Screen Test 2

The stars in Angie's eyes were going dim. She had moved to the city eight months earlier and here she was, almost twenty years old, waiting tables at a greasy spoon café for minimum wage and meager tips, and sharing a grotty apartment with a worldly hairdresser she hardly knew. To say she was barely making ends meet was generous: she was hungry and behind in her share of the rent.

Her flatmate, Rosa, was a twenty-seven-year-old hairdresser who was doing all right for herself. Saving up for upgraded digs, she could put up with the slummy neighbourhood for the interim. Still, she was getting tired of Angie's constantly being broke—barely scraping together her share of the rent. With minimal food money and no funds for extras and fun, Rosa sort of felt sorry for her, too.

Angie never really complained, she just lamented, if Rosa commented. "I'm stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I can't find the time nor funds to pursue a better job—besides, I've got no saleable skills and not much schooling."

One evening when Rosa had stayed in, idly perusing the help wanted section of one of various free papers she had sitting around, an ad in the classifieds caught her eye. "Hey, Kiddo," she called to Angie, "maybe you should look at this." Looking over her flatmate's shoulder, Angie wasn't sure if Rosa was teasing or not. When it comes to that, Rosa wasn't sure, either. Nevertheless, she pointed out a small ad for a new entertainment business soliciting staff.

"Shine Productions," the banner announced, "an established company in the Adult Entertainment industry, is opening a West-Coast production facility, and is now holding auditions for actors and extras; and interviews for other entry level positions, such as set-hands and gaffer's assistants; starting at twenty dollars an hour. By appointment only. Call 253-555-1212."

Angie took the paper from Rosa and read the ad again. She was never quite sure if Rosa was serious or not—pulling her leg, or not—and still didn't know. Eying her more worldly flatmate, having reread it once more, she decided Rosa must be teasing—making a joke to lighten the otherwise oppressive atmosphere.

"Well?" Rosa chirped, adding a "Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink," followed by an exaggerated nod of her head.

"I...er, I'm...er, well...," Angie croaked.

"Just think of the money," Rosa sang, cutting her off.

"I'm really not very experienced."

"Hey," Rosa snickered, "I'm sure you could learn on the job." While she wasn't generally unkind, Rosa was getting just a little impatient with her young roomie, whom she believed was more naïve than inexperienced.

"I mean," Angie dropped her eyes—coy or embarrassed, Rosa couldn't initially decide. "I've only ever had sex twice—sort of."

"Sort of?" Rosa sat up; her interest piqued.

"Well, the first time—oh, this is so embarrassing...,"

"Hey, we've all done things we later regret, dear. Go on. Unload. Get it off your chest. Don't worry. This'll stay here, between friends, eh?"

"Yeah, well," she hesitated before resuming, "I was really drunk—I mean, piss-drunk, leaning over the toilet, at a party, barfing, when I became vaguely aware of someone standing next to me, apparently trying to comfort me. His or her hand gently rubbed my back. Then, another hand lifted my hair out of the way. As I continued to retch and heave, I felt the hand at my back begin to slide down my spine and slip under my waistband, onto my butt. At the same time I realized the hand at my head was holding me tight by the hair.

"Still in the process of puking, I felt another pair of hands slip into my pants to cup my bare hips and lift me up off my knees, onto my feet. That was a relief, I'll tell you, getting my knees off that hard tile floor. With my ass raised, my head was being held low over the toilet. By this time, I was being wracked by dry heaves—with nothing left to throw-up. I felt like a bag of shit, and wished I could just die and get it over with.

Someone pulled down my pants and underpants, and left them puddled at my feet. People were shuffling around me. I thought I felt another body move up next to me on the other side. Whoever was behind me let go of my hips for a bit, and left me hanging by my arms between to two on either side of me. I felt someone spreading my ass-cheeks, and something thick and firm yet spongy begin to push into me, as the hands returned to my hips to prop me up more steadily. The pushing into my vagina continued—mercifully slowly, and I felt a stab of pain as it paused a moment before shoving its way in further.

