by Sansa Rayne
As we march toward her, my heart thumps inside my chest. I wipe off my brow, eyes wide in surprise.
I’m nervous, I realize.
I can’t remember the last time approaching a woman made me sweat. Probably since I met Chase, and learned from him both what to do, and what not.
“Ms. Isaacs,” I say, getting her attention when we’re close. She looks up to see us, barely suppressing the distaste on her face. “I’d like to speak with you a minute, if you’re free.”
She nods, slipping a hand into her purse; pepper spray or a rape whistle, perhaps? Or just her phone to call for a ride? Either way, I hold my hands up in front of me, hoping to show I mean no harm.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“My name’s Pierce Williams, of Pierce Williams Productions. This is my associate, Chase.”
She narrows her eyes for a second, searching for a something; then they go wide in recognition.
“Actually, I’ve heard of you. The answer is no.”
Damn.
I should accept that most of New York knows my name, and the work I do. It’s not an easy identity to escape. Still, I throw on a grin and try to act innocent. “I didn’t ask you anything.”
Sibel snorts, taking a step back. “Hey, I’m not an idiot. You want me for your website, don’t you?”
Shit.
“Well, I just thought we’d talk. Maybe we could design a project that we’d all benefit from.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think so,” she says, forcing a polite smile. She waves to the woman who helped her out during the show, a friend or an assistant I assume, and the woman heads over. “Despite what you may think of me-”
“Just that you’re very talented, and beautiful,” I cut in.
“Thank you. But, I’m an artist, not a porn star, Mr. Williams. And since I don’t want people to think of me as a porn star, the last thing I want to do is be in one of your fucked up videos.”
Before I have a chance to reply, she darts past me, toward her friend. Together they head off for the entrance of the gallery’s staff room. Sibel takes one last look at me, probably to make sure I’m not following, and then she’s gone.
I turn to Chase, expecting him to give me shit for fucking that up, but he’s staring off into the space Sibel occupied before disappearing.
“Sorry, man,” I say. “I tried.”
He shakes his head. “Not hard enough.”
Part of me wants to argue, because what else could I have done? But I agree with him, or at least that’s how I feel. “You think I should try again?”
“Yeah, Pierce, I do. She thinks she’s too good for us. Don’t you want to show her she’s wrong?”
I don’t respond at first, unsure of how to voice the conflict in my mind. If Sibel considers herself above my line of work, I don’t care, or even disagree — but I don’t like the reductive idea she and everyone else has of me. Maybe that’s why I came to Galleria Carnale tonight.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Chase nudges my shoulder, pointing me toward the door. “Show’s over,” he says. “We working tonight?”
It’s a Friday. Prime time for us to find some fresh talent.
Shit.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a text: Hey, how’s business?
After a minute, I get a reply: Come see for yourself.
“All right,” I tell Chase. “Let’s go.”
—
Cigarette stink lingers in the still, humid air outside The Gulag. It’s hot for late spring, so we ditch our jackets and ties. A dozen men and women loiter around the entrance, rather than suffer the swelter inside. Several recognize Chase and I as we approach. I clap a few backs as we pass by, but we don’t stop.
Behind the bar, Olga sweats through her white tank top. She’s not wearing a bra beneath it, and it’s a pretty good look for her. She’s drawing attention to her tits, but I’ve seen them before; when I catch the look on her face, I see the prettiness in her relieved half-grin. If she let her hair out of its bun and worked a little on her eyebrows, she’d look as good as any of the women in my videos.
“Shots or beers?” she asks us in her mild accent, putting away her phone.
“Beers to start,” I reply with a wink. “You said to come see. What are we looking for?”
Olga pours two pints of Busch and punches them into our tab. “Saw a new girl here tonight. Looks like she’s got some experience.”
“Where’s she now?” Chase asks, wasting no time.
“On a job. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
“Story of my life,” says Chase.
She nods at us, then gets back to serving others. We drink up, Chase checking out every female with the subtlety of a charging elephant. When we finish our beers, we get the same idea as everyone else and head back outside, where it’s relatively cooler. We’re joking with a pair of taxi drivers when I hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, Pierce! What’s going on?”
We turn at the same time to see Yasmin sauntering toward us. Dressed in a hot purple miniskirt and a matching tube top, with a white, fake fur stole draped over her shoulders, she grins through a well-chewed wad of bubblegum.
