tight around my neck and clenched it as I sat in the chair by Em.
Em donned a smock with pockets in the front and various hairbrushes, make up brushes and eyeliners sprinkled in them. She looked at me with a smile.