Somebody—some people—nearby were sharing a laugh. Angie hadn't understood what was funny. She did understand, at least retrospectively, that the pain she felt was the demise of her hymen. She didn't include that tidbit in her account to Rosa. "Anyway, the erection of whomever began to stroke, increasing in tempo until it swelled up and came to a jerking halt. A liquid warmth flooded my gut, tempering, for the moment, my continuous retching. The softening shaft pulled right out before pushing in again, now freshly stiff. The pounding ended, once more, with a flood of warmth, and a complete withdrawal, before starting again. This happened three or four times. I realized through the fog, as my heaving finally subsided, that I had just been fucked—several times. But I still felt too shitty to even worry about it.

"I don't, to this day, know how I got home, but it wasn't until I woke up the next day that I realized I'd actually been raped—I'd lost my virginity without giving my consent." Angie paused in her recollection, as if wondering how she could have handled things differently. With a slight shrug of her shoulders, she carried on the tale. "I just couldn't face telling anybody, let alone really complaining about it, because I figured it was, at least partially my fault."

"No!" Rosa almost shouted, "You're the victim here! It's not your fault..."

"Anyway," Angie interjected quickly, "I couldn't see reporting it; it would be way too embarrassing—having been so incredibly drunk, and all.

"And," she went on, "the second time I ever had sex was the very next day. A guy I recognized as having gone to school with—whom I knew had been at a few of the same parties I'd been to, knocked on the door in the early afternoon. Whether or not he'd been at the party the previous night, I hadn't a clue. Anyway, he said he'd heard about me getting fucked at the party and figured I might want to try it again when I was sober.

"Oddly enough there was some kernel of truth in what he suggested. 'Just to see,' he'd said, as he bulled his way through the door. Fortunately, or otherwise, my roommates were both out." If nothing else, Angie was a rather practical girl, and as she had still been feeling rather rough—still suffering the mother of all hang-overs—she had figured it would be easier to just get it over with rather than try to talk her way out of the situation.

"I'm not sure why, but I just let him push past, then I led him into my bedroom. I just sort of stood there, passive—stunned—as he pulled at my clothes—sort of getting me started towards getting undressed. As soon as my fingers took over, he stepped back, and, dropping his own pants, flopped out an impressively growing erection.

"While not exactly a gentleman, he seemed to be a bit more caring, a bit less insensitive than what I could vaguely recalled about the night before. He laid me back on the bed, and helped me remove my top, stopping to, apparently, admire my nakedness, before climbing on, between my legs. Looking me in the eye, he forcefully shoved himself deep into me and started up pounding without pausing. Fucking me hard, the gentleman act vanished. He began to shower me with a tirade of mean and vicious trash-talk, calling me a tramp and a slut and a whore. Describing the scuttlebutt, what he'd heard about how I'd taken on three cocks the night before, and maybe they should try for four of five today. I tried to just ignore him, and get into the act of fornicating, but really, I could barely raise the will to move, let alone participate."

Angie paused a moment in her account, silently reflecting. She remembered tuning out the verbal abuse to concentrate on the act itself—on what was being done to her. She had found herself also trying to ignore a growing what?—agitation—in her gut, a kind of nervous tingling she couldn't explain, like some sort of electric shock.

"As soon as he—whoever he was, I couldn't actually remember his name—as soon as he finished, he tucked himself in and left, without another word." She recalled, too, that, disappointingly, the odd sensations that puzzled her had faded quickly and were soon forgotten.

Later that afternoon, she found out just how fickle the social network in a small town could be. As soon as word got around, which was almost immediately, guys started not just hitting on her but almost demanding sex, and the girls ostracized her, calling her slut and whore. Within days, Angie had moved out of town—taken the bus into the city. She had kept the entire ordeal inside until now. Telling Rosa, telling anyone, was a welcome catharsis.

Angie casually picked up the paper to read the ad again, as Rosa thought, "Maybe not so much naïve as stoic, not so much inexperienced as ill-experienced." She felt bad, muttering apologetically, "I was really just teasing. That was unfair of me. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"S'all right."

Then Angie looked up and, surprising herself as much as Rosa, said, "I don't know. Maybe I should give it a shot; although it does sound kinda sketchy." Dropping the subject with a subtle shrug of her shoulders, Angie turned and went on with her everyday activities, but, unbeknownst to Rosa, her 'Maybe I should give it a shot' comment continued to reverberate around her head.

A simple Google search confirmed that the company was legit. Website under construction: Future home of Shine Productions, adult videos; Canada's newest adult video studio, coming to Metro Vancouver.

