Part Two: Hildi
I was sitting in a well furnished studio apartment about 15 minutes away from a certain campus in New York's Hudson Valley. Most of the furniture was modern, and done in neutral tones. What art there was also trended towards the MOMA mind-set. Blackout curtains covered the picture window, and aside from the glow of the TV, the room was dark. I sat on a comfortable leather couch, while she straddled a matching ottoman nearby. In the pale flickering light I can see she is grinning. No, beaming. She is clearly proud of what was on the screen. "This some of our older stuff," she said, "but I still love it." Her deep voice was cheerful, and although it was hard to know for certain, I was positive her eyes were actually sparkling.
She was referring to the DVD we were watching in her darkened apartment. The first few minutes of which were occupied by panning shots of a party somewhere, perhaps Marist or Albany. I couldn't tell. The camera would pass over the usual images one would imagine; small groups of college age men and women gathered around talking, beer cans, and a lot of red plastic cups. Loud chatting and even louder music made up the soundtrack. From time to time, someone would wave or smile. One drunken frat rat gave the "shocker". Soon, the screen settled on a familiar face; Paige. Paige was dressed in her usual casual style and a conspiratorial smile on her face. She gave the "come hither" gesture, curling one finger towards her. Her natural nails were done in a dark coffee brown. "Look at what I found!" She said in a false whisper, slurring her speech slightly. We were led to a room off of the main party, stopping at a slightly ajar door.
Paige stood aside and allowed the person filming to move up to the opening. The screen briefly lost its focus but recovered quickly, zooming in on a couple by the bed. A young man, probably in his early twenties sat on the edge. He was well muscled, probably a jock. He had a tan, and short dyed blond hair. He was completely naked, his thighs akimbo. A woman kneeled between his legs, her head was being held in place by the jock. Every now and then he would grimace or groan. Through the miracle of digital recording, we crept silently into the room with Paige.
The young woman who had been sucking off the jock was pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous, but still very easy on the eyes. She had straight brown hair that fell a couple of inches below her shoulders, and pale skin. Like her lover, she was also naked, her glittery purple strapless top and violet skirt in a heap in the corner. She turned toward the camera, smiling nervously. Her face was flushed, making her shimmering pink lips stand out starkly. Her gentle brown eyes were wide and her pupils dilated. It was impossible to guess how much she had had to drink. She had a tiny birthmark near the corner of her mouth, which some may have considered too big. I, for one, thought of how she would look when she pouted. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, her short metallic purple nails catching the light.
The woman sitting with me told me the name of the woman on the screen. I'll refer to her as Jill, due to the fact that she has a passing resemblance to Jill Hennessey. "We had no idea who she was until after we filmed this." My companion commented. "We were really lucky she didn't freak out." I was left wondering how much Paige and the others told her about what they caught on tape.