The story of Donna is one that is known to many individuals within the photographic and publishing fields, at least on the thumbnail bio level. When she came to me, asking me to collaborate with her on a much more personal story of her life, I felt it was one of those once-in-a-life-time chances that present themselves, generally, only in fantasy. Needless to say, I gladly accepted the assignment, and we spent over a month tape recording the raw material that finally resulted in this book, taking advantage of whatever breaks we could find in our busy schedules (I was finishing a book on the subject of sex change operations which is entitled The Hormosexuals; while Donna was her ever-busy self, doing feature photography for a number of magazines, advertising agencies, and the like), at times flying from one coast to the other just to tape a few hours of conversation, whenever we found we had a compatible hiatus in our work.
Donna came about her fame as a photographer (or as she prefers to call it jokingly, photographess) through rather unusual circumstances. Although she cultivated an early interest in the field of photography, she never seriously believed that she would be able to compete in the male-dominated world of photography as a vocation. However, needing financial assistance to aid with her tuition while a student in college, she was persuaded to do a series of nude photographs by a friend who was a professional photographer. He, in turn, sold the photos to a burgeoning men's magazine which featured her as a monthly centerfold.
Her centerfold feature was such a sensation that the magazine actually sold out the issue. The publisher/editor of the magazine immediately tracked Donna down via the photographer, persuading her to do another series of more 'arty' poses. In a sense, he felt, the centerfold shots of
Donna were helping his sales, for by the time her second feature appeared, the circulation of the publication had nearly tripled.
And so Donna's success began to match that of the magazine's, the publisher running still another set of nudes featuring her charms. It was about this time that Donna persuaded him to let her do some work behind the camera, fulfilling her long-time wish to put her photographic hobby to professional use, a dream she never thought she'd actualize.
To many of the unobserving readers, Donna's transition from model to photographer was a voyeuristic loss, but if they had only read the photo credits, they would have realized that they had her to thank for many of the more erotic and innovative nude layouts that began to appear in subsequent issues. So pleased was the publisher with Donna's talents, he ran a feature article on her nearly two years after she had first appeared as a centerfold, showing her at work on both sides of the camera to acquaint those who did not already know with the fact of Donna's transition.
The response to the article was tremendous, and Donna's real career was launched. Moving on from being the house photographer for the now-popular publication, she went on to take various additional photographic assignments as the offers began to pour in-advertising, album covers, travel features . . . her accomplishments were endless. She even did a brief stint as a freelance photographer for a major national newsmagazine, as well as finding time to publish several books of her own photographs.
Somehow, Donna has found the chance to do several more features along the way for the publisher who started her off on her career. The company has expanded to become a mini-empire, rivaling those of other girlie-magazine-funded operations such as Playboy and Penthouse, publishing several other magazines, as well as owning a conglomeration consisting of everything from a record company to private membership clubs.
"The only difference," she now confides, "is that I got several times the amount I received for my first layouts those times around. Still, the rates they pay aren't up to the standards of the competition. With all that money they have now, you'd think they wouldn't be so cheap."
If one notes a slight trace of bitterness in Donna's voice, it is not without reason. Even though it was the publisher of this magazine who gave Donna her start, she has come to identify with the Women's Liberation Movement, and feels that he has exploited women throughout his reign. Donna is anything but a raving feminist, having no regrets, for instance, about having posed nude in the first place. She has no really bad feelings about her association with the men's magazine, or men's magazines in general.
"The thing that really gets to me," she states, "is the fact that he's come out with this magazine that's supposed to be for women, and I do mean supposed. He tricked me into shooting a big layout for his first issue, and I went for it against my better judgment as I'd been having some differences with him for some time. But the idea of having a woman's magazine to counter all those men's magazines, one showing nude males for a change, really appealed to me, even if the idea wasn't original-I'd thought of the idea some time before, as well as other women, like the ones that came out with that calendar with nude males . . . Lady's Home Companion or something like that. But as it turns out, the magazine is only intended for women in name. There were more female nudes than male, and they usually had a girl in the pictures with the guys, so even that effect was destroyed. Sure it's O.K. for men to look at pictures of girls, although it would be nice to show more average girls, but give the girls something too . . . without the exploitation."
At thirty years of age, Donna is anything but average. She still retains the eye-catching figure that won her fame as a centerfold nearly eight years ago. She is an attractive brunette, outspoken, witty and urbane. Although she has remained unmarried due to her career, she has not ruled it out, if the right man comes along. As it is, she never lacks for attention from men.
Donna is free about her sexual activities and enjoys the overtures she receives from men she meets during her travels to cover assignments. But she also makes no bones about the fact that she enjoys lovemaking performed with other women as well. It was the publisher she first worked for who first discussed having her do a book about her sexual life.
"The trouble with it was, I would have had to fictionalize a lot of it to make it suitable to his tastes. He just wanted another title for this new book line he was bringing out and figured that my name would bring success to him again. But I'd have to delete parts, phony them up-particularly the parts about him."
Still, after turning him down, she gave the idea of a biography thought. If she were to do it, she wanted to do an in-depth book, pulling no punches, holding back nothing. Therefore she contacted me through a mutual friend who had recommended me to her and we agreed to collaborate on this book. I think you will agree, that Donna Mitchell has had enough adventure in her life to fill any three, and her account of it leaves little to the imagination.
-The Author
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
If my parents would have known, when they posed me for the traditional nude shot for babies everywhere, lying on my tummy on the rug with my bare ass hanging out, that I'd end up starting my career by posing in a similar fashion for a nude centerfold when I was some twenty years older, I often wonder if they would have taken the snapshot. I actually doubt if it would have affected their entry into the family scrapbook, as I believe a person is programmed to do what they will, but they were hardly the types to approve of their daughter becoming a pinup sensation. Back in those days, the centerfold was only a staple in Hugh Hefner's mind, anyway, so they really had no guidelines.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not in any way blaming the innocent picture my parents took of me in the buff for launching me on my way to Pussy magazine's May layout, it's just that, upon comparing the two photos many years later, I thought the coincidence was highly ironic in a funny sort of way.
The whole idea of posing for a nude centerfold wasn't mine. A good friend of mine was a photographer in Los Angeles, specializing in shooting nude layouts that he sold to various magazines. I was having difficulty with my college expenses, so he offered to pay me fifty dollars to pose nude for him. I was no prude and needed the money, so I agreed. I never had any idea that he would sell them to Pussy magazine, one of the biggest in the men's field, and that they would feature me as their centerfold several months later, and that the centerfold would eventually lead to my becoming a photographer in my own right.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't bounce out of my baby book to Edgar College, then into the laps of America quite that quickly. There were a few interesting things that happened to me on the way. While not exceptional, they were . . . well, to tell the truth, it wasn't all that interesting after all. So, I'll just give you the old thumbnail bio.
I was born and brought up in Phoenix, Arizona, the second daughter of a salesman. My childhood was pretty normal, except that I was a little spoiled, being the youngest daughter. Actually, my sister was pretty spoiled too. Maybe if we would have had a brother around it might have been different-I guess it kept Dad pretty much on his toes being surrounded by three women all the time.
In high school, I began to develop a liking for art, and when I took a photography course, I really got hung up on that, although that was as far as my actual training in the subject went until I got into college and rediscovered my interest in the subject. Like most teenage girls, my biggest hobby was boys.
I was aware at a fairly early age that I was better looking than most girls. Now that I look back on that, it seems sort of unfair that someone should get special privileges just because they look a certain way, but I'll have to admit that I got behind it back then. For instance, I was a cheerleader and that whole bit. I know that sort of thing goes against the grain of most kids today, but back in the early sixties it was still a big thing. I never went so far as to enter beauty contests or anything like that, even though I had several offers, but I did dig the fact that I was popular due to my looks. Now that I look back on it, the whole idea does sort of piss me off. I mean, I was always on the honor role academically, but no guy ever went out with me because of that. I'm glad that sort of thing has begun to turn around with today's kids, as it was sort of an unquestioning mindless era.
Of course, I wasn't giving that much thought to the mores of my generation back in those days. I'm afraid I was pitifully well-adjusted. I even got along with my parents . . . reasonably well at any rate. I'm not trying to say it was any Robert Young in Father Knows Best type of thing, but we did get along pretty well. My parents had married fairly late in life, so I guess they really appreciated their kids since they'd waited for so long.
I guess by today's standards I was pretty much of a goodie-two-shoes. At least that's the way I came off what with the cheerleading bit and all. I was always careful not to let the boys go too far, didn't drink, or smoke . . . not until my senior year at any rate. That's when I lost my cherry.
I guess being seventeen is pretty late to lose your cherry. I mean, there's so many kids these days in junior high that know more about sex than I did when I was a senior in high school. At the same time, just like back then, there are those girls who try to save their virtue for marriage. I was one of these girls, but I fell in love with Gene, the star halfback on the football team, during my junior year.
It was one of those romances, those teenage romances, that seem to be made in heaven . . . at least to other teenagers. He was the big star of the football team, and I was the head cheerleader. My folks got along well with him, so they had no objections of my going out with him.
At first, we'd always double-date, but we really got a strong feeling for each other and saw a lot of each other during the summer before our senior year. By the time school rolled around, I was wearing his letter sweater, the sure sign that we were going steady. We didn't get to go out that much with him spending so much time with football practice, but the fact we couldn't be together as much as we would have liked only made our feelings stronger.
Up until this point, Gene and I had never gone farther than heavy petting, usually done at the local drive-in. As our feelings grew stronger, we began to talk of vague plans of marriage, and it all seemed like such a nice idea and all, especially since it seemed so far off and we didn't really have to make any strong commitments to reality.
This policy continued during the football season, even though we both were having a hard time repressing our strong sexual desires for each other. I'd begun to masturbate when I was fourteen, my older sister having turned me onto it, and I often found myself practicing this as a means to physical release after a date with Gene. We probably would have gotten down to balling at an earlier stage in our relationship if it hadn't been for his heavy football schedule, though, as we both had sort of decided that we would be together forever and that it wouldn't do any harm as long as we felt this way about each other. Gene had admitted to me that he'd made it with a couple of girls in the past, but that he didn't have the feelings for them that he did for me. At the same time, he knew I was a virgin and he respected my feelings.
By the time the football season was into full swing, we both realized that we'd like to make it, but the way things were going, both of us heavily involved in our own activities, we didn't want to blow it. About the only time I could be with him was on game nights, dancing at the record hops they held in the gym after the games. Gene was having a great year, leading our team to the district championship, and he tried to follow his coach's advice to cool it with girls as he was hoping for an athletic scholarship to some university the next year.
We did get a chance to make out in the car, parked in front of my house, after the dances, but we never went too far there, not wanting my folks to get suspicious. I'd always come in afterwards and beat off in my bedroom, this being the only place I had the privacy to do so. My sister no longer shared a room with me, having been married the previous summer to a guy she'd met during her first year of college.
In the meantime, Gene and I exchanged whatever non-sexual things we could, eating lunch together in school, him walking me to classes, arm draped around my shoulders, and visiting with each other briefly whenever the chance came up. It wasn't until the football season was over that we got the chance to be together more often, as he didn't play any winter sports and would be off until the track season started in the Spring.
My folks really liked Gene, so they began to let me stay out later with him on the weekends, trusting the two of us to 'do what was right,' in my mother's words, extending my curfew. At the same time, I think they hoped that we'd wait and see if it was the real thing and not rush into marriage. My father, having never finished college, had been sort of disappointed when my sister, Joan, had gotten married after only one year of college, and I knew that he wished me to be able to go on and get a degree. Yet, good father that he was, he never pressured me.
Gene and I would usually start our Friday night dates out by attending the basketball game. I think he really dug the recognition, having received All-State honors in football, coming into the gym with me and waving to all the people. I'll have to admit that it made me feel proud, even though my place was somewhat secondary to his. I wasn't leading the cheers at the basketball games, as the juniors took over at our school after the football season. My stint as head cheerleader had started at the beginning of the basketball season last year.
Afterwards, we might go to the dance and then go parking at a spot out in the desert that was popular with the kids. Phoenix is surrounded by miles and miles of desert, and the kids that grew up there know that there's plenty of places a couple can park and not be bothered by the cops.
One night in January, it was a Saturday night, Gene and I had decided to go to the movies as there was no basketball game. Once in his car, however, we scanned the newspapers and found that we'd seen everything we'd wanted to see, so instead we got a quick hamburger and decided to head to our favorite make out place.
All the way out there, the stars shining brightly down on us, I had the feeling that this would be the night. We'd been out here before, but I'd usually find someway to cut things off once we were going too far, at least by my standards. But as I looked over at him, handsome and muscular, as he steered the car out the winding road to the desert, I realized that I just couldn't suppress my desires any longer. If things would get to that place where it felt like a rubber band was stretching to the breaking point inside me, I'd let him have me.
It was that simple.
Once Gene had pulled into the dry wash where we usually parked, a place that made us almost totally invisible from twenty or thirty yards away, we went after it right away. We didn't do all the talking we usually did, just began kissing and petting away at each other as if there were no tomorrow. From the way Gene was getting worked up, I got the feeling that he somehow realized that tonight would be the night too.
We had already spoken about all those trite things-the undying commitments to each other and everything. It was all down to me: would I, or wouldn't I? From the way his hands were caressing me, making tingles race through my body, it looked like a very good bet that this would be it.
After some preliminary petting, I was becoming frantic. I didn't even try to stop him like I usually did when I felt his fingers undoing the buttons of my blouse. I just pushed my mouth more tightly to his and lashed my tongue against his all the harder and faster-I wanted him.
Neither did I stop him when he reached around and unsnapped my bra with one hand. My tits were now exposed to his sight, and he pulled back to cup them while he marveled at them with his eyes. I had as big a set then as I do now . . . in fact, since I've lost some weight to stay in step with the current vogue, I've lost an inch on the perfect 37's I had. The wind, blowing in across the cool desert night through the mesquites, made goose bumps rise on them, but from the way the nipples were standing up, hard and erect, I realized that the wind wasn't the only thing causing the configurations on my flesh. The coolness of the air was colliding against the warmth within my virginal body. But I wouldn't be a virgin for long. Not after this night.
He lowered his head and took one of the nipples into his mouth and began sucking hard.
"Ssssss," I hissed through my teeth as I felt him working them over, switching to the other one and sucking on it until it was nearly bursting.
His hands were working frantically up and down my bare sides now as he lolled the tits around inside his mouth. I was really worked up myself, my hands clutching at his sweater, knotting in his curly hair.
He looked up at me, the stars reflecting in his eyes, begging me to let him go on. This was the place where I usually cut things off-in fact, the most I'd ever done with him was to stroke his hard pecker through his pants and shorts.
"I want it," I told him, leaving no more doubts in our minds.
I could tell that he felt a little nervous about it, but it only helped decrease my own nerves. To a girl like me, this was a big step in one's life, as it must be for every girl. You can only lose your cherry once.
But whatever trepidations we might have had, we were eager enough to screw each other, he somehow managed to lower me to the seat. He had a big Chevrolet, with a long single seat, so we didn't have buckets that made us get into the back. My head fit right under the armrest on the passenger side of the car-a little awkward, but it didn't matter.
I eased my ass up off the seat so that he could slip my pink panties down. I could feel the cool breeze around my thighs as he slid them off and threw them on the floorboard. This was to be no ordinary ball, I felt, but more the prince taking a princess out by a desert oasis.
I still had on my blouse, but it was open at the front, exposing my entire torso. I had discarded my bra since the straps were getting in the way. He bunched my full skirt up around my waist and began to unzip his trousers.
I felt a chill go over me upon seeing his erect cock. It looked so big . . . I wondered if I could take it. The only other adult I'd ever seen was my daddy, and that had been by accident on a couple of occasions, and he hadn't had a hard-on. But there in the moonlight and shadows was Gene's big cock, all throbbing and hard, ready to go inside my pussy.
He pushed his pants down around his knees and began to kiss me around my triangle. Oh shit, did it feel good. If there'd been any doubts about me wanting him up till then, they were quickly dispelled by his tongue. And then he was kissing at my pussy and my clitoris, making me squirm around as much as possible within the cramped confines of the car.
"Oh, do it to me, Baby," I told him.
I was eager to feel that cock inside me. That rubber band feeling I always got was present, and I felt that it would snap at any moment. He did my bidding, scooting up along the seat between my spread thighs, lowering himself down upon me.
With a trembling hand, he pushed the head of his cock up to my pussy and shoved slightly. There was a bit of pain, but the erotic feelings drowned out the bad part. I'd always been a horseback rider, and I'd ruptured my hymen way back when I was about ten, so at least that wouldn't get in the way.