Later that evening, when she shared what she'd discovered, Angie was more than disappointed with Rosa's response—"Oh, come on. I was only joking. I mean, that's really rather out of your league, don't you think?" Stung, she silently took umbrage with Rosa's condescension and dismissal. So, the next day, without Rosa's knowledge, Angie called the number in the ad, and arranged for an interview.

——— OXO ———

Angie made her way, on transit, into the mixed commercial and light industrial district. Finding the correct address, she did a double-take—the place initially appeared to be a bit of a dump, the front of the building seeming to be in disarray, strewn with construction detritus, but, then she spotted the office door, neatly, if subtly, identified with the name, 'Shine Productions'. Upon entering she realized that the apparent disorder was due to renovations still underway. The office itself was clean and bright and business-like.

"Yes?" A receptionist wearing a telephone headset and working at a large-screened computer looked up at her inquisitively.

"I'm Angela..., I have an appointment.

"Oh yes. Here we are, Angie, right?" When Angie nodded, the woman said, "Go right in," gesturing to a door at the side of the front office. "they're expecting you."

Three heads turned to face her as she entered what appeared to be a large, mostly empty warehouse. Seating, apparently waiting for her, were two men and a woman. "Come in. Have a seat," boomed one of the men, indicating a single chair at the edge of what Angie assumed was a set—a neat, if somewhat sparsely decorated, bedroom. Uncomfortably self-conscious, she sat facing the interview panel; all three were middle-aged, although one of the men seemed quite a bit older. They sat at a long table, facing the set—facing Angie.

"Angie, I assume," the woman began. "Welcome. My name is Paula, and this is my husband, Axel, and over there," she pointed to the older gentleman at the other end of the table, "is Peter. We," a sweep on her arm indicated herself and her colleagues, "are the administration, the directors and producers, in this facility." In the pause that followed, Angie suddenly felt frightened—pinned to a slide, under a microscope. Then Axel spoke, his baritone voice caramel smooth. "Tell us a bit about yourself."

"Well, I'm Angela 'Angie' Demeers. I'm twenty years old. I grew up on a stump farm north of Vanderhoof." Angie was both pleased and surprised at how confident she sounded, despite her fluttering tummy. "I have two younger sisters and one older brother. I moved to Vancouver six months ago, to—er—make some money..., get some experience..., get away from Hooterville. You know, move to the big city...?"

"Are you seeking a position behind the cameras or in front of them?" Paula's voice was calm and soothing, but Angie suspected this was a key question.

She paused to consider. She remembered her flatmate's 'out-of-your-league' comment, and realized, this could be some sort of moment of truth. "I'll show Rosa!" she thought, allowing just the hint of a smile. Taking a deep breath, she replied, clear and unwavering, "In front!"

After jotting down some notes, Paula said, "There's a pole right behind you there..." Angie turned to see a polished pole she hadn't noticed earlier, just beside the raised set. "We'd like you to dance for us while we continue the interview. Paula and Axel smiled benevolently at Angie's baffled look. "It's to see if you can maintain focus, throughout the process, while the cameras run. A sort of screen test." Here she indicated the several cameras on stands. Tiny red lights showed that all of them were filming. "We record all our interviews."

Angie moved tentatively toward the pole, unsure, following Paula's direction. "Just dance, you know, stripper/go-go style, at the pole—lewd, suggestive." The background music, which Angie had barely noticed, was turned up slightly. Angie had worn a flouncy, summer top with a sunflower motif, a green, above-the-knee A-line skirt, and flat sandals. As Paula said, "Improvise," Angie kicked off her shoes. She figured she'd need the grip offered by bare feet to reduce the risk of slipping or tripping, and embarrassing herself. Now, Angie had seen pole-dancers in the movies, indeed, had been to a peeler-bar once with some girlfriends, so she just began to sway and thrust her hips, and, swirl her breasts. She did quite well for a complete novice.

So, the interview continued. She was asked about experience; some community theatre; and, among other things, her sexual experiences, to which she answered with vague embellishments. Paula, who conducted the interview, seemed satisfied. The two men just watched. Peter had yet to say a word. His gaze was so intense it scared Angie. Paula's questions came quicker and quicker. "Don't overthink your responses," she advised, "just give the first answer that come to your head. And don't stop moving."

Partway into the strange interview, almost hidden among the questions, Paula purred, "Take your blouse off—as part of the dance—slinky, seductive."