He talked gently to me, kissing at my ears as he pushed harder and then was in me. It hurt, but the pain began to subside as he gently started to rock his hips up and down, throwing his cock into my hole.
"Ahhhhh, yes," I sighed, the pleasure sensations sweeping away the minimal pain.
There was a little blood . . . my girlfriend, Wanda, had warned me there might be the first time, but I could tell there wasn't very much. The slop-piness I felt down there was mainly my pussy juices that I'd secreted in the excitement of our pre-play. He began to work harder, settling his weight down atop me as he now shoved his pecker to me, working it in about halfway down the shaft with each lunge.
I wrapped my legs up and crossed them at the ankles, hooked around the back of his muscular thighs. Our breathing was heavy, but we managed a few kisses, confining most of them to each other's ears and necks. My hands pawed at his back and hair. He cradled my head in one of his arms to keep it from knocking against the door of the rocking car. The springs in the seat kept time with our fucking, the suction sounds of his cock rending my tight pussy flesh mingling with our sighs.
"Is it all right, Baby?" he smiled, his free hand fondling my right tittie.
"Yes, yes," I moaned, lost in the rapture of my first screw. "Oh, Gene, I love you."
"I love you too," he breathed, pumping his shaft in farther with each stroke.
I needed to hear that kind of thing then . . . sort of a reassurance I needed to hear at a time like this. We had vowed our love before, but this time seemed to make it binding. As I've said, I was so straight back then, I probably wouldn't have let him ball me unless we thought we were going to be married someday. It was a very special thing to me. It may seem corny, but it was to him too . . . at least at the time. He was so kind and considerate. I've bumped into a lot of girls who had a rough time of it the first time. For some, it was so traumatic to them, they'd begun to associate men with pain and brutality, not a few of them becoming lesbians. I'm bisexual, it's true, but it's not because I don't enjoy it with men. I've come to find that sex with men and with women, while being a distinctly different type of thrill, is pleasing to me. I was lucky to start out with a guy as kind as Gene.
"Oh, so good," he moaned, burying his head into my shoulder as his white hips shone in the moonlight, bouncing up and down as he ground his prick into my cunt.
I couldn't help but marvel at how his butt muscles, trim through so much participation in football, rippled as they worked into me. I was working my hips underneath his, my butt scraping along the seat, my skirt bunched up beneath them, trying to meet his every thrust. I was really pawing at his sweater now, twisting it into knots from the intense pleasure.
He was giving me every inch of it now, pounding it in at a steady, slow cadence, speeding up for a quick flurry, then slowing down for punctuation. I could feel the churning inside my guts, unlike that I'd felt when I'd diddled myself off, and I knew I was near.
And then, with a final lunge, he tensed, his teeth biting into my shoulder. I felt a hot blast of his jizz shoot inside me, then another, his ass squeezing together as if trying to drain every last drop. And then I felt myself letting go in wave after wave of violent fury. I gripped my legs tightly to him and moaned loudly my love for him. I was a virgin no more.
CHAPTER TWO
After that first time, Gene and I got it on whenever we could. We had to time things so that I wouldn't get knocked up. While the pill was available back then, it wasn't widespread and it would have been difficult for me to get ahold of them. I knew our family doctor would have ratted on me, so I decided to just watch the old calendar and keep my fingers crossed.
Gene didn't like to use a rubber as he felt it strangled him, and we knew that it didn't always work anyway. The one time we tried was a disaster-he lost his hard on while trying to slip it on, and somehow it broke. Whenever I thought it was a bad time for us to do it, we'd either get each other off by hand, or by mouth, an activity I'd come to like just about as much as fucking itself. I don't just mean giving it either. I can get worked up just from giving a guy head. I don't know why-a lot of girls I've talked to only do it to satisfy the guy so that he'll do it back to her. But in my time I've actually come from giving a blow job without having any stimulation being applied to my genitals.
As you probably realize by now, Gene and I didn't get married. We never even got engaged. Going steady was as far as we ever got, but I do appreciate the time, however brief, we got to spend together. I'm not sure just what happened, but after two more months . . . no, I guess it was three, of going together, it just sort of wore out for me. It wasn't him . . . I really liked him. But like I said, I've got a head on my shoulders, and was pretty much an independent thinker, even though I was appreciated mainly for my body back in those days.
It started when he accepted a football scholarship to a big university way back on the east coast. He was really excited about it, and I was happy for him. But shortly after he'd gotten it, he started really rushing me about the marriage thing, wanting: me to go back there with him and work.
I had really deep feelings for him, but I still was able to see that it wouldn't work out. That's my practical side that's always at war with my fun-loving nature, but it's saved me lots of trouble all the same. I'd seen that my sister's marriage wasn't working out. Oh, they were still married and everything, but my sister had confided to me that the zing had gone out of it already. Her husband had taken a commission in the Air Force, and she'd be leaving for Germany to be with him. It was just that old thing about the woman having to forge her life around her husband's career. I don't think it bothered Joan as much as the same situation would have gotten to me as I was always the more headstrong of the two of us. But somehow I was able to apply what little I knew of their relationship to my situation and decided that I couldn't do what Gene wanted. I had to live my own life. I'd barely turned eighteen.
Maybe if I'd have applied to go to the same school, it would have been different. But I had no idea where he'd be going and by the time we found out, it would have been impossible for me to enter that school in the fall. I did want to go on with my education, both for myself and my parents, who'd been deeply disappointed when Joan had dropped out to get married. I'm afraid I never did finish myself, a fact that sometimes bothers me, even though my parents weren't around to see it, and I'm happy at my success in the field of photography. But every once in awhile it grates at me . . . more for the memory of my parents than for me, I believe.
I tried to break it to Gene as gently as possible-I still had strong feelings for him too. But I did have my own life to lead, and I had been accepted at a couple of colleges-one local, the other on the West Coast. I told him that this would be a test of our love, that we could write to each other and see if our love held up. We would be together during the summers at any rate. But he wouldn't buy any of it. He started becoming jealous of me and demanding. I finally couldn't take it anymore and gave him his sweater back. He drove me crazy for the next couple of weeks, calling at all hours, but once I'd made my mind up that was it, no matter how sorry I felt for him in his pained state.
Gene went on to achieve some prominence in college football, but a knee injury, suffered during a game in his senior year, killed any chances he might have had at playing professional football. From what I understand, he's now married with a couple of kids, selling insurance in Phoenix. Not the type of life I could get into, not after the things I've discovered since then.
I decided to take the offer of the school on the West Coast, as I'd be able to be away from home and have the illusion of being on my own for the first time. My folks sort of leaned towards the local school, but they appreciated my independence. Besides, Los Angeles wasn't that far from Phoenix and I'd be able to visit them over the holidays.
If I'd have known of the serious financial setbacks my father was going through at the time, I probably would have stayed in Phoenix. But father was never the type to bring his troubles out in the open, so I assumed that there was still plenty of money coming through. But his company, unbeknown to even my mother, had gone through some big setbacks, and he wasn't doing as well as he pretended. He didn't want any of us to worry, though, so he agreed to send me to school in L.A.
Since I'd made pretty good grades, I probably could have won a scholarship if I'd had applied. Not knowing about my father's financial troubles, I didn't sign up for competition, assured that he'd have enough money to see me through, as this was one of his major goals anyway . . . seeing us through school. As Joan had dropped out, it was all up to me. Most of the scholarships went to boys in those days anyway.
And so in the Fall, I entered Edgar College, a small liberal arts college in a suburban section of Los Angeles. The reason I chose Edgar, when there were so many other schools to choose from, was that they were known to have a terrific arts program, and I'd decided to go on with art. I hadn't really formulated any strong opinions about my future at that point, but I had done very well in my art classes in high school, and had some vague notion about going on and being a teacher. While I planned to take a photography course during my first semester, I hadn't focused down on that just yet, feeling I was better at drawing and painting.
The atmosphere in California was completely free and open compared to Phoenix, and I found myself really getting behind it. The Free Speech movement was going strong up at Berkeley, and the kids there had begun to question things like fraternities and sororities. Despite my very social upbringing, the new feelings I picked up from the kids at Edgar made me skip sorority rush, the rebel in me coming out. Instead, I moved into a girl's dormitory where I quickly fell in with some radical ideas.
Freshmen girls were required to live on campus unless they lived with their parents, but the dorm atmosphere was much looser at Edgar than I'd seen at Joan's school in Arizona. Of course, they hadn't gotten into the thing of coed dorms by then, but the brightest and hippest kids had begun to question a lot of the things that were going on then, and had started giving the administration some heat about policies they felt to be outdated.
Of course, I wasn't an instant convert to the radical cause, but I did receive a lot of exposure to ideas I'd never given much thought. The movement that had begun at Berkeley had just started to filter down to Los Angeles, and I was amazed to find myself questioning some of the things I had long held as fact.
But mostly I was into studying . . . at least for the first couple of months there. I had to take a lot of required subjects, and the freshmen courses, for the most part, were tougher than I'd been accustomed to in high school, as they tried to weed out the 'dead weight,' early on. Remember, colleges weren't crying for students the way they are now back in those days, as the postwar baby market was just hitting the campus.
I only had two art courses-a beginning drawing course, and a beginning photography course. The outside assignments for these classes was enough, let alone the heavy load I got from the courses required of all freshmen. I found myself really getting behind photography, encouraged by an instructor who liked my work, so I hinted to my parents that I'd like a 35mm camera for Xmas, a gift that they came through with, despite my dad's increasing financial difficulties that I didn't know of at the time.
I sort of fell behind in a couple of my courses by the time for the holiday breaks, so I packed my books up, vowing to study while at home for the holidays. I felt sort of guilty about it, not telling my folks, but I'd spent so much time with a new group of kids I'd met at school, that I didn't spend too much time studying.
At home, it was party, party, party. I hadn't seen a lot of kids I'd gone to high school with for what seemed like a long time, and I didn't get too much studying done in Phoenix either, I'm afraid. So I went back to school, my new Minolta in hand, knowing I'd have to make it all up on finals.
Despite some uppers given to me by a roommate, the first I'd ever had, my cramming didn't pay off too well. I got A's in both art classes ( one of my photographs I'd taken with the school's equipment had been featured in an art show) the rest of my grades weren't spectacular. I got no worse than a C, but I had three of them, plus a B, definitely not what I was used to getting in high school. I could have done worse, but I realized that I'd fucked around a lot and would have done better.
Still, my parents were pleased, so I went into my second semester determined to do better. I realize I'm talking a lot about grades, but I'm doing so to prepare the way for the reason I had financial difficulties later on . . . after the tragedy of my parents. If I had entered on the virtue of my high school grades, I might have secured a scholarship. But when I needed the money a year later, my college marks didn't justify it.
Although I made a valiant effort to study harder the second semester, I actually ended up goofing off even more. I had this new roommate, Betty, who'd moved in when one of my other roommates had left school at mid-term. She was a little hell-raiser, and we spent a bunch of time hanging out with friends of hers.
Betty turned me onto marijuana for the first time in my life. Back then, it was almost unheard of, outside of minority groups and musicians.
However, a lot of the beats had used it and it had begun to spread through the underground movement, and some kids on California campuses had begun to use it. As I was a kid on a California campus, I had my chance.
We tried it over at this boyfriend's of hers, a guy who had a house off campus. They rolled them up into really thin little numbers in those days as it was scarce, but I managed to get off. I hadn't heard much about it, and it was just one of those things . . . a guy whipped out a number (I think he called it a 'stick' back then) and I didn't turn it down. It took some coughing and choking on my part before I learned how to get it down right, but I ended up getting stoned, Betty's instructions serving me well.
I really liked the feeling I got off the grass, the way I felt all warm, things looking like they never had before. I remember that I really got into the music-they were playing this guy who'd sounded like a joke the first time I'd heard his album a few weeks back--Bob Dylan. But I really got into the words, and his voice sounded smooth and mellow.
After the party broke up, Betty and I went back to the dorm. I was still feeling silly from the grass, so Betty and I decided to take a shower. Our other roommate-there were three to a room -was visiting her parents in San Diego for the weekend, so we had the room to ourselves.
As we soaped down in the shower, I noticed how pretty Betty was, how smooth her skin, how firm her tits. I'd never looked at another girl in quite that way before, and it made me catch myself and wonder what was wrong. As we dried off, I got this sudden paranoid flash, thinking she was eyeing me intently. All those words I'd heard about began slamming my mind-lesbian, queer. Was she one of those? I'd never given it much thought, but here I was, the first time high, and I was scared.
When we got back into the room, I quickly slipped into my pajamas and slipped underneath the sheets, wanting to go to sleep and make all the bad thoughts stop. But Betty, not bothering to put anything on, came over and sat on the edge of my bed, reaching over and brushing my hair out of my eyes.
"O.K., " she demanded. "What's the matter?"
"N-n-nothing," I tried to lie. "I just need to go to sleep, that's all."
"Come on," she chided me. "You were all happy and everything before we took a shower. Having a bummer?"
The word was new to me, but when she told me what it meant, I tried to tell her everything was fine.
"You've never made it with another girl before have you?"
The question was so direct that it shocked me. It was as if she were reading my mind. I opened my eyes wide, still scared, but looking at her with wonder. I was ascribing new powers to her, a sort of E.S.P., and I had to follow it up.
"No I haven't," I began, "but I don't see what that has to do with anything."
"You don't, huh?" she smiled. "Well, Kiddo . . . and don't get me wrong . . . I'm just calling things the way they are, but I could swear that you were having a flash on me back there in the shower. Like something you've never felt before."
I hadn't known Betty very long, but I did know that she had a big thing about honesty, about getting out whatever it was that was troubling you.
"No," I tried to deny, but my denial was so vehement that she could tell I was lying.
"Listen," she went on in a soothing voice, trying to calm my fears. "You know me. You know that I ball guys, right? So don't be so afraid of me. I could pick up on what you were going through back there. You dug me . . . looking at me. And that's all right. Then you started thinking about it and you got all scared about it, thinking things like that were unnatural . . . right?"
There was no use in trying to deny it any longer. At least she was being friendly, she wasn't coming down on me for what I'd felt. She talked to me in a soothing, reassuring manner, telling me of a similar experience she'd had in high school.
"Well," I asked, "what happened."
"I balled the chick and got the fear out of my system."
It came as a shock to me to hear this from a friend. The grass was still running through my mind-this was one too many revelations for one night. And yet, she went on to tell me, she wasn't those awful things I'd heard about. I had to admit, listening to her logic, that she wasn't a dyke. She got laid more than anyone I knew. When I put voice to my fears about seeing her body and having it turn me on, she countered by telling me I'd been going through a lot of changes, and that I should realize that there was nothing wrong by being turned on by another girl's body. In effect, what she was telling me was not to knock it unless I'd tried it.
My head was swimming with confusion. I had to admit that I had been turned on by looking at her, from watching her bend over, showing her soapy charms to me. But the conventional thinking had set in, and I'd reacted, overreacted because of the dope I'd smoked, by trying to bury the thoughts.
All these things were true, and it made me feel uneasy. But now that I'd talked them out, my fears began to ease. Even though I hadn't ever felt something like this before, it had been there all along, buried in my subconscious. Betty explained to me that these things often came out at odd times, and that my inhibitions had been altered from the grass I'd smoked and the wine I'd drank.
Still, I told myself, I had these feelings-so what was I supposed to do about it? And then I saw her beautiful body, all naked in front of mine, her boobs full and inviting.
Throwing my cautions to the winds, I reached up and pulled her down to me burying my face in the comfort of her breasts. I began crying in long drawn-out sobs, not sure just what to do, caught between my mind and my body.
"There, there," she quieted me, running her hand through my hair.
And I began to feel better. The whole thing was an emotional release. Yet there was still this tightness within me, this burning physical sensation that needed to be hushed.
Betty took care of that for me. She slowly pulled off my pajamas and laid me back down on the bed. I didn't do anything to try and stop her, as it all seemed so right. She got on top of me and began rubbing her pussy against mine, her lips meeting mine wetly. It all seemed natural to me, I couldn't figure out why I'd been so afraid all along.
And now her lips were moving down my neck, causing gooseflesh to rise along my entire body. I felt the same desires I did when I made it with a guy . . . only different. But I stopped trying to analyze the whole situation, letting her mouth take over. It felt so smooth, so good against my skin. What could be wrong with something that made you feel so good?
Her mouth was at my breasts now, sucking gently at the nipples. She paid equal attention to each tit, moving back and forth between each one, paying special attention to the nipples, which she'd suck into her mouth, roll around on her tongue, then flip them back out, making them swell in excitement.
"Oh, this feels good," I found myself saying.
Betty just smiled and worked her way down to my pussy. Running one hand up to my breasts to massage at them, she parted the flesh of my pussylips with the other and dipped her tongue into my crack. I spread my legs wide, thrilled at the sensations she was bringing to my body, eager for her to fuck me the way girls fuck other girls, wanting to explore this new dimension.
She rolled her tongue up so the edges touched each other and stuck it into my cunt, working it in and out of the moist hole like a cock. I pushed my ass up off the bed so she could get it all, thrilled that she was teaching me this new thing.
After she'd finished tongue-fucking my hole, she moved her lips up to the top of my vulva, searching for my clit. When she found it, she began sucking it off, pressing her lips tightly around it and taking it into her mouth. The fires spread rapidly through me as I felt her suck me off, and I knew I'd be coming soon. I wasn't able to do anything but moan as I let go.
Later she taught me how to eat her out, and I found that this turned me on just as much as giving a guy head did. As I fell asleep in her arms, I was thankful that I'd learned all these new things, and hoped that I could keep furthering my higher education.
CHAPTER THREE
My carefree days as a coed came to a tragic end with the death of my parents. When it happened it seemed as though my whole world had fallen through, that everything I'd ever been or had stood for had ceased to exist. They'd been visiting my sister and brother-in-law over in Germany, where he was stationed. The plane had crashed upon takeoff, and it was all over. Just like that.
The accident didn't happen until my sophomore year at Edgar. While my grades hadn't been outstanding, they'd been good enough for me to continue. I had just started the first week of my sophomore year when I got the news from my sister, and my world, as I'd known it, went to pieces.
The rest of my second semester at school had continued to introduce me to new delights, and when I went home for the summer, I'd found Phoenix to be pretty dull. To kill time and help with expenses (even though my father had assured me I didn't need to), I took a job as a waitress to get through till Fall when I'd return to my new friends in L.A.
During the remainder of that second semester, I'd gotten it on with Betty on a pretty regular basis. She showed me all there was to know about girl-girl sex, and I really ate it up, having no guilts about it. I also began getting it on with another older girl she'd introduced me to, who had an apartment off campus. I also got it on with a couple of guys I'd met at some of the parties, but there was no steady person as I was enjoying the freedom I'd found. I smoked grass whenever I could get ahold of it, and this too played a part in reshaping my thinking.
All of this activity, to say the least, did little for my work inside the classroom. About the only thing I really dug was photography, and I began to think that I might want to follow this up . . . if not in a professional capacity, which was difficult for most men in a male-dominated field, but perhaps in a teaching field. Of course, I'd have to bring my grades up, but all that seemed to be so off in the future, too vague for my present state. My grades in art kept me in school, but I'm afraid that everything else turned out worse than the first semester. Only my love for photography-learning how to develop my own prints; how to do double-exposures; experimenting with new techniques like polarization . . . kept me interested in school. Most of my interests took place after hours.
I was really glad to be back in school, although disappointed that Betty had transferred to Berkeley, up where the action was. I started going to the old parties again, smoking dope, and having a good time in general, settling into the new semester when the news of my parent's accident shattered everything.
I took an emergency absence from school and rushed to Phoenix and the funeral. My older sister had flown over from Germany to take care of the arrangements, and we spent several days trying to comfort each other. It was then that we realized how much trouble my father had been in financially. The lawyers advised us that there would be little left for my sister and I to share, even after selling the house and so forth. If he hadn't taken out an insurance policy, we would barely have been able to settle accounts. As it was, we were each left with a couple of thousand dollars and that was it . . . what a waste. I don't mean the money. It's just that a man works his whole life . . . for what?
I went through a tremendous period of guilt, feeling that all this wouldn't have happened if I wouldn't have done all the things I'd done at school. For the first and only time in my life I thought of going to a shrink. But my sister was able to talk some sense into me and make me realize that it was all a horrible coincidence, that no matter what I had done, it had nothing to do with the accident. Well, at least they died thinking that I was doing what they wanted me to do.
I had wanted to drop out of school, but my sister worked a little logic on me, reminding me that they wanted me to finish school. True, I wouldn't have their money to put me through, but tuition for this semester was paid up, and if I got a job and worked starting the next semester, the small amount of money I'd received from the will might help me make it.
"Maybe you can land a scholarship," my sister reassured me just before we parted.
I didn't want her to know just how badly I'd been doing in school from an academic standpoint, so I didn't bring it up. Yet once I was back at Edgar, looking over my meager resources, I did approach the photography teacher and tell him of my plight, hoping that he might be able to pull off a miracle.
My teacher promised to look into it, but he told me not to get up my hopes. If I really wanted to get through school, I could make it by working part-time, but I was just walking around in a fog, not sure really what way my life would go. All those things that I'd assumed were gone, so I knew I'd have to make my mind up soon. I had the rest of the semester, and I could go another semester after that, but that would blow my savings.
I dropped down to only three classes that semester, including my photography, of course, as the burden of the tragedy was just too much for me. I checked into the possibilities of a loan, but found that it would be difficult because of my grades. That's when I realized that it wouldn't work-the scholarship thing. If I didn't even qualify for a loan due to my grades, a scholarship was out of the question. Shit, I couldn't even cut down on the out-of-state tuition fee since I wasn't twenty-one. This, I realized as I sleepwalked through my classes, would be my last semester . . . for awhile at least. I did have a desire to finish for the memory of my father. I still felt pretty guilty about that.
I lost myself in parties as before, only this time I really had something to run from. I think it was the most desperate time of my life when I look back on it. Everything I did seemed forced for those first couple of months after their death. I went at everything hard, drinking harder, balling harder, doping harder.
By chance, I met this photographer at a party one night. He wasn't associated with the school, but knew a girl who owned the pad where the party was. I chatted with him briefly, and he seemed like a pretty nice guy, but I thought little of it when he told me he'd like to take some pictures of me.
I was flattered, especially when he offered me some money to pose, but I didn't have too much time to chat with him as my date was ready to leave. A couple of days later, I saw the girl that knew the photographer and mentioned to her what he'd told me about posing for him.
"Oh, Herb," she laughed. "Well, get ready for this. He makes a lot of money out of what he does . . . but I should warn you, he does mainly nudes."
"I'm not sure what you're getting at."
"You know-girlie stuff. He poses girls for nude layouts in men's magazines. He hangs out around my place because he's always looking for some young girl who needs a buck. I guess most of the girls he gets look like . . . you know, hard. He's trying to break into the slick magazines and he needs girls who look really wholesome and all. The girl next door thing."
With this information in mind, I met Herb at a party again that week. This time I didn't have a date, so I had time to talk with him. He told me he'd been doing straight photography for a few years and hadn't been able to make it, so he'd gone into shooting nudie cuties. Those were the kind of things they were into back then . . . no frontal nudity or anything. Usually just a shot of tit or ass, the girl partially clothed.
I really dumped on him, telling him I really needed money and all, about my parents and everything, and he seemed really sympathetic. He said that he couldn't offer me much, but that he'd be able to pay me about fifty bucks for a session with him.
I told him that I wasn't sure that I wanted my picture in some magazine, but he told me that it wouldn't be bad. Besides, he told me, I was an especially good-looking girl, and if he sold my photos to one of the really big magazines, I'd be able to get some more money out of it. If they just went to one of the small-time outfits, however, the fifty would be all he could afford. He seemed really interested in having me pose, promising me that he'd give me a percentage of what he'd be paid if he sold it to one of the big magazines. Really seeming to want me to do it.
"It's worth a try, a girl who looks like you," he said, leaving me with a card when I told him I'd think it over.
To tell you the truth, I'd never considered doing something like that before, but necessity can make you think along different lines. I mulled it over, stowing his card in my purse, then got back into the swing of the party. Feeling pretty good about the compliments he'd given me, I really exuded my sexuality that night, forgetting all about what my parents might have thought about their daughter posing nude. My guilts were beginning to recede into the past by this time.
A sharp young black dude picked up on me that night with a: "Hey, foxy mama," and we soon headed to his place.
This was another first to me, and I quickly dispelled some myths and got down to the serious business of human-to-human contact. It was sort of a charge feeling his darkness on top of me, the contrast of my white hands against his dark back.
But other than that, it was just the same as it would be with a white guy . . . a white guy who was good anyway. By the time he was through with me, I'd had my fair share of comes and was ready to forget all about my problems for awhile.
CHAPTER FOUR
But the time went on, and the problems came closer and closer, no matter how hard I tried to forget them by balling myself senseless whenever possible. I began to feel somewhat different when compared with my friends, my ordeal separating me and making me feel older than my years. I knew I had to do something soon-it was December and Pd only have another couple of months before I had to make my decisions about the future.
I had been toying with the idea of calling Herb to pick up the fifty bucks when I ran into him at a party. I approached him and told him I was willing, and he really seemed pleased. I guess what he got were mostly dogs. I didn't really know too much about men's magazines in those days, having looked through a few that my dad had lying around and being pretty unimpressed. But I was desperate and willing to put myself in his hands. He reassured me that, in my case, he'd be willing to give me a ten percent share of any profits he made, so it sounded good.
We'd set up a shooting for the following day. I was surprised to find that Herb worked out of his apartment, rather than a studio, so I surmised that he wasn't making all that much money at his job. What the fuck, I shrugged, ringing the doorbell, at least I'd get fifty bucks for the gig.
Once inside, I saw that Herb was all set for the shooting. He had a really nice apartment, but confessed that he was sort of cramped. He only had two bedrooms, and one of these was used as a makeshift darkroom. As he showed me around, pointing out the enlarger and all, he was surprised of my knowledge of photography. I told him of my interest and that I'd done it at school.
He offered me a drink to get me more into the mood of things, and then I changed into my bikini. He started out shooting me with a variety of lights in front of a seamless paper backdrop, then had me switch to panties and bra for a few poses on the couch as if I were at home.
I felt a little ridiculous striking some of the cheesecake poses he wanted, but I was surprised that I wasn't uptight about displaying my body to a man who was almost a stranger to me.
He saved the color photos for last, using some backlighting for a couple of complete nudes. I held a towel in front of my crotch, as things like that didn't go back then, and then the edge of a sheet for some other shots. Once it was done, he congratulated me and handed me a check for fifty dollars.
"I'd like to do another series with you sometime," he told me, as I relaxed on the couch, wearing only my panties.
"Don't you want to wait and see if you can sell these first?" I smiled.
"Oh, they'll sell all right," he assured me. "You're the niftiest chick I've ever shot . . . I'm not kidding. I'm going to try the big market before I try the secondaries. You know, Playboy, Adam, even Pussy."
Outside of Playboy, I'd only seen the other magazines mentioned by him on the newsstands. He went on to tell me that he thought he really had a good shot at the latter two-he'd already sold some layouts to Adam, and Pussy was also a local outfit. It seemed that Pussy was the fastest-growing adult magazine around, a fairly new publication that was the first serious competition Playboy had had up until then, Penthouse not yet having appeared on the scene from England.
"It's always easier if you can walk in from the street instead of dealing through the mails," he told me. "If I could sell this layout to Pussy, I've got a feeling we could make some big money out of it."
"Come on."
"I'm not shitting you, Baby. Pussy is really going now, and they want to soften their image. They want fresh faces because they've started running centerfolds. That's the first place I'm going to try."
"And you want to shoot me again while my price is cheap," I laughed, not really believing him.
"Hey, don't knock it," he said, his face becoming serious. "You get a centerfold in a magazine like that, and no telling what might happen."
"I'm not sure I want to," I answered, wondering just what kind of man it was that read Pussy.
I then began to gather up my things, intent upon getting that check to the bank while it was still negotiable.
"Hold on," he told me. "Why don't you stick around for awhile and have another drink."
"Is this official business?" I laughed, realizing that he was leading up to something else.
"Not exactly," he answered, pouring the drinks.
"It's not often I get to shoot a girl that looks like you. If you leave me alone in here so soon, there's no telling what I might end up doing. So please stick around for a sec."
Well, shit, I thought, might as well see what happens. After all, shaky as it was, this was my future. At least it was a step towards making some money-I'd made up my mind that I'd be a working girl after this semester.
We chatted for awhile, sitting next to each other there on his couch. He was a pretty nice guy, witty and all. I'm not sure if it was his jokes, or the drinks he kept pouring into me, but I was laughing my head off before long. I hadn't even realized that I was sitting there with my tits hanging out, my panties the only thing between me and total nudity.
But the way he kept looking at me made me realize that he was not hitting me at eye-level all the time. Usually, he was staring at my tits. As I was feeling pretty horny by this time, I decided I'd better take the initiative and move things along. One thing I'd come to learn from my partying at Edgar and that was not to be shy. If you wanted to screw someone, a girl could sometimes give a guy a boost by taking on the aggressive role.
"Well," I said, putting the empty glass down. "Are you going to do something about our situation, or are you going to wait till I leave, run into the darkroom and beat off at the proof sheets ? "
This is about as forward as I'd usually get in those days, and I think I surprised myself as much as Herb. But he recovered well, put down his drink, and scooted over closer to me.
"I shouldn't have told you about all the possibilities," he said, "it's already going to your head."
"I'm not talking about that," I smiled. "I've already got the check. I'm talking about the here and now."
"Well," he said, following my lead, "let's stop talking about it and do something about it."
"That's exactly the point I've been trying to make."
With that, he stripped off his clothes. His goggling of my tits had gotten him worked up already, I could see, for when he yanked off his jockies his cock flapped out all red and hard.
I felt like lunching him when I saw that beautiful cock, so I fell to my knees and took it into my mouth. Might as well do a little PR work, just in case he wasn't bullshitting me about the photo bit. I took the tightly-stretched head into my mouth and began running my tongue over the surface. He braced himself, holding onto my shoulders, as I began to take the shaft into my mouth, bobbing my head up and down as I ate him.
"Oh yeah," he moaned. "Eat it. Eat it all up!"
I did my damndest, sucking and blowing on that mother for all I was worth. In no time at all, I felt the hot spurts of come shooting into my mouth. I swallowed it all down.
I laid back on the couch while he repaid the favor. He was really good at eating pussy, and I was really thrashing around when he suddenly jerked up and mounted me-the eating scene had revived his powers. He shoved his cock into me and balled me senseless. All in all, it was a nice bonus on top of the pay I'd gotten for posing. This sort of thing could get to be a habit.
CHAPTER FIVE
I'd practically forgotten all about the photos I'd posed for when Herb got ahold of me during the middle of January, talking so quickly and excitedly that I had to tell him to slow down and repeat himself.
"He bought them!" he repeated.
"Who bought what?" I demanded.
"Ralph Baljoni . . . the publisher of Pussy," he shouted into the telephone. "He really flipped out over them. He wants to feature them in a centerfold."
It took me a few minutes to figure out what he was talking about. I had nearly forgotten about the photo session, figuring he'd sold them, at best, to some cheap beaver mag, or perhaps hadn't even sold them at all. A lot had happened to me since then, and I'm afraid the name of Ralph Baljoni (that's pronounced, BAL-yoni-he uses the 'y' pronunciation of old Italy) really didn't mean that much to me at the time.
I had taken a job at a photography lab owned by a friend of my teacher at school. He'd felt pretty bad when he'd been unable to help me with a scholarship, but wanted to do something for me since he didn't want me to give up on my photography. I had dropped down to just that class, and it was almost final time, so he arranged it so that I could get my assignments from him during my time off from the lab. He had pleaded with me to stay in school, but when I told him how broke I was, he urged me to take this job with this friend in the photo lab, to save my money and come back next year.
As it turned out, I never did go back to school, but I did get an A on the last class I took. At least my teacher had the confidence in me to urge me to continue photography. Working in the lab wouldn't really teach me that much that I didn't already know, and I'd only be doing processing, not any actually shooting, but at least I'd be around professionals in some capacity and be getting the money I so badly needed.
I was so grateful to Mr. Dobbs-that's my teacher-that I wanted to ball him. But he was really straight, a dedicated family man. But I'll have to hand it to him-he did give me my first real encouragement in the field.
I started working at the lab right after New Year's, having dropped all my classes but Mr. Dobbs' back in December, not long after I'd shot the session with Herb. Since I only had to go into school once a week to get my assignments from him, I moved out of the dorm, getting a small refund after a hassle with the administration. The photo lab was in Hollywood, and the old clunker I'd bought with some of the remaining money from my inheritance wasn't in too good of shape, so I rented a small single apartment in Hollywood, not far from the job. It wasn't a luxury place, but I managed to fix it up so that it was livable. In a way, I really dug it. It was the first time I was out on my own in the world . . . my first place of my own. I had just turned twenty.