Focused on the music and the dance and the constant barrage of questions being fired at her, Angie didn't hesitate. Letting her hands glide up the front of her top, she took her time; unbuttoning in what she hoped was a graceful way; exposing her lace bra initially in quick flashes; allowing only short glimpses as she slipped it from her shoulders; and drawing her arms out of the sleeves in a long, drawn out, sensuous flow. She twirled it twice about her head before flinging it away, off to the side. Rather than the embarrassment she might have expected, she realized she felt pleased with herself.

While Angie danced on, Paula's rapid-fire grilling ceased, as she made some notes. Axel then took up the questions—just as fast, just as stream-of-consciousness. He peppered her with trivial questions like, "What's your favourite colour?" and, "What was the last movie you saw?" interspersed with questions like, "How tall are you?" and "What's your favourite sexual position?"

The latter to which Angie answered—honestly—"I don't know." As with his wife, earlier, Axel didn't seem to take enough time between questions to consider the answers.

"What is your bra size?"

"Thirty-six,'C'."

"Ever been skinny-dipping?"

"No."

"Topless at a beach?"

"Yes."

"Take off your skirt—as sexy as possible."

Angie didn't hesitate. She was in the groove. Dropping her tempo in half, she began lowering her zipper while swaying her hips invitingly. Unsure of how to step out of the falling skirt gracefully, she managed to discard it without losing a beat. Down to her underwear—a rather plain, baby-blue panty and bra set—she found herself twisting and swaying and gyrating with a new sense of exuberance. While she acknowledged it was definitely odd, this whole 'interview' experience was not nearly as awkward as she'd expected, writhing around half-naked in front of strangers; though, she caught herself wishing she had worn fancier underwear.

"Well," Paula said, looking at her two colleagues, ignoring Angie as she continued to dance. "What do you think?" She glanced in Angie's direction, then back at her fellow members of the panel. "She's not especially glamorous; not classically beautiful, but pretty—cute, in a wholesome, girl-next-door sort of way. A delightful shapely, what?" Paula referred to her notes, "36-28-34 figure. I'm interested. How about you?" Axel smiled as he agreed with his wife. Peter just gave a slight nod and a grunt.

Turning to Angie, Paula said, "Thank you. You can get dressed again. We'll call you for a more in-depth interview—a kind of audition or screen-test—in the next few days. All right?"

Angie left the office in a daze. "What have I got myself into?" She was wracked with doubt, all the way home. Although she was dying to talk about it, that evening, when Rosa got in, Angie simply said, "Went to an interview today. Sounds promising." When questioned further, she just said, "Office help," and refused to elaborate. "Don't want to jinx it."

At bedtime, she lay under the covers, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what exactly was happening to her. She felt different—somehow more alive. There was an odd tingling between her legs, and, for once, she decided not to ignore it—not to deny it, as she had for the past few years. Reaching tentatively, she rubbed and stroked, and, remarkably, her clumsy manipulations began to produce results. So, this was what they were on about. Masturbation. She'd never really given it much thought. She was surprised at how good it felt and amazed that she'd never explored herself in this way before. In fact, it felt wonderful and although she would later realize that what she'd achieved was a relatively mild climax, she now knew what she was capable of, and felt a sudden confidence that there would be many, many more in the days to come.

The call-back came at precisely nine o'clock, the very next morning. "Good morning, Angela. It's Paula from Shine Productions. We would like to see you tomorrow, for a screen-test..."

"Tomorrow?"

"Might as well strike while the iron's hot, as they say. Can we make it eight-thirty? At the studio?"

Angie was gobsmacked. "Uh, yeah?" She couldn't quite believe it.

"Great!" Paula seemed genuinely pleased. "See you there, then," she sang, "Eight-thirty, at the studio."

"Uh, okay. Yeah. Thanks..."

"Looking forward to it, Honey. Bye for now."

Angie stared at the phone like it was something alien. Then, giving her head a shake, she headed to her closet, muttering, "What to wear..., what to wear..."

"No! I've got to get ready for work. I told them I'd be in today." Talking aloud to herself, she continued to make plans. "I can work out what to wear tonight. I'll book off tomorrow. They won't like it but..." It was a good thing she could, as she always said, do the job in her sleep, because Angie was barely present for the entire shift. She only woke up when she got home.