I realize that a car may seem like a luxury, but if you've ever lived in Los Angeles, you'd know it was a necessity. There's practically no rapid transit there, and the place is all spread out, the birthplace of lateral gravity, my friend, Sherman Ochs, the prominent author calls it. Or was that the other writer, Jimmy Olsen? I'm not sure. Anyway, I'd have enough money from my job that I could swing it. At the campus, my life had been entwined around that one area, and I'd been able to get a ride from my friends if we were going somewhere else. But now that I was on my own, I really needed the wheels.
The work was sort of routine, but I did get a chance to work with equipment that I'd never used before, and there was little hassle. I also got the chance to get a lot of advice from the various professional photographers that had their work done in our lab. As I had access to use the equipment for my own uses during off hours, I resolved to keep up with my photography.
And now here was Herb, like some voice from the distant past telling me over the office phone about the success. I hadn't really expected to hear from him again, and if so, not so soon. He'd really hustled them.
"Understand, Donna," he told me into the phone, "This is a big sale. He's laying out a grand for it. Not too many people top that. It's the centerfold-he bought the color photo and everything. He asked me to provide a little dummy material for it, and I told him I'd check with you. I had a hell of a time tracking you down. When can we get together?"
I went on to explain to him that I was working, but the fact that he had a hundred-dollar check for me made me decide to break a date I had for the evening and go see him. At least he'd lived up to his promise. He was just being smart. If this Mr. Balwhoozit, or whatever his name was had flipped like Herb said, well, they might want more work from me in the future. It was good business for him to keep me on the line by sweetening the thing with a little money. Of course, I've since learned that a hot model can make a lot more, even in porn, not to mention advertising. But most models just got a flat fee, signed a release, and the photos became the property of the photographer, who in turn would sell them to whomever he could get to pay for them.
So at this stage of the game, I considered it a lucky break. I was in no position to turn down a hundred dollars.
I got over to Herb's place around eight, having changed after work. He was bright and cheery, offering me a drink right away, which I naturally accepted.
"How'd you track me down?"
"Through Lisa."
Lisa was the girl who staged the parties where I first ran into Herb.
We settled down on the couch, Herb producing some model release forms, having me sign them, then giving me the check. He seemed really happy about the situation.
"I want to do some more things," he said. "I mean, you've really brought me luck. This is really my biggest layout to date."
"When can we start?"
"Well, I'm not sure . . . " he hesitated. "This guy Baljoni has taken a liking to you and . . . well, he gets first option on anything. He wants to see how the issue does, but he's flipped over you. We'll wait and see."
What neither one of us knew at the time was that Ralph Baljoni wanted me more than Herb. But I wouldn't find out about this for a few months to come.
"Now I've got to provide some stuff for the copy . . . " he went on, taking out a notepad.
He went on to explain to me what he meant by copy. A lot of the cheap publications just make up a whole name and identity to go along with the pictures, the copy only running a few lines anyway. But Ralph Baljoni had begun to upgrade his magazine and wanted the copy to seem more real, even though it was dummied up too. Since he was patterning the centerfold concept after Playboy, he wanted to stress the college image.
"Want to use your real name?" he asked me.
As part of the whole come-on, Mr. Baljoni wanted to let a girl use her real name if possible. He wanted to promote the girls, so that if they went on to some form of stardom, he could brag that he'd given them their break.
"No," I said flatly.
Stardom was the farthest thing from my mind. Sure, me a star-ha! That'd be the day. But Herb stressed that there was a good chance that he might want to use me again, and he'd want to use the same name. So if I didn't want to use my real name, I should at least come up with one I liked.
I thought about it for a little while. The idea both appealed to me, and at the same time scared me away. The idea of being a sexy pinup was nice, but I didn't want the people that knew me to associate the name. Somehow, the feelings of my parents still lingered. I'd stopped feeling guilty about their deaths, but I didn't want to do anything that I felt might have disgraced them. So I thought about another name-Donna Milsap didn't really make it anyway-that's my real name.
"Morris," I finally told him. "Donna Morris."
He shrugged and wrote it down, not actually enthused about the name. But I was on the spot and had to think of one in a hurry.
At any rate, the rest of the article would be similar to my life, but not exact. Since he'd been looking for a college girl for the Pussy centerfold, the fact I was attending school fit in . . . well, actually I wouldn't still be going by the time the magazine came out anyway.
The rest was pure bullshit, pretty vague. They just said that I was attending a college in the L.A. area, not Edgar. They didn't try to follow the girl around on the job the way they do now-you know, the way they have the girl at home with her family, at school or her job . . . all that bullshit that Pussy has borrowed from Playboy and all. Like I say, it was a much smaller operation in those days. The clubs, the other magazines . . . all that came much later on in the operation, once Ralph Baljoni became really messianic.
I didn't even know what they had in mind at this time, other than what Ralph had told me. I'd never even glanced through a Pussy, and here I was about to adorn their centerfold page. But the main thing that interested me at the time was the money.
After going over the details with Ralph, he got up.
"Wait a minute," I reminded him. "Is this the way you usually seal your deals. As I recall, the last time you made our agreement a little more binding."
"I didn't think you'd want to," he smiled. "Now that you're on your way to stardom."
"Bullshit," I answered. "I just dig the money. He gets anymore deals, you call me. In the meantime . . . "
I didn't have to go any further, for his lips had blocked my mouth. We began tearing at each other's clothing, eager to get down to it.
Once we were stripped down, he began chewing on my titties, making them swell up nice and big. I hadn't had any ass in nearly a week, a record time for me by then, and I was about ready to fucking pop if I didn't get it fast.
He sensed my urgency, rubbing my pussy off nice and fast while he ate my boobs. Once he'd gotten a big fat hard-on, he climbed atop me. I wrapped my legs up around his thighs, and held on, ready for a real good ride.
"Fuck me, Herb," I shouted. "Fuck me good!"
Just like with the photographs, he kept his promise. He screwed me until my eyes crossed, and then he fucked me some more. Doing business with Herbie was turning out to be a real pleasure.
CHAPTER SIX
I didn't hear anything else from Herb during the next few months, so I figured that the whole thing had been a big come-on. I could have used the money, but I wasn't about to call him. That would make me look too eager.
I kept checking out the issues of Pussy, just to see if I'd made the centerfold, but so far nothing. I didn't realize that they published several months in advance, but I did see that the March issue, for instance, hit the stands in February. I just didn't know that much about the industry at the time, so I just kept checking it out, feeling rather peculiar looking through a man's magazine at the stands like that.
The issues I did see seemed rather tacky to me, nothing like the Playboy's I'd seen. Of course, Herb had said they were working their way up, but from the tasteless photos they showed of really loser chicks, I felt they had a long way to go. Maybe Herb had just been shitting me about the sale . . . although he had come across with the bread. But the centerfold bit-judging from the issues of Pussy, I'd seen, I was glad I'd changed my name just in case they did use the photos.
And then, sometime in April, I was walking past the newsstand and saw that a new Pussy had come out. I was amazed-the whole cover had changed. Herb was right, they were going for a different, slicker approach. Even the price had changed. It seemed to me that the issue was even located in a more prominent position on the newsstand, but I wasn't really sure.
And then I checked the cover and saw the name: Donna Morris, right on the cover. They hadn't put the centerfold's name on the cover before. They were also featuring a lot of articles and things on the cover, really making a run at Playboy's money.
This time I bought it . . . I should say two copies, just in case I should lose one. Not that I'd be showing this to the kids someday, or anything like that. But it might be my only claim to fame, something I could keep hidden away just to remind me that I had a real eye-catching figure once when I got old.
When I got home, I thumbed through it, finding it in much better taste than before. They'd done a real big layout on me, the centerfold just showed me in front of the backdrop in blue lighting . . . an artier shot than they'd used before, but still not really classy. I had the sheet draped up to cover my snatch, and they'd done a lot of airbrushing, but it could have been worse.
I laughed when I read the story about me, as if I were another person or something. That's the first time I became aware of the way the media can distort things. Now when I read about something I've supposedly done, I don't get so upset.
They really did feature me, even printing 'Miss May,' on the page. So I was Miss May . . . and it was only April. I'd have to make it in a hurry -Miss June would be published soon. Still, it was kind of an ego-trip.
I went about the house, picking up and wondering what a pinup queen like me was doing there, then the phone rang. It was Herb. He let me bask in the limelight, not forgetting to mention that he'd gotten photo credits.
"Oh, one thing," he added almost in passing. "Mr. Baljoni wanted your phone number. I'm not sure if it's O.K., but I gave it to him. Hope you don't mind."
I didn't really have anything I could do about it anyway, since he'd already given it to him. I assured him that it was all right, wondering just what it was he wanted with me. After all, he'd featured me in his first new-improved issue.
"Let me know what he says," Herb said dejectedly. "I mean, don't forget about me."
Now I see what he was getting at. Obviously, Ralph Baljoni wanted to get in touch with me without having to involve Herb. Herb was reacting to a situation he couldn't do anything about, and I felt sorry for him. I assured him that I'd let him know, telling Herb that it probably wasn't anything important.
I'll have to admit, I sort of got off to that publicity, realizing that men all over the country were getting it off after pictures of me. It was a trip to know that Mr. Baljoni wanted to get in touch with me-who knows, maybe I'd get some more work from him . . . movies, oh shit, was I ever dreaming.
I got sort of a kick out of walking to work the next day, sizing guys up and wondering if they realized they were looking at Pussy's Miss May when they passed. But was I ever surprised when I got into the office. They had a centerfold pinned to the bulletin board. It was really weird.
"Donna Morris, sure!" the boss said, eyeing me in a way he never had before, even though he'd been caught sneaking a glance before all the publicity.
Only the way he looked at me now made me feel positively naked, the way he'd look at me, then the picture, then me.
"Why didn't you tell us you were such a big star?" another guy I worked with laughed as he punched the time clock.
I took a lot of ribbing, some of it serious, for the next few days. Especially over the copy-they were forever reading me the part about my college days, and that I liked Bach and the Beatles, that kind of crap. But it was all pretty good natured, and the clamor died down after a week.
I still hadn't heard from Mr. Baljoni after nearly a month, and was beginning to believe it would never happen. I'd gotten my hopes up too high, I decided. Miss May would be the highlight of my life. I vowed to start taking up the camera again myself, chiding myself as I looked at my unused Minolta. Work was all right, as far as work goes, but it was getting to be a bit of a drag. It certainly wasn't the way I wanted to spend the rest of my life, that was for sure.
One day I'd stayed home from work, pleading illness as an excuse. Actually, I wanted to take a day off and go to the beach with a boyfriend of mine, a guy named Mario who worked at nights as a computer programmer.
We got back from the beach around three in the afternoon, and had a few drinks, the plan being to barbeque up a couple of steaks later on. But before I got a chance to make it to the shower, Mario's strong hands were around me and the game was on. Mario was one good screw, and I never turned down a roll in the hay with him, I can tell you.
"Mmmmmmm, Baby," I moaned as he pushed me down atop the bed and began to pull off the bottom of my bikinis. I helped him out, stripping off the top myself, while he struggled out of his swimming trunks. He had a beautiful erection, and I knew just what to do with that. I put it in my mouth and began to blow and suck on it. He managed to work his way around so he was facing my feet and began to eat out my box.
We got really involved in our sixty-nine scene, scarfing on each other like mad. I had now sucked the shaft of his cock into his mouth and was really going to town, my head bobbing up and down, while he ate away at me with full force, lapping alternately at my pussy and my clit.
I ran my finger up his asshole, knowing how that turned him on, and he really started fucking my face. But he didn't miss a beat at my cunt, lapping and sucking me until the heat was really building up inside me.
We came just about the same time, Mario blowing his lunch into my hungry mouth in great spurts, his balls quivering in pleasure. I went through a somewhat less intense orgasm, relaxing and getting into the good feeling as his slippery cock, still dripping come, slid out of my mouth.
Just then, I became aware of a jangling intrusion. Looking around and gathering my senses, I realized it was the phone. Groggily, I picked it up.
"Miss Morris?" the voice came. At least it wasn't work.
"No. . . . there's no Miss Morris here," I managed.
"Well, maybe you could help me. I'm Mr. Baljoni's secretary at Pussy magazine and . . . "
Suddenly it all flashed in. Miss Morris was Miss May was ME. They wanted to see me. My mind came around fast as I jotted down the address, promising to be there at five tomorrow. I'd be able to get off early, even though I'd taken today off, I vowed. Otherwise, I'd take down my picture they goggled at all the time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Even though I didn't know what Mr. Baljoni wanted to see me about, I was really excited all day at work. Even though I'd been out 'sick,' on the previous day, I told them that I had another appointment with Mr. Baljoni . . . actually my first, but why let them know? They all laughed and kidded me, telling me it was O.K. if I took off early, just as long as it resulted in another centerfold. Those dirty old men!
But, I always have to tell myself, if it wasn't for dirty old men, I'd never be where I am today.
The office in those days was in a rather seedy section of West Los Angeles, a factory district actually. This was before Donna Morris . . . and I'm not bragging when I say that. A guy who worked for Pussy up until a few years ago, told me that after the success associated with my layout, the office workers often referred to the company as B.D.M. (before Donna Morris) and A.D.M. (After). At least I was the girl associated with the first real success of the magazine, and it was a fact that Ralph Baljoni never forgot. His treatment of others was harsh, but I got off easy, even though I don't usually take that kind of crap off most people. If he'd have given me the ration of shit he gave others, however, I'd have never lasted there as long as I did. But somehow he treated me better, always remembering my contribution to that May, 1965 issue.
Of course, I knew nothing about all this when I pulled into the parking lot of Pussy. I was sort of disappointed at the surroundings, having fantasized it up to larger proportions, but then again. I had to remember that they had only started their attempt at class with the last issue. It was a couple of years before they really had caught on for good, taking over a large building on Sunset and opening the nightclubs that were never to be as successful as the houses that Hef built, but successes all the same.
I had made up my mind to be firm when it came to dealing with Ralph Baljoni. Even though I was a nothing, I knew that I could become someone if I played my cards right. I wasn't about to come on too strong, but at the same time, I didn't want to blow it by allowing myself to be pushed around.
At least they'd converted part of the inside of the building to look like an office, I thought as she marched down the cheap carpeting towards the big man's office. The rest of the building was given over to printing facilities, warehouse storage and so on, but this one portion was devoted to magazine layout, photo rooms, offices and the like.
The receptionist that greeted me looked like a hooker, I thought, as I was told to be seated in the lobby. She had big tits, but looked like a girl who'd been a pinup in the fifties and had gone downhill ever since. I made a pledge that this would never happen to me even if I went on to do more nude layouts or not.
After waiting for about five minutes, the receptionist told me that Mr. Baljoni would see her now. Mustering my courage, I walked past the receptionist and into the door of the inner sanctum, putting just a slight sway into my walk. I had worn my tightest miniskirt for the occasion, wanting to look as good as my centerfold had indicated.
"It's my Miss May," Ralph Baljoni greeted me in the overdone Hollywood style, bending down to kiss my hand, then offering me a seat next to his cluttered desk.
I had to draw in her breath to take the whole scene in. The office looked like it was lived in twenty-four hours a day. There were manuscripts, proposed covers, brown lines, nude photos, memos scattered everywhere. Over his desk, which faced a wall that was paneled in an inexpensive wood, there was a bulletin board that was covered with more of the same items that were strewn around the office and overflowing his desk. The bulletin board was so crammed that many of the pictures and memos were tacked to the paneled wall next to it, continuing it in an odd sort of way.
But it was Ralph Baljoni that struck me the hardest. He was dressed in mod clothing, which I felt unbefitting of a man well into his thirties as Ralph obviously was. This was before the time of the great youth explosion that found men in their sixties trying to dress and act like teenagers.
He wore a sort of mod hat of blue felt, not unlike the ones I'd seen English rock stars like John Lennon wear. The hat, I was later to find, was somewhat a trademark of Ralph's, and he usually never took it off, even when indoors. The real reason behind this was due to the fact that Ralph's hair was beginning to thin on the top, a fact he tried to hide.
But it wasn't merely his looks that struck me. It was mainly his manner, the clothing being merely the outer giveaway to his inner character. This was a man, I surmised, who really wanted to be a success in his own way, but didn't quite have the originality to pull it off. No matter how hard he tried, I could see, he would never really have class, could never be the number one man in his field. He'd have to settle with being number two, and that was what made him go to such outlandish extents to try and be different, although he was a failure at even this.
I was to constantly congratulate myself over the years at my perception at this first meeting. For no matter how Ralph Baljoni fleshed out before my eyes, his constant striving to be a number one man, hampered by a number two mind, was constantly to frustrate him in his efforts to take on Hefner's empire.
He was being quite friendly to me on this our first meeting, giving me a quick tour of the plant, telling me at least five times that this was nothing compared with what would happen in the future. Once back in his office, he made a couple of calls, calls I sensed he made because I was there . . . he didn't really need to make them, but he wanted to impress me. I was later to find out that he had flipped out over me when he'd seen my layouts, deciding that I was the girl to build his new magazine image upon. And yet, wanting to portray the swinging bachelor image that he'd set up for himself, he never could bring himself up to the human response level of wanting to take it any further than that. He would have been unable to deal with it if I had turned him down.
So began a strange relationship between myself and Ralph Baljoni. I can't really knock him since he gave me a start-who knows what I'd be doing today otherwise? But I couldn't really handle the way he dealt with people, always using them as objects that filled his magazines. Of course, I didn't know all that at the time, even with my hunches, and I was eager to do something very different with my life. This meeting with Ralph Baljoni gave me that chance.
He finally concluded whatever business it was on the phone, picked up his intercom and told his receptionist that she could go home. I could see it coming. What better test for a centerfold than to see if she'll ball in the flesh, once the staple comes out of her navel ?
"I guess you realize why I have you here today," he began, flipping a pencil nervously on top of his desk, not bothering to let me reply to his question. "Perhaps Herb told you . . . wasn't that his name, Herb? I guess he told you that we're going all out to be the best damned magazine in this field."
He really was intent about it, thumping up his points with his pencil.
"Anyway, we've had success beyond our wild-: est predictions with our new look. The month isn't even up and it looks like a sellout. A sellout! And we'd upped the print run by several hundred-thousand issues. That's, really something. Of course, our advanced planning had a lot to do with it, the new distribution setup, new advertisers. But I can't help but associate you with the success, Miss Mitchell. Our Miss May."
He leaned back in his chair with a big grin on his face.
"My name is Milsap."
"Not any more it isn't. Not if you're smart. The name Donna Morris is already etched in the hearts of our readers-we've even had mail on it, lots of it. Baby, if you stick with me, you'll be where you're going in a flash."
"That all depends on what you've got to offer," I told him as coolly as possible.
"What do you want to be, Doll? Don't tell me . . . a movie star, right?"
"Wrong."
He tapped his pencil faster and chewed on the mustache he wore at the time. I've seen him go through more changes during these many years -full beard, goatee, clean-shaven, long hair. At any rate, he was going through changes now in front of my eyes. I don't think he'd expected a girl to counter him so freely. Finally, he decided to try listening for a change, asking me what I was interested in. I told him about my interest in photography, exaggerating my qualifications slightly.
"Hmmmm, that's interesting," he answered.
I could see his mind clicking off quickly just like a computer. One thing I'll have to give him credit for-he knows the exploitation value of things, even if he puts it back into his one-dimensional framework.
"Well, I'll tell you what I had in mind," he went on. "That response to our first issue has been so tremendous that we'll be doubling our circulation in no time. Now a lot of people will associate you with our new image. At the same time, there will be a lot of new readers that we'll be picking up in the months to come. So to satisfy the old customers who want to see more of you, and at the same time to introduce you to the new audience, I want to run another feature of you to break in our December issue. We're really laying out a big issue for then."
I nodded, not wanting him to know how little I knew of the publishing industry, but I was surprised how far in advance they did things.
"We want to do this spread on you . . . not another centerfold, but one that shows you more as a person. They'll be nudes of course, but I want it to be more fleshed-out."
"Not for the kind of money I got the last time," I said firmly, my chance unfolding.
"Forget Herb. I'm not interested in what a freelancer pays you. We have a staff photographer, a really classy guy, who handles our special stuff. He even does about half of our centerfolds. The only reason we go to a freelancer is if he has a good reputation, one, or if he comes up with a girl who's really sensational. Like you, for instance. The minute your picture came across my desk, I knew that you had to be our Miss May."
And so Herb got lost in the shuffle. I've always heard that you have to step on at least one person on the way up, but it wasn't really my decision, but Ralph's. Still, I feel a bit guilty that I never even called him.
"Well, it all depends on what kind of deal you can offer me," I told him.
"Two-thousand O.K. with you?"
Two-thou ? I had to grip the chair to keep from falling over. This was better than I'd ever dreamed of. But if that was his first offer, I steeled myself and tried to hold out for a little more than that.
"But besides that," he continued when he didn't get a definite response from me, "I've got another offer for you to boot. Know the reason I can pay you that? Because I dig what you've done for us. I don't have to blow a fee on a photographer, so that goes to you. But I can see that you've got a head on your shoulders, that you don't want to be just another pretty body. Since we're expanding around here, I know that Jim, he's our photographer-great guy-can use an assistant. And when you started telling me about how you want to get into photography, I say to myself, Ralph, how about a girl?' Yeah, it would really look great, like in our feature of you. Maybe we can even work out another angle later on. Anyway, how about it? The two-grand for the shooting, and then say . . . a hundred and a half a week to work as our assistant photo editor. What do you say?"
Fuck, I couldn't believe it. This was more bread than I'd ever dreamed of. But the big thing would be that I'd actually get a chance to work in the field that I liked best.
"I'll have to give notice . . . " I began, barely able to contain the smile on my face.
"Fine-the sooner the better."
I was ecstatic. Even though this guy was weird, he'd given me a chance to learn the trade. He'd only done it as an angle to help sales, but still and all he did it.
"How about some dinner," he told me, getting up.
"I'd be delighted."
And so off we went in his zippy little sports car, my head still floating in the clouds. I was really surprised when he turned the car into a McDonald's though, thinking it was just a joke at first. But it was then that I began to see what a weird dude he really was, and what a tightwad. I didn't know that he would have had to pay a comparable male photo assistance more than he'd be paying me, but I'd find out all that later. Besides, I was new and this was a chance for experience. Yet Ralph could blow a few thousand dollars in a completely worthless direction, then turn around and skimp on pennies. My Big Mac was the first introduction to his strange economic system.
Still, I was ecstatic about it. I was sort of surprised when he headed back to the office after we'd eaten, figuring he'd want to take me to his place. But he didn't say a word, just drove right up to the parking lot next to my car and shut the engine off. As I opened the door, not sure if I was supposed to go or stay, he grabbed my arm.
"Don't you think you owe your new boss something?" he demanded casually.
"What?" I answered, confused by his abrupt manner.
"This," he said, whipping out his cock. "I need a blowjob. It's sort of a way of firming up our deal."
I was really shocked at the way he went about it. Right out here in a parking lot like this. He hadn't even wined me, although I guess the Big Mac was the dining part. That's the way he was though, never having outgrown the adolescent thing about cars and sex.
I'm never one to turn down a cock that's offered to me, though. I bent down and took it in my mouth, marveling at how long and slender it was. If this is the way it was to be, then I'd best adjust to it.
He pumped at the base of his cock as I took it into my mouth and started sucking. It stiffened quickly, and I ran my puckered lips farther down the shaft, pumping my head up and down. I moved my hand down to the base of the cock, brushing his aside, and got to pumping it in a masturbatory motion, my head still jerking up and down on his prick.
Man, this guy must live in the fantasy world of the books he puts out, I thought, while blowing him. He didn't know any of the social graces. It had all been so sudden, that I hadn't really had a chance to get worked-up myself when he tightened up and blew his rocks off inside my mouth.
After a quick cleanup, he was away into the night, making me wonder what kind of man I'd agreed to work for. Still and all, I decided as I flew through the streets to my apartment, it couldn't be all that bad. Somehow I'd make it good.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I gave notice at the photo lab and began work at Pussy a week after I'd had my first meeting with Ralph Baljoni. Jim, the photo editor's photographer, took me under his wing immediately and began to explain the ropes to me. He was really patient when he realized that I was pretty new to the field, always taking the time to explain things I didn't understand. As I never had to ask something twice, he began to respect my intelligence. It was really weird-these guys at Pussy, who specialized in the exploitation of the body of females, had actually gotten to me by respecting my mind. Or at least they appealed to it.
Jim was a really nice looking man in his early forties, a pro who'd been in the field for quite some time. He was a swinger who liked to party, but was never offensive in the way Mr. B. (that's how a lot of the staff referred to Ralph) was, always the perfect gentleman. He made no bones about having an aversion to marriage, having been thrice-divorced. But he wasn't allergic to women, just the institution.
He filled me in on Ralph's background, telling me how he'd grown up poor, come upon a little money from an inheritance and built the magazine. It was the general consensus of those who worked for him that he had a genius for making money in spite of himself. That is to say, his decisions weren't always sound, but his staff pulled him through. Of course, nobody ever dared the opinion to Ralph's face.
One of the first items on my agenda was the shooting of the layout. I'd get a thousand now, and a thousand when the issue came out, insuring me a nice Christmas. Ralph wanted to feature me as sort of a take off on the playmate of the year thing, but he didn't actually want to call it that, a full year of the new look not having taken place. He avoided this type of thing for a couple of years, but finally came around to a reader's poll of favorite not dissimilar to the magazine he was trying to copy without actually copying.
Thinking about the pink Thunderbird automobiles that the Playboy winners received, I pointed to my heap and sighed to Jim:
"It would be nice if he came up with that format. I mean, even a pink Volkswagen would be nice."
I was able to buy myself a better car with the good money I was making, besides moving to a nicer apartment with a swimming pool, but it was still not real class. But before I got to that, I had to do the nude layout that Ralph wanted for the December issue.
The feature was to appeal to the Southern California climate, to show the year-round pleasures of dipping in a pool and the like, just to make the snowbound people in the rest of the country a bit jealous. Consequently, we rented a large hillside house for the shooting, Ralph sparing no expenses on this one for a change. It seemed that he would be more willing to stretch the budget as far as I was concerned, and I was well aware of the special appeal I held with him.
Jim was going to shoot the spread, so just the two of us would be involved. As I could help him with the lighting and so forth, I confided to him that I'd feel a lot more comfortable with just him around. I'd never done nudes with a big crew around, and I wasn't sure how I'd react.
Once we'd set up, we did the indoors shots first. I was much more impressed with the way Jim went about his job than I had been with Herb. He knew just the right angle for the lights and everything before he'd even snap the shutter.
I noted that the girlie photographers preferred the use of 2 I/4's and even the old 4X5's over 35mm. The best thing about it was that the contacts were bigger than with 35, and they also didn't blow up grainy the way 35 did in those days. With the new films they have now, graininess isn't a problem, but I still prefer a 2 I/4 myself unless I'm shooting rapid action shots, or need a long lens. So you see, I was learning a lot about my job on both sides of the camera back then, and have Jim to thank for setting me off in the right direction.
We had saved the outdoor shots for last as I'd be getting in the pool for some of the shots, and we wouldn't have to waste time waiting for me to dry out. This was the first time I learned about using a strobe to take away the harsh shadows you can get outdoors, as well as picking up some knowledge on the use of reflectors and various jels I wasn't familiar with.
After posing me around the pool in various poses, it was time for the shots in the water. I'd done my best to get a good tan before the shooting, as Ralph particularly liked the contrast of dark skin against the white band of skin created by wearing a bikini. Just one of his little preference trips, but I'd done the best I could.
We had complete privacy up there on the mountaintop, so I was able to take off all my clothes for the final shots. Of course, frontal nudity was still out, but he got me at different angles-swimming with my butt up out of the water, hanging over the side with my boobs flopping out of the water, hanging from the diving board.
When we finally finished, we saw that we'd finished well ahead of schedule. I dried myself off with a large towel as he broke the equipment down.
"We really work well together, Kid," he told me, making me feel much better than if he'd complimented me on my body-after all, I wanted to become a photographess in my own right one of these days.
"Thanks," I said, tossing the towel down and feeling the sun's heat on my body. "I just don't know how you . . . being a man and all, can stay so objective about your work."
He looked at me intently, his blue eyes sparkling with unhidden mischief.
"In your case, it wasn't easy," he smiled.
"Oh come on," I joshed.
"No, I'm serious," he said, setting down his camera. "With most of the girls it's just another job. But let's face it, Baby, you're not the ordinary girl. Why do you think Ralph is so flipped out about you? You're the best thing we've ever run, and don't forget that."
I blushed at the compliment, but as an afterthought, stuck out my lip in a pout.
"What's wrong?" he said, coming over to me. "A guy gives you a compliment and what does he get?"
"I'm flattered," I told him. "But I was hoping that this job was serious. I don't want to spend my life taking off my clothes in front of a camera. I want to learn how to get behind the camera. I thought you knew that."
He put his arm around me, reassuringly.
"You're doing great. To tell you the truth, when Ralph told me he'd hired a girl to be my assistant, I was ready to walk out. Nothing against you . . . don't get me wrong. I just thought it was some crazy scheme of his. But you're working out fine. I think you'll make it on your own some day. I'm not just shitting you, I really do."
I smiled, indicating that he'd made me feel better.
"But to get back to the other thing . . . listen, I'll be frank with you-I got a hard-on a couple of times while we were shooting. No shit."
"Really?" I blushed again.
"You're special, Donna," he told me, slipping an arm around my back.
"I think you're special too, Jim," I told him. "Putting up with me . . . not knowing anything . . . "
"Are you kidding?" he laughed. "It's a real pleasure to work with you. I only wish I could show you how."
"Show me," I dared him, realizing that this was the crucial moment where we could either break it off and go about our business, or fuck. I'd chosen to fuck.
Jim took the hint, circling my waist with one arm and leaning down to kiss me. It was really exciting to be doing this outdoors, and I eagerly tugged at his clothing, helping him strip down to just his socks.
His tool was short, but thick. As my back pressed against the cement, it burned, but not so much as to keep me from balling. My moist skin soon cooled it off, while he heated my insides by lapping at my body with his tongue.
"Oh, fuck me, Jim," I pleaded with him, feeling the tightness grow inside of me.
His cock now hard and extended, he knelt over me and lowered himself atop my body. His weight felt good against my tits, as I reached down to grab his thick cock to guide it into my waiting pussy.
As soon as I'd plopped it inside, we began rocking to and fro, my ass making sucking sounds as it adhered to the cement, pulled off of it, then stuck again with the motion of my hips. He really knew how to work his cock, and soon I was going wild, beating at his chest and shoulders with my hands.
All too soon, I felt him begin to go rigid. Then he let go with a final flurry, pumping his juices into my cunt. I had to reach down and diddle myself off to go all the way, but it didn't seem to phase Jim, who seemed to have passed out. I guess the heat must've gotten to him-whether it was external or internal, or a combination, I'll never know.
CHAPTER NINE
Things at Pussy went along pretty smoothly for the next year. The feature on me that came out in December was another sensation, locking me in as Ralph's company favorite. A lot of the crap that they wrote was bullshit, like it's being my pool (I wish) and all, but all in all it was a lot more honest than the first feature that they'd run on me.
It had been so good, that they shot another feature of me that following summer, and I got a bonus again, plus a raise for my regular duties. I'd really learned the tricks of the trade by then and was getting eager to shoot an assignment on my own.
The circulation of Pussy was growing at an amazing rate, and plans were being drawn up for new offices. Ralph had gotten himself a decent-looking receptionist, and she and I would sometimes make it together after work.
I didn't have to ball Ralph very often, but I did on occasion. But I really couldn't argue with him as he was treating me better than practically anyone else around there. The success was really going to his head, and he sometimes ran the company like a petty tyrant. Gilda, the new receptionist, confided to me that she had to ball Ralph fairly often, but that somehow she got through it, even though she couldn't stand him.
I kept my mouth shut though, not wanting to make waves. I still had a few things I wanted to accomplish here, and since he'd treated me better than most people, I tried not to complain, even though I wasn't too wild about him as a person.
I had a pretty nice lifestyle as a result of my job, and managed to get it on with as many guys and girls as I could. These were generally people away from the job, although I did date Jim occasionally and I've already told you about Gilda.
There came a time when I was really anxious to put my photographic skills to the test and shoot something on my own. But even with Jim's backing, I couldn't talk Ralph into it. He wasn't exactly against it, he just said I wasn't ready.
But he was so pleased with the results of my third layout, he finally did give me an assignment. When Jim told me about it, I about flipped, even though it would be a simple thing, taking a picture of a drink for a section we ran on alcoholic beverages. Although it was a small assignment, I jumped at the chance, trying to figure out how I'd go about making a rum-punch look a little different.
I finally came up with an idea . . . not exactly original, but different enough that I figured, at least hoped that Mr. B. would go for it. I talked it over with Jim, and he liked it, so I decided to make a rough out of it to see if it met with Ralph's approval.
It was really a pretty corny thing. Since it was supposed to be about this rum punch for hot days, I took the photo of the bowl of punch in a crystal container. Overlaid over this, we'd superimpose it if Mr. B. approved it in final form, was a photo of a man on a raft. He was wearing tropical clothing, and looked as if he'd been shipwrecked, and was paddling the raft across the rum lake with a large straw.
Now I came up with this before that toilet bowl thing came out. You know, the one where the lady sees this guy on a raft inside her toilet tank? I think they may have copped the idea from me, but I don't care. I'm not particularly proud of the project, but as it was my first real break behind the camera, I wanted to try and appeal to Mr. Baljoni's tastes.
Once the rough comp of the picture was ready, I took it into Ralph's office for approval. I was pretty nervous there in the waiting room, Gilda wishing me good luck. I'd even forgotten to take a camera that I'd been wearing around my neck off, but once I saw it was there, I decided to keep it on, figuring that he might begin thinking of me more as a photographer when he saw it on me.
He finally saw me in, and when he looked at the comp, he really flipped. He really liked it! I took a big breath of air, relieved that I'd passed my first test. It wasn't all that good, but from his reaction, you'd have thought I'd just won the prize in a big contest or something.
Noticing the camera around my neck, he smiled and said he was glad to see that I was always prepared to take a good photo. I mean, that's the terms he thought in. He even posed for a couple of pictures for me, just for fun, although you'd never know it from the serious poses he struck, the ever-present hat still in place on his head.
Motioning me to sit down and take off the camera for a second, he again went over the work I'd just done for the drink article, praising me more highly than I'd expected.
"You know," he mused, "we'll have to try you on one of our centerfolds real soon. You're really an asset to this company, Donna. I'm glad things have worked out so well. Jim has nothing but praise for you."
I smiled, relishing the idea of getting a shot at a centerfold. One thing I'd learned about Mr. B. and that was he followed up with what he said. It may take you forever and a day to get him to suggest something, but once he did, he most generally followed through with it.
"I'm so happy with you," he continued, "that I'm going to give you a reward."
I held my breath, hoping for a raise, or even a firm deal on a centerfold.
"Just what would that be, Ralph?" I asked him after he hadn't spoken for nearly a minute.
"A nice screw," he said with a leer, making me sink through my chair.
Of all the things I didn't need. What made him think he was a reward? I'd gotten to the place that I had to practically fake it when I made it with him, but since this didn't come up too often, I managed. But to give himself as a reward. What an egotistical fucker he was. If he only knew that people who made it with him practically gagged.
He flipped on his intercom, telling Gilda to hold his calls, so I knew that I'd better collect my reward as easily as possible. After all, I did want that chance to do a centerfold-he didn't exactly pass those out like candy.
I picked up my camera and sat on his lap. Don't ask me why, I guess it was just some defense mechanism in me trying to figure a way out of it.
"Please, Donna," he told me stiffly. "You can put down the camera. I'll give you another assignment real soon, just like I said."
So I put it down, and began taking off my clothes as he instructed, leaving my white garter-belt on, as I knew he preferred it that way. He undressed, leaving his cap on, and began to eat me. Even with him doing it, I did begin to get turned-on, so I had him ease me down to the floor where it would be easier.
I moaned and thrashed around as he ate me, trying to fake it so he'd finish me off in a hurry. The actual sensation of being eaten was pleasurable, even with him, but I hoped to get it over with fast.
I faked an orgasm, but he still wasn't satisfied. He just climbed atop me, slipping his thin cock up my pussy, and began balling away at me. It was ridiculous, the way he left his cap on. I reached up and pulled it off, revealing his thinning hair, and he glared at me, but only for a moment. He was too lost in his fucking to really get pissed.
He finally came, giving me instant relief, even though I still hadn't made it. The penetration of his cock had turned me off. I don't know what it was about him, but that's just the way he affected me.
The first thing he did, after regaining his composure was to put his cap back on. Then he smiled at me and told me I could go. I put on my clothes, glad that I'd accepted my reward so well, then hustled out of the office, giving a knowing glance to Gilda. The things you have to go through to reach the top!
CHAPTER TEN
I did get my chance to do a centerfold not long after that, and I came through again. While I didn't break with their policy very much, I used a lot of backlighting on my subject to give her a softer look.
"Wow, we won't need much airbrushing on this," Mr. Baljoni said when he saw the proofs. After that, I got assigned quite a few of the layouts, and I always tried to improvise something a little different to make them more 'arty,' as Mr. B. called them. The circulation was growing, and he felt he had to keep pace with the competition.
Speaking of competition, there was no jealousy between Jim and me over my promotion. The size of the magazine had expanded, and he spent more and more of his time shooting special features, so everything went along just fine.
Mr. Baljoni came up with the bright idea to find yet another way of exploiting my body after I'd shot a few centerfolds. He decided that the time was right for the public to see me again, and to use the layout to publicize the fact that I was doing a lot of the photography. I had been given photo credits for my layouts, but he felt that it would still be a great way to use me once more in the nude.
He would run a feature on me taking photos of one of our centerfolds, Jim taking pictures of me as I worked. At least I was spared the embarrassment of having to shoot the layout in the nude, although you shouldn't think that Ralph didn't suggest the idea. But Jim came to my rescue, pointing out that it wouldn't seem authentic that way. Mr. B. backed down, agreeing with the logic, but he found a way around it by rerunning a picture of my first centerfold along with the article, plus some shots taken of me during the other previous sessions. You've came a long way, baby. But not that far.
Actually, the layout was to prove the undoing of Ralph as far as I was concerned. Once it appeared, over two years after I'd first been dubbed Miss May, I began to get a big reaction to it, and quite a few offers to go out on my own. Of course, I didn't think that much about it after we'd shot it, as we now worked about six months in advance. But when it did appear, and I got the surprising reaction, it gave me some bargaining power when I went in for a raise.
But I'll get to that later. For in the meantime, I got to do a couple more centerfolds, one that I remember in particular as I met Kathy.
Ralph was on one of his budget-cutting missions, and as he wanted to show this centerfold in a home atmosphere, I decided to shoot the layout in my apartment. I'd moved into a comfortable two-bedroom place by this time, and it would work out nicely for the subject we wanted to do, plus it would satisfy Ralph in that he wouldn't have to shell out any money on a location. Like I said, he could pinch pennies at times.
They brought Kathy into the office the day of the shooting, and was she a knockout. All modesty aside, she was the best thing they'd had since me. She was about five-five, and was she ever stacked. She had an innocent air about her that could be deceptive. I later found her to be quite intelligent, if somewhat flighty.
On the drive to my place, I chatted with Kathy and found that we had a common denominator-good old Edgar College. She'd gone there for a year, having dropped out to go after her goal . . . that's right, she wanted to be an actress. Ralph can't be wrong every time.
She was studying at a local acting school, and had taken on the centerfold gig as a way to help with the finances. She'd just walked into the place one day, bold as brass, and asked to see the head man. It was her lucky day, for the person she'd asked in the hall was the head man himself -Mr. Baljoni. He'd taken a liking to her and had offered her a chance to pose nude as a centerfold. He was especially pleased that this girl was an ambitious starlet who didn't mind using her own name, so this would be more authentic than usual.
Since she hadn't actually been in any movies so far, we decided to pose her in an apartment, waiting by the phone for a call from her agent. We would dummy up an acting class in the studio later on, as her school wouldn't go for the idea. Ralph was hoping that the centerfold layout would lead to a contract for her, as he could then point to her as one he'd given the big break to. Of course, Kathy wouldn't have minded it a bit. From the acting I've seen her do, in somewhat smaller parts in smaller productions than she'd dreamed of, I can see why she needed a gimmick to try and make it. I hope she hangs it up and finds another calling. But beyond that, she was a great kid.
I told her about my centerfold experiences, and she laughed with me about Mr. B., but hoped that she could get as big a break in her career as I had.
"Did you have to . . . " she began, but left the question unfinished when I broke up laughing.
We compared notes on his idea of screwing, both of us continuing the popular opinion that he was very one-dimensional and disgusting when it came to sex.
Our chatter had led to easy feelings by the time we got to my place. I've found that lots of girls feel more comfortable having a female photographer shoot them, although this isn't always the case. I've had the reverse work on me-girls thinking it was an insult and all.
I set up my lights in the bedroom first, wanting to get a few shots of her looking over a fake script while wearing some shortie pajamas. After that, I relocated the lights in the living room, while she stripped down to the underwear and applied what body makeup she could. As I helped her apply the rest of it, she giggled quietly, letting me know right then that she wouldn't mind fooling around with me later on.
But first things first-I didn't want to streak her makeup. I checked her with my light meter, then began snapping away with my trusty Hasselblad. I finally had her strip down nude, trying a couple of color shots for possible centerfolds-one with her holding a pillow in the crucial spot; the other with her lying along the couch, tummy down, her legs kicking up and her cute little fanny showing. The second shot became the actual centerfold.
I shut off the lights, realizing we'd accomplished all we could here, going over to the couch. As I pulled off my camera, sitting it on the floor, she playfully reached out and grabbed me by my dress, tearing it slightly.
"Hey!" I shouted at her.
It was a new print dress and I really liked it.
"What are you gonna do about it, spank me?" she taunted me, sticking out her tongue and wiggling her saucy rear end up at me as she did so.
I just about did, raising my hand in the air, and then remembered we'd have to shoot some more shots once we got back to the studio at Pussy. She wasn't trying to hide her masochism, that's for sure. I'd been with a girl like her before, a roommate back in college, who liked nothing better than to get her butt warmed.
"If I didn't have to shoot another layout on you, I might," I warned her. "But I can't mark up that cute little rear of yours or it'll show up in the pictures."
She pouted-boy, she really was one. "Maybe you'll do it to me later . . . if I'm bad?"
I told her I would, then began to take off my torn dress. At least I was at home where I could change it. After I pulled it off, I tossed it on a nearby chair, telling her that I should take it out of her earnings.
"Aw, don't be mad," she said in a little-girl voice. "Come over here and I'll make it all better."
She didn't try to hide much, I'll say that for her. I checked the clock and saw that we still had plenty of time before we had to be back to shoot the other scenes. I walked over to her, my eyes still sparkling in mock anger.
"I'm sorry I tore your dress," she said, reaching out to pull me down beside her.
"That's O.K." I reassured her, eager to see what this little bombshell could do in the clutch.
She got up on her knees and gave me a face full of tits. They were like firm jello, and I inhaled deeply, licking my tongue out at the cleavage between them. But she pulled back and shook a playful finger at me.
"I'm supposed to make you feel all better . . . remember?"
Whatever she wanted to do, just as long as she got down to it soon. She was really making me horny with that little playact of hers.
She then stripped off my bra and began to eat my tits. She was really a pro at it, despite her nineteen years, I could tell, she'd been around. She worked them up real good until the nipples were hard, then began sucking at me all over, even lapping at my armpits.
As I was going out of my mind to feel her tongue in my pussy, I pulled back and stripped off my panties. But before I could stretch out on my back, she had me kneel on the couch, facing away from her.
"I want to eat your asshole first," she told me, and then proceeded to fit action to words.
My anal ring gave way quickly as she worked her finger in. Then she slipped her tongue up there and began rimming me good, her hand sliding down to play with my buttocks. After she'd satisfied her scatological needs, she had me flip over on my back for the good part. And was I ready for it.
She ate me like there was no tomorrow, sucking on my clit until I had to beg her to stop as I'd had enough orgasms already. Otherwise I'd never be able to get back to work. I did her back before we left, telling myself that I had to get together with this little chick again.
Well, to make a long story short, she ended up moving in with me. She stayed on for several months, up until she got an offer from a European porno film-maker who'd seen her layout in our magazine. Yes, Ralph had finally started a budding actress on her way, but she hasn't made it far.
I was really sad to see her go, for I was at a turning point as far as Pussy went. I even began to resent Ralph a little more after she'd left, feeling that Kathy wouldn't have been discovered if it weren't for him.
Oh, our relationship had its problems, that's for sure. She really did like having her bottom spanked, and I wasn't particularly into S-M, but the results I got after I'd done it to her were hard to beat. I've never known a little gal who liked eating pussy better than Kathy did, before or since, and I hope she learns to apply her talents to some other field than acting.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Not long after Kathy had split for Europe, things between Ralph Baljoni and I really came to a head. It was shortly before Pussy was going to move their offices to the new building, and he was always uptight. But I had to approach him about my job, as I'd received several very good offers from the outside as a result of the article they'd run, concerning my photography. I'd already had to turn a couple of good offers down, as he kept putting me off, and putting me off. But I was under contract to Pussy and couldn't do any outside work without his permission, so I finally cornered him one day and let him have it straight.
"Mr. B., " I began in measured tones, "I appreciate all you've done for me, but like I've tried to tell you before-I have these good offers."
"And I've tried to explain to you," he countered from under his cap, "that as long as you work for us, you must give us first chance at anything you do."
"But these are things that you're not into," I explained as patiently as possible. "Things like advertisements, fashion shots, things like that."
"We're a growing company," he said coldly. "You'll never know what we might be into soon."
"But these offers are coming now," I pleaded. "I appreciate the fact that it was the layout that brought me this, but at the same time, it's hard to turn them down. You don't always get a chance like this."
The fact that the article had backfired on him pissed him off and I knew it. Up until now, no matter how much I did in the creative end of things, he still looked at me as being a girl who did it, rather than a person. I was supposed to be forever grateful for something that had started me two-and-a-half years back, and not rock the boat. He liked my work, true, but I was still a woman and therefore subservient from his point of view. I just couldn't buy it anymore.
"Perhaps a raise," he began, offering me a small increase that I couldn't accept-the miser.
"This isn't a matter of mere money," I told him, becoming more determined as I went on. "Fm talking about my career. I've come to a point that I've got to grow."
"Not and work for Pussy," he reminded me.
"Then so long Pussy," I announced, rather surprised at myself for taking such a firm stand.
He then came down off his high horse for a second, becoming almost human as he offered me an even larger raise. But as I've already shown you, I don't change my mind once I've made it up. He did part on a friendly basis, though, offering to buy some of my freelance work in the future.
Shit, I thought, sitting in my apartment over a drink that night-I might actually need some of the work he'd offered. He didn't pay as much as the competition, but it was an easy sale, as anything I did seemed to sell magazines for him.
I was in a bit of a spot and I realized it. I hadn't really thought it would come to this--either Pussy, or the other things. Although I'd been making a good salary, I'd been living in a pretty high manner, and I only had a few thousand put away. I know that may sound like a lot to some people, but with my lifestyle, that could go in a matter of a couple of months. I had really gone in there thinking I could strike some sort of compromise with Mr. Baljoni.
But I had to stick to my guns. Maybe I could do some freelancing for him later on, but for now I had to prove to myself that I could make it without having the security of Pussy to fall back upon. That was the big thing-proving it to myself. I still had very limited experience with a magazine that only did one type of thing. Could I actually shoot an ad? Well, one thing for sure, I'd find out in a hurry.
At least I still had one firm offer to shoot an ad for a dishwashing detergent back in New York. When I thought of the chances I'd had to turn down, I silently cursed Ralph. But perhaps other offers would come in after that. I could get an agent. The thoughts jumped through my mind rapidly that night. I was scared, true, but at the same time, this was a bold step into the future, a challenge I would have had to meet sooner or later if I were to become a real photographer.
If all else failed, I could always sign on with another men's magazine . . . but no, it was no good to think negatively, not when I was going out into a new world.
That world proved to be tough going at first. After the soap commercial in New York, the offers stopped altogether, the layout about me having already peaked. The media can make you and break you. You have to strike while you're hot, I'd learned that lesson well.
I was too proud to go back to Pussy just yet, but I was getting to a point where I'd need money pretty soon. Even the agent that I'd engaged to find me work told me that it was extra-tough for a female photographer, that my layout in Pussy had been kind of a novelty.
That whole idea pissed me off, and I began to identify with the small women's rights movement that was starting up at the time. Why couldn't they take me on the merits of my work, and not because I was a woman?
Just about the time I'd decided to move to a cheaper apartment, however, a guy I'd known as a freelance writer got in touch with me. He had this project that he'd like to try me out on. If I hadn't have been so strapped for money, I think I might have turned him down, but I went ahead.
It seems that hard-core porno was really beginning to surface about then. An enterprising couple had come up with an idea for a really cheap way to shoot a porno flick and make a lot of money doing it. They'd shot in 16mm and it had grossed over a million within a month, against a budget of only twenty-five thousand dollars!
They had interpreted the rulings of the Supreme Court very liberally, and found a way to show a man and woman in bed and still give it the socially-redeeming value that was a necessity. Even though it showed graphic details of a couple in full sexual intercourse, even shots of the girl giving a guy with an erect penis head, an idea that would have been far too risky just a year or so back, it had been busted in only a few places, and the producers had won the two cases that had come to court to date. That was because it had socially-redeeming qualities in that a psychologist (played by an actor) came on during the first part of the show and explained that it would be wonderful if adults could view the proper way to indulge in sex, that it would help their hang-ups, etc. Of course, he used the terminology of the field, and he continued his discussion in a voice-over as the film went on to show a couple doing everything a man and woman could.
So this guy, Ernie, wanted to come out with a similar movie while the time was ripe. The way he'd gotten ahold of me was that he'd called Ralph to see if he'd back it, but Mr. B. had turned him down, not wanting to chance his growing empire on a questionable thing like this. But Jim had given him my number to see if I might be interested . . . bless him!
Ernie had managed to round up a backer by the time I got together with him, so I was offered only a small percentage, which I turned down. I didn't want to tell him I didn't have the bread to put up for such a venture. Even if I had, I'm not sure if I would have done it. Sure, you can turn a good profit, but I don't like the possibility of legal hassles and all that. I would collect a straight salary for filming it, a nice hefty chunk for one day's work-two-grand. I made it absolutely clear that I didn't want my name connected with the film in any way, and he agreed to my wishes.
The funny thing was I hadn't fucked around with a movie camera since a college class I'd had. But I called a guy I knew and got a refresher course. Ernie's backers were to cover all the expenses, the renting of the equipment and so on. I told him what I needed, and he agreed to have it there on the day of the shooting. As it was to be a really low-budget epic, there would be no lighting man, no makeup man, no grips, no props . . . I was the whole show. Of course it wouldn't be hard, as all I had to do was set up the lights in the bedroom of Ernie's house and shoot away. I'd be the cameraperson as well as director.
Ernie had decided that, as well as saving money, the couple he'd hired to perform would feel freer to do so if only two other people would be in the room. It wasn't the type of thing that would be shot from a lot of different angles. Ernie would just tell me what the script called for, and I'd shoot it, mostly hand-held stuff. Then we'd shoot some different angles, maybe a few close-ups to splice in as inserts, and that would be it. The main thing was hoping that the guy would be able to get it up at least a few times, as this wasn't kiddie stuff, but the real thing. We could simulate some of the action, but a lot of it would have to be the real thing-hence the reduced crew should help the guy feel more at ease. If I needed any help, Ernie would provide it.
I tried not to think of this hard-core thing as being a step down for me. It was just a job, something to make a little rent money with. While this kind of live-action sex was the vogue now, I realized, correctly, that it would level off. It wasn't something I wanted my name on.
On the day of the shooting, I arrived at Ernie's pad early, wanting to check out the equipment. As the only sound would be the voice-over of the doctor Ernie would hire later, after it was cut and edited, plus a few sounds of lovemaking dubbed in, it would be no problem to shoot. I did have Ernie go out and get me another light, but otherwise the 16mm Bolex, and the other equipment would do fine.
The couple arrived, and they weren't the greatest-looking pair I'd ever seen. They were both a bit flabby, but Ernie had warned me that he hadn't been able to find just anyone willing to ball in front of the camera for a few hundred dollars, and Mike and Barbara had been the healthiest of the lot.
I had second thoughts about it when I noticed that they both had tracks on their arms, and admitted that they used heroin. They gave the same old story about trying to get off, but I realized that this afternoon's movie would just go to score more smack. I applied pancake makeup to their arms to cover the needle marks, and we were about ready to go. As it was to be a black-and-white effort, the tracks wouldn't show. Ernie told me that it didn't even matter if it was grainy when they blew it to 35-it was expected in these kinds of flicks and seemed to add to the excitement of the whole production.
I just couldn't imagine anyone strung out enough to want to perform in this manner, but I'd never been on smack, so I tried not to judge.
There were those people in our society, I realized, who would have looked down on a girl posing in the nude as I had done several years back. At least they had scored a fix before coming in, and they both assured me that they could handle the sex scenes with no problem. I decided, however, upon seeing their glassy-eyed stares, not to do any facial close-ups unless they were from a side angle.
"O.K., let's shoot," I said, and the pair climbed atop Ernie's stripe-sheeted bed.
I'd decided against using any director talk, as I would be talking mainly to myself anyway. There were no clapboards for sound, no cards to designate scenes. This was a schlock production all the way, and I'd let Ernie and his editor worry about the sequence when they edited it. It was to be a take-off on the other film, only this was supposed to emphasize hang-ups and how to cure them, showing various forms of lovemaking in the process. Looking at Mike and Barbara, I realized that here were a couple of hang-ups in the flesh.
Ernie told me to start out with a simple petting scene, so we did, Barbara and Mike trying their damndest to go through the motions of kissing and hugging each other as if they cared. As they fondled on the bed, I shot down at them handheld from the edge of the bed. After getting quite a bit from this angle, I switched off the camera and went to the foot of the bed, not bothering to tell them to stop, as they weren't really doing that much anyway. When I started shooting again, I told Mike to begin kissing Barbara's titties, and I zoomed in for a close-up of the action.
When it came time for the balling scene, poor Mike had a terrible time trying to get it up, so I suggested to Barbara that she might give him head. And so I shot some of the head-giving sequence ahead of time, but I had to take advantage of whatever I could. Ernie just shrugged, realizing I'd have to get it anyway I could manage.
Mike finally had a nice-hard-on, and I zoomed in on it as he shoved it inside his wife. I had to break in here, having them do it missionary style for a few moments, pleading with Mike not to shoot off and lose his hard-on. Luckily, it worked.
Now I had them do it dog style. I had him enter his kneeling wife twice, once from a distance (my shot that is) and another close-up. I didn't know how long this yo-yo could hold out, and I wanted to get as many penetration shots as possible while he had it up. I could always simulate some of the balling.
I cautioned Mike to warn me as to when he was about ready to come. With some imagine zoom work, I'd be able to get a little expression out of him yet.
He kept putting it to Barbara, who was genuinely enjoying the whole thing, perhaps the first time he'd paid any attention to her in some time. She ground her meaty hips back against his, her heavy breasts swaying underneath her body as he pounded against her. He gripped her tightly by the sides, and I zoomed in briefly to get a close-up of this, but came back out to a full two-shot quickly, not wanting to miss the climax.
"Real soon," Mike warned me.
I told him to hold on for an extra second, and zoomed in on his face, registering the tension in his neck muscles, then came back out just in time for him to climax. If the zoom was too quick, I realized they could make a flash cut out of it in the editing room.
I zoomed in to his spitting cock as he pulled it out, not sure how they wanted it, but Ernie said it was fine. Better to be too dirty, I supposed they could always cut it down, but adding to it would be hard.
As one of the topics was to be female masturbation, now was the perfect time to do it, as Barbara hadn't made it yet. While her husband sat in a chair behind camera range, sweat dripping down from his mustache, I shot a short piece of film of Barbara jerking herself off, first by hand, and then with a dildo.
I ran out of film before she made it, so I had to change to a new load, and have her go through it again . . . presumably this would give Mike time to rest up. But when it came time for us to get more shots of her giving him head, he couldn't get it up.
"We've got to get this on," Ernie said, rubbing his hands together nervously.
Being a good director, I quickly sized the situation up. I told Barbara that he was probably used to her in as tactful manner as possible, and suggested that I get him up to start out. She agreed blankly, probably barely aware of what I'd said. So I got down to it, warning Ernie not to shoot any of this or it'd be his nuts.
I got him up all right, sucking his cock to attention in a matter of seconds. The only trouble was, he didn't stop and switch to his wife when he was supposed to. I told him to cool it, but he was not to be dissuaded. He had a look of fire in his eyes -the first real emotions he'd shown all day.
He got me down and began to work me over but good, shoving his pecker up me and banging away. His wife got into the act too, sitting on my face and asking me to give her head. The whole action was fucked, maybe the movie, but it didn't matter anymore. I was too involved in this fuck scene to give a shit. I only hoped that Ernie had kept his promise and not tried to shoot this.
But when I got up from the group-grope, I saw that he'd gotten so turned-on, he'd whipped his cock out and beat off. Well, at least he wouldn't give me any shit about what I'd done now.
I was worried that the activity would wear Mike down, but the stimulation had just the opposite effect on him. I was able to get all the shots that Ernie wanted in the can within a few hours.
All in all, it had been a pretty gross experience, but I'd made the fastest money I had in some time. From what I hear, the picture had moderate success, not coming close to the original in sales, but still turning a tidy profit. But I never once regretted not taking a share of the profits, or getting involved in any other projects like that from then on in. As far as I was concerned-once was enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I really didn't have to worry about finances after I'd shot the porno flick for Ernie. Not that I got rich on it-I just got my flat salary, like I've said. But my agent turned up some really fantastic work for me in advertising soon after the dry spell, and I've been busy ever since.
For a change, it wasn't the association with Pussy that got me the work. My ad I'd done for the dishwashing product had come out and created a minor sensation. I was once again surprised at people's tastes, feeling that this ad, along with the drink layout I'd done for Ralph, vie for top honors on my list of poorly-done work.
But who's arguing? That little gem got me more work in New York than I'd ever dreamed possible. I got to travel to various locations around the world on some assignments; meet famous people; make more money than I knew what to do with; and established a reputation as a fine photographer, gaining recognition from many of my peers.
The last part was the best part for me. I'd really proved it to myself that I could make it. Oh, once in awhile I'd get panned by some jerk, but they usually didn't know what they were talking about-like the guy who insisted on calling me a photographess. That's why I joke about the word so much now. Imagine, trying to put a gender to it. One of the few occupations where they don't classify by a generic term, and he has to invent one because he feels so threatened by it. I suppose some of the other women photographers who have made it have had to go through the same shit, but it's not fair. You have to actually be better than a man by a long shot to make it, just the same as a black man and a white man competing for the same job. Probably the reason they never put a female tag on the word is that it never occurred to someone, way back whenever it was that they named it, that a female might someday actually take photographs.
But I'll back off the soap box for awhile, lest you think it was all a bummer. It was far from it. I've got to admit that it was really an ego-trip for me as I could hardly believe I'd made it so big. If I hadn't have made it, I wouldn't even be able to point out the negative effects of photography (no pun intended-O.K., so it was, so what?), for I wouldn't have a forum. And the only reason I point out such discriminations is in hopes of developing a positive alternative.
I took an apartment in New York since I was working there so much, keeping up my place in L.A. as well. My income jumped to a fantastic sixty-thousand that year, and it was all I could do to find a good investment counselor to take care of it for me. And the next year it got even better.
I started getting offers from good old Ralph again about this time, and I just put him off, digging on the satisfaction of having him where-I wanted. I finally did consent to do a layout for him, since his magazine was becoming more prestigious, but still not up to snuff of the other new magazines like Penthouse that had entered the field, cornering the market on above-the-counter kinkiness. I insisted that I do it on my terms, demanding three times the amount I used to get from him.
I was surprised when he agreed to it, so I offered a final kicker-he was to sell all the photos taken of me, with the exception of the original centerfold bit. I didn't have anything against the display of the nude body-I just didn't want him exploiting the shit out of me in the future, blackmailing me with those photos being run over and over again. I didn't really expect him to go along with this part, but he struck a compromise, offering me a fee about one-third less in exchange for the photo rights. He knew I could sell magazines, and he was willing to go this far to give it another try.
So I was locked into the deal. I agreed to let him show a small reproduction of the original centerfold as an intro to my photo/article, but warned him not to drum it up. I later learned that his feelings for me weren't so sentimental as I'd imagined. He'd sort of overextended himself with the various clubs, record companies and so forth, and he wanted to regroup his finances into the publishing end to pull himself out. In short, he'd tried to get too big too fast, and now he was facing other competition from would-be challengers to Hef's throne.
I did a very tasteful layout of nude models superimposed in nature settings, and he was very happy with it. Plus, I got the rights to the photos, and mainly the ego-trip of dealing with him on equal footing.
I did another layout for Pussy later on, this time getting the salary I demanded as he had no other negotiable items to hold over my head. I only wish I hadn't done that last thing for his new magazine, but that's a whole other story, one that I deal with later in this saga.
I made a lot of new friends during this period of my life, finally getting to travel to some far-off spots I'd dreamed about, often as part of a job, the particular agency I was working for at the time picking up the tab.
As the old saying goes, the busier you are the more you can take on. At a publisher's request, I began to collect some of my photographs together for a book. I used primarily shots I hadn't published before, special photographs that meant something special to me.
I finally got them all together, and when it was published I was amazed that I got such good reviews, being taken as a serious artistic photographer for the first time. The sales of the book was moderately good to boot, for a photographic book at any rate, and it was another feather in my cap. I had really been fortunate since leaving Pussy, with the exception of that one brief spell. I was recognized and making money besides, having the best of both worlds. It may sound like it all went to my head, but I assure you that I'm not so much bragging as downright amazed that I'd come so far. I had never hoped to even practice photography, much less become so successful at it.
My love life was rather full in those days. I had a brief fling with a famous ballet dancer while in New York, who shall remain nameless here. Just let me say to those of you who might scoff at the masculinity of men who dance ballet
-you're all wet. He was the most adept, the most vigorous, virile and well-hung man I've ever known. Many's the night that he outlasted me in the sack. There's probably no athlete in the world in better condition than a ballet dancer, so before you decide to call such men 'sissies,' you'd better think twice.
I had a somewhat longer-term relationship with a woman I met back there, a librarian I met at a party. We lived together for a number of years, Jean-that's her name-taking care of the New York apartment while I was in L.A.
She was several years older than me, a confirmed lesbian. While I did enjoy her expert love-making-she was really good with a vibrator-I began to tire of her jealous rages whenever I'd go out with another man or woman. She took to calling me in L.A., asking me who I was with, and she really became quite a bother. When I gave her the boot, she threatened to blackmail me, but I called her bluff and dared her to try. It wouldn't work now anyway, as she was going to exopse me as a bisexual, and I'm afraid this book pretty well opens that can of worms doesn't it? Not that I view it as being a can of worms, mind you.
Besides these two, I've had a constant variety of sexual partners all over the world. As I'm always on the move, I try not to get tied down.
My sister, having first been shocked by my lifestyle, has come around to understanding at least a part of me. I think it's my material success that's swayed her though, as I'm sure she and her husband (yes, she's still married to the same miserable man, leading the same dull life) don't approve of my activities outside of photography, and probably don't like some of them inside it. To those who seek to knock it, I can only say 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but fuck off.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Somewhere in that hectic schedule, I managed to squeeze in an assignment with a weekly national newsmagazine, my only attempt at photojournalism, and I hope, my last. I'd say never, except that word always has a way of turning around on me. Every time I vow to never do something ever again, I usually end up doing it. So I'll just let it suffice to say that I'm not looking forward to doing any more journalism stints.
'Why?' you may ask.
Glad you asked. Here goes:
This friend of mine in New York was a top editor for Headline magazine, one of the top weekly newsmagazines. At a party one night we got into discussing photojournalism. I was marveling that the photographers could come up with some of the photos they did what with the conditions they were taken under-split second action, riots and all. I was particularly praiseworthy of the men who'd done such service covering the Vietnam war.
Surprisingly, John, my friend who worked for the magazine told me that I could probably do a better job than nine-tenths of the newsmen he had on his staff my first time out. I tried to brush the remark off, but he was pretty much into his cups, insisting that this was the case.
"Sure some of the boys are good," he conceded, "but they're lucky most of the time. I mean you hang around a place where a newsworthy event is about to happen, you've got the situation for drama. And then you snap off about two roles of film of it, and then you might get a blurry, but dramatic photograph. But as far as composition . . . shit. These boys are a bunch of daredevils. To try and compare what they do with what you do, Donna (he was referring primarily to my book which had just been released), is like comparing a square dancer to a ballerina, a stock car jalopy racer to a Grand Prix Formula-One driver."
I broke in long enough to disagree with him, stating that each field had its particular merits, but to judge them one against the other is unfair.
"Unfair my ass," he fired back. "You both take pictures, don't you?"
"Yes, but. . . " and so it went, neither one of us able to get our point across to the other. I gave the matter little thought until he called me long-distance a few weeks later, once I was back in L.A.
"What you doing, Donna? Got something important?"
I did have to get some models together for a swimwear ad that I'd be shooting next week, but I admitted that I was enjoying one of my few light weekends other than that. But he reminded me of our discussion, telling me that he had an opportunity to prove to me he was right. . . about his thing about photographers.
I tried to put him off the subject, but he was really insistent, saying that he'd pay me this outrageous amount just to go cover this story that was breaking. I'd only have to go for a day, and I'd be paid whether I took a photo or not. But if I did, and it was accepted, he'd pay me double. It seemed he had this bet with a friend about it, and I really couldn't talk my way out of it, even though I wanted to.
He told me that I could go up with this guy named Paul, who ran the bureau in Los Angeles, then hung up before I even got a chance to find out what I'd be covering. I called Paul up, and he had been filled in on it. He was a very nice sounding gentleman with a deep Southern accent, and I do believe I would have stayed home if he hadn't used some polite persuasion on me, insisting that he didn't care about the photo assignment, but that he'd have hell to pay from our mutual friend in New York if I didn't go. There would be a regular Headline photographer on the scene, so they wouldn't be dependent on me for the photos. The whole thing was just to satisfy John's penchant for betting.
I packed up a small suitcase as Paul had warned me that we might have to spend a night there, and decided to take along one of my 35mm's just in case I decided to shoot for the hell of it. I didn't much like John's idea, but Paul had persuaded me that it might turn out to be fun. In fact, it was Paul that was the real reason I was going. If he turned out to be as sexy as the voice sounded over the phone, this would be something. Ordinarily, I don't follow whims like this, but since I had nothing special doing that weekend, I thought I'd give it a whirl.
Shit, I realized as I headed for the door when Paul rang, I don't even know where the fuck we're going!
It was true. I'd gotten so hung up arguing with John, then being gently crooned by Paul's voice, that I'd forgotten to even ask where we were off to. A fine reporter I'd make. I hadn't gotten the 'what,' or 'where,' but I'd gotten the 'who.' I really didn't care who the star attraction was at whatever the fuck place we were going. I just was hoping that Paul would turn out to be as nice as he sounded. I'd been busting my ass on this straight gig for over a week, and hadn't had a good lay in an even longer time. The idea of a stranger appealed to me every once in awhile, and from the way Paul talked on the phone, the honey literally dripping into the receiver, I had the distinct feeling that he might be game himself. I just had to see if he fit the bill, and as I walked to the door, I kept my fingers crossed.
"I'm Paul," smiled the handsome stranger offering me his hand when I opened the door. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. My, you're everything John said you were . . . and much more."
I was so flattered that I could hardly speak-this man was not only handsome, he was perfect. He had a deep tan that went well with his jet black hair, salted with just a touch of gray. Around forty. Tall and lean. The biggest grin you've ever seen in your life-bingo.
He helped me carry my suitcase down to the car and we were off. He drove steadily, heading east from L.A. along the San Bernardino Freeway. He wore a light blue dress shirt and a rep tie, but he wore it casually . . . with grace.
I don't usually remember that many details about someone, but Paul is a special person in my life. As we talked, I began to ease up somewhat, realizing that he found me every bit as attractive as I did him, and why shouldn't he?
"I don't know about this assignment," he told me. "It could have been covered by our regular reporters. In fact, they're already up there . . . or down there, or whatever. If John hadn't insisted that I act as your personal bodyguard, I wouldn't be here. But I'll have to say, now that I see you, I'm glad I gave up my weekend at the beach."
I told him that I was glad to come along, but that I really had been forced into it by John. I admitted that I was going to call it off until I heard his voice.
Suddenly it dawned on us-that fucker. He'd set us up. He'd gone through all that elaborate ritual just to get us together. He was one of those guys who was unhappily married, but was always trying to get other people into the same rut. He'd always been asking me when I'd get married, and Paul told me he did the same thing with him. Paul had been divorced for six or seven years, and had fathered one son. We couldn't really prove it . . . not yet, but we had more than a sneaking hunch that he'd set this whole thing up for that reason.
"Well, I'm not so hot about marriage," I confided, "But I do like the idea of meeting up with you-whatever the circumstances."
Paul told me as much as the same, adding, "We ought to rig something up to blow his mind. Send back some picture dummied up of us being kidnapped or something."
"My," I fretted. "You mean this place is full of dangerous things."
"Not really," he said, "but it could be rough.
That's for the cub reporters to handle, not us." We'd gotten close enough to the Imperial Valley that we decided to take a look anyway. The story concerned a group of migrant farm workers who were trying to set up a picket of a cucumber field. It seemed that their leader, Cesar Ensalada, had run out of just about every vegetable to strike except the cucumber. He really wasn't trying to strike for better pay and working conditions-he wanted to wipe out all vegetables because he hated them. As a child, young Cesar was forced to clean his plate of all the vegetables, and now he was getting back at them.
"I feel we're going to succeed this time," he had told a reporter before the strike began. "Some day the man won't be around the house and the wife goes to the kitchen . . . no cucumbers. It could be a tragedy."
By the time we got there, the whole thing was over, the deputies having broken things up. The other Headline reporters had split for parts unknown, but we weren't really concerned with the story anyway. All the same, I got out and took a few shots of a cucumber that was lying in the road, telling Paul that he could send it to John and provide the caption.
"Well," he drawled, "why don't we find the nearest motel to get out of this heat, and maybe we can think of something."
I was all for it. We ended up driving all the way to Palm Springs before finding a suitable motel, but we wanted to do it in style. I was hoping that we could work out a good caption for John to go with my picture of the cucumber. Neither one of us were in the least bit angry at him. We just wished that he'd come up with an easier way for us to meet, rather than dragging us out into the terrible heat. And yet it did appeal to our senses of adventure.
Paul and I didn't have bathing suits with us, so we decided to cool off with a nice cold mutual shower.
"Might as well get to know each other," he smiled. "I've got a feeling this friendship's going to last a long time."
I hoped so. He surprised me by breaking out a joint and firing it up, taking a hit, then passing it to me.
"I hope you don't object," he smiled.
Well, you never know who's going to be turning on these days-he could have fooled me. But that only made it better. It was really good grass, and I was completely ripped after a few hits.
"Shower time," Paul called out, stripping off his pants and shirt, exposing a sleek, tanned frame that should have belonged to a man fifteen years his junior. He ripped off his shorts, exposing the fact that he'd gotten a little turned-on, thinking about me.
Well, as long as he wasn't shy, I could see no reason why I should be. I stripped down quickly and followed him into the bathroom, where he was already in the shower.
"Whew," he grinned, staring hard at my body as I stepped in.
And that's the last thing either one of us said for several minutes. We soaped each other down real good, the feel of each other's hands in the tingle of the cool shower spray getting us so worked up that we couldn't continue without balling.
We grabbed each other, our hands gripping hard so as not to let go of the slippery flesh. He walked me up against the cool tiles of the shower wall, bending down from the knees so he could give it to me standing up.
His prick was standing out from his body at a thirty degree angle, measuring backwards from the stomach. The other way it was, let's see . . . oh, I never was much good at math. But I knew enough to know that he had a good eight inches, the angle of the dangle being equal to the heat of the meat.
I spread my legs so that he could shove that big mother of his up there. I felt my body shiver as he entered me, pushing up inside my tenderest regions. And then he lifted me up in his strong hands, pinning my back against the wall for support. Somehow, as slippery as we were with soap and sweat, I knew he wouldn't let me fall.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and hooked them together above the ankles, as his strong hands cupped my smooth asscheeks hard. And then we began humping, fucking at each other with the wildest abandon I'd ever known.
My tits bounced against his chest as he kissed at my ears and shoulders. The spray bounced off his back, making little rivulets of soap run down our skin as he worked his hips up into me, making his prick do just what he wanted.
When we came, I had to hold on for dear life, but somehow he managed to set me down softly. I think we screwed each other in every way known to man that night, and on into a second night. We were both sort of down having to return to the great blanket of brown smog that Monday, but we decided to see each other as often as possible. I hadn't met a man like this since . . . well to be honest, I'd never met a man like Paul before. It was really a great experience.
Once in Los Angeles, we ran off a copy of the cucumber and wired it to John in New York. All it said was: "Thanks for the memories, Paul and Donna." We just couldn't bring ourselves to knock him after what he'd done for us.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Against my better judgment, I took on another assignment for Ralph Baljoni last year. This time it was me who initiated the action, although it wasn't from need of money. I'd still been getting the good assignments, and I didn't really need Ralph anymore. But when he started putting out this magazine called Macho, that was supposedly aimed at women, I saw red.
I showed the first issue to Paul one night, and after he'd leafed through it he agreed that it was a misrepresentation, although it offended me more than it did him. I'm not saying that Paul's against the feminist movement, it's just that he is so sure of his masculinity, he doesn't really get behind porn one way or the other. He has always treated women with respect, and is coming along at treating them equally as well.
"Why don't you do something about it," he calmly advised me. "You worked for the guy, you can do something a little stronger than a letter-to-the-editor."
The next day, Paul left on a special assignment and I gave what he'd said a little more thought. He and I were seeing a lot of each other by this time, but we still were free to go our way if we wanted. I'd grown to respect his work, finding out from associates of his (as he was never one to talk about his past accomplishments) that he had covered the whole civil rights thing in the South in the early sixties, and had been awarded several times.
But to get back to my problem. I had a few days off for a rest, but I could see that this new insult to women from Pussy was too much. I'd begun to believe more strongly in the women's movement by this time, but I couldn't really say that I'd felt exploited by men's magazines as it had led to somewhere for me, although I could see a lot of women, particularly those who had husbands that expected their wives to look like the plastic centerfolds, had a legitimate beef about them.
My own point was, we had such things as Ms. and so on, so why shouldn't we have a woman's porn magazine ? Oh, Cosmo tried to get cute with the centerfold of Burt Reynolds, but why couldn't we have a magazine that dealt with men the same way Pussy had dealt with women? A class magazine with articles aimed at women, but featuring a little beefcake.
And then a couple of the second-place slicks tried to come out with their versions of such a magazine. But even without having worked for such an organization as the one that published Macho (I deal with them since I'd worked for them and might have been able to suggest some changes), a woman could tell that these rags were written by men, and would appeal primarily to men. They just wanted to bring the girls into the same world as Pussy, but the basic concept was wrong-men were writing most of it, editing it, behind the entire idea. Even the letters-to-the-editor were phony. And to top it off, Mr. B. himself is writing the editorial, trying to come off as some big spokesman to straddle the fence between the Chauvinists and the Feminists.
That was really what got to me. He didn't even have enough balls to be a Chauvinist.. . he was a neuter at best. And he only had one woman on the whole staff, and I could tell it was a dummy position, probably doing paste-up. Even Pussy had more girls listed on the masthead.
So I picked up the phone and had it out with Ralph. He was really surprised and disappointed that I was offended, so he had me come down. He still respected my opinion, only so far as he still considered me one of his star 'girls,' who'd gone out and made it big.
But once in the office, I let him know what I thought of the magazine, tearing it down page-by-page. He listened intently, but I could tell that he wasn't pleased with my overly-frank opinions. When I started laying into him about the fact that there was a girl in the centerfold with the man, and that it showed her in full-frontal nudity, while showing him from the back, he spoke up and told me that this was one area they were changing.
"In fact," he managed to squeeze in, "I agree with you on this. You're not the only one who's complained, and so we decided to run a nude male, full-front in an upcoming issue. In fact, why don't you shoot it?"
I turned it down at first, but was dumb enough to let him talk me into volunteering my services for about half my normal fee. But it did give me a chance to help change things, I realized, so why not?
I wasn't too ecstatic about the theme they'd chosen, calling the guy 'Golden Boy,' but I'd see what I could do. The shooting was set up at a studio of my choosing at my insistence. Since I was doing this for such a small fee, I had to have integrity, so I'd drawn a clause into my contract that gave me final approval of the layout.
I think 'Golden Boy' was pretty shocked at first, upon finding that a woman would be shooting the spread. I could see why they called him that, he was a natural blonde with wavy hair and a beard, a real muscle beach type. I was about to think he was a homo until he spoke to me.
"I'm Rick," he offered nervously. "I can see that things have come full circle."
That they had, I agreed. Here he was a distortion of maleness in the same way most of the girl centerfolds had been distortions of femininity-and to top it off, a female photographer would be shooting it.
We relaxed for awhile, as I adjusted the lights on the seamless backdrop, and checked my camera. I'd be shooting with a 4X5 today, so it would be a little more expensive than usual. But this was becoming a pet project of mine. Sort of my contribution to the movement.
He was very easy to pose, and I got my color shots first. I got a few black-and-whites once I was satisfied I'd gotten enough color, realizing that most of the rest of the spread would be shot outside on the following day-I wanted to get a natural feeling into it, but it was rainy outside this day.
I found myself becoming attracted to his oversized muscles as I put him through his paces, and realized that it had been quite a time since Paul had left. Although I was done with my shooting, I kept posing him and reposing him, going over to guide him into the next position between shots, or faked shots. I did this for several minutes, maybe longer, until he caught me at it.
"Excuse me," he said when I went over beside him to show him another pose, "but why aren't you taking the pictures anymore? I do some photography and . . . "
I don't think I heard the rest of what he said. I turned beet-red in embarrassment-busted.
"That's all right," he smiled, running a hand around my back. "I guess you just wanted to see a little more of me, huh?"
No use denying it. I tried to blurt out an excuse, but he put a finger over my lips. He knew what I was up to, so he told me to just follow him. He unbuttoned my clothing very deliberately and then stood and looked at me.
"Damn, you look like a centerfold yourself," he smiled, gazing at my nudity.
"I was," I admitted.
"Well, shit," he said in his good-natured but distinctly rural manner. "Maybe we should make some centerfold babies . . . or pretend to."
I was waiting. He finally got his mind un-tracked and lifted me high over his head, kissing at my tits and belly. God, he was strong, I marveled, hoping he wouldn't drop me. But he had me put my legs over his massive shoulders and he ate me out while standing. It was a first for me . . . you see, it's never to late. A bit of acrobatic sex.
The rest of it was more conventional, Rick balling me on the floor, then I think I blew him, and then it was the other way around, with him eating me. I'm not exactly sure of the sequence-only that one thing stands out since it was so unusual. I've blocked out most of the session because, though fairly recent, it was so painful to me. Not from Rick's standpoint-he was just a big, not-so-bright, muscle-bound kid. No, the evil shades of Ralph Baljoni are all over this one.
The problem came up due to the fact that I was in a car wreck on the way home from the studio that day, and one of his other photographers shot the exteriors the following day (Jim had been smart enough to quit long ago), as I was laid up with a broken leg. It was a good thing that I'd gotten the approval clause, because when I got the brown-lines and saw what had happened to 'Golden Boy,' I really freaked.
I got on the horn to Ralph right away, screaming at him until his ears must have hurt. There were two girls with Rick in the outdoor scenes, and if that weren't bad enough, they'd done a piss-poor cropping job of my color shot, a girl posed in front of him so that his cock didn't show.
I threatened to sue if he printed them with my name on them, so he finally backed down. That fucking magazine is still as bad as ever. I'll never work for that sneaky cocksucker again. And you want to hear something really rich? One that'll frost your balls? He called me up with the idea for the biography on me a few months later. The fucking nerve! Trying to figure out another way of exploiting the fact I'd been Miss May clear back when.
And then it came to me . . . to do an autobiography. Sure. Only I could say what I want. Even dedicate it. By all means, a dedication:
Here, Mr. B., is your biography.
EPILOGUE
I don't want to leave you with the impression that I'm hostile about things-I'm not. The thing with Mr. Baljoni was a long time coming, and was a way of getting my therapeutic kicks in at him for exploiting me for so long-he even found a way to work that original centerfold (the only one he still has rights to) onto his New Year's cover last year, mixed in with a lot of other such centerfolds, thankfully. But as my growing feminine awareness has grown, I have felt it a duty to tell that story the way it was.
I bear no grudges otherwise. A new book of my photos came out last fall, outselling the first one. I'm still busy as hell doing ads, magazine layouts . . . you name it.
I've had a full, rich life and I'm only thirty. Marriage? I really wonder. Paul and I have a beautiful relationship, but we're afraid that marriage would spoil it. We're both married to our careers in a sense, and I'm fearful that we would have a lot of trouble fitting two large egos like ours into a marriage contract. We'll see. As for now, we get it on whenever possible, our schedules keeping us apart quite a bit.
We both make it with other people when we're apart, an agreement we've come to since we're both slightly oversexed. Actually, it would be hard for me to imagine an ideal situation, come to think of it. I've already been living it, give or take a few knocks from reality, for so long it feels like it could go on this way forever.