“Whatcha doing? You shooting something?” she continues, ignoring Chase, eyes fixed on me.
“Not tonight,” Chase cuts in. “We’re here for the fresh face.”
“Not talking to you, cock,” she snaps, her lips dropping in disappointment, though she doesn’t stop chewing. “That true?” she asks me.
I exhale audibly. “Yeah, kinda. It’s nothing personal, Yaz. We’ve worked with you a lot lately. Subscribers want someone new.”
“Don’t give me that,” she says, spitting the gum onto the pavement and mashing it in with her heel. “Someone or some thing. Find a new venue, and put me in it.”
That’s fair. She’s one of my best performers. Her videos get plenty of views. “I will,” I say. “But you know I can’t do that tonight, okay?”
“Yeah,” she agrees, fetching a fresh stick from her purse. “You promise?”
“Definitely.”
Chase scoffs, twisting around.
“Okay, cool. And hey, if you want to have a little fun off-camera…” she offers. “Make me come, and I won’t charge.”
“Tempting,” I tease. “Very. Fucking. Tempting.”
I feel bad for Yasmin. With the right breaks in life, she could’ve been more than this. She’s smarter than she acts, and has a kind soul. She’s not an addict, and her looks could have gotten her top modeling jobs back in her prime.
“Just let me know, Hollywood,” she says, squeezing my shoulder as she struts by.
“Will do.”
We follow her back into the bar for our second round. Olga tells us about a drunk she had to throw out before we arrived, and Chase laughs so hard, beer dribbles from his nose. She asks why we showed up so late tonight, and Chase describes our visit to Galleria Carnale in cringing detail.
“So, you like this Sibel chick?” Olga jokes, baiting Chase. Before he can answer, her arm flies out to point at the door. “There. That’s the new girl.”
“Thanks very much,” Chase says, abandoning his half-finished glass.
I give Olga a nod and follow closely. The woman Olga pointed to leans against the wall by the door, skinny arms hanging limply at her sides. Pale, short and almost boyish in figure, she looks a little malnourished or strung out; I could write her off, but her looks don’t seem to bother Chase.
Maybe Sibel’s show really got him going. If so, I’m not complaining.
This woman’s last outing must have been quite the chore, leaving her blonde curls in complete disarray, and her smoky eyeliner running. Crimson lipstick free of smudging suggests she either doesn’t allow kissing or her client didn’t bother, which suits our needs just fine. Our videos aren’t known for promoting intimacy.
She tries to slip back outside when she sees us, but it’s too late: Chase slams his palm
against the frame and reaches for her hand. She turns, eluding his grasp, but is still blocked from the exit.
“Goddamnit, Olga!” she shouts over the din of the bar. “I told you I wasn’t interested in working with them!”
“Ouch,” I say. “At least wait until you’ve met us.”
“No need. I’ve seen what you do. You two are fucking sick.” She stalks past us, back to the bar, freezing Olga in place. “I told you, I don’t want to be in movies!”
I set a hand on Chase’s shoulder before walking calmly toward the arguing women; Chase reads the signal clearly and hangs back in wait.
“Olga, get her a drink. And one for me,” I say, projecting my voice through their chatter. “I’m Pierce, by the way.”
The woman sighs. “Vanessa.”
“Vanessa, what’s the matter? I’m sure I can set your mind at ease about my work.”
Olga puts down a pair of shots of something clear, throwing Vanessa a scowl.
She pounds the shot before saying, “Your work? What you do to women… It’s disgusting.”
“Go on.”
“And degrading.”
I could point out the irony, but I hold my poker face. After a second, she gets it.
“Yeah, yeah. What I do’s different.”
“If that’s what you think,” I say, taking my shot. “I’d argue the main difference is the pay grade. Our models make more in a day than you do in a week. And we film any day, any time, leaving you free to work the bars at night, on the weekends — whenever.”
Somewhere behind her pale blue eyes, a crack cuts through the ice of her resolve. “How much?”
“Two grand.”
Vanessa turns away, her body shaking as she chokes something back.
“Are you all right?”
She nods. I get up and fish a business card from my pocket. “I run a professional operation. Clean, safe — legal.” I drop the card onto the bar, next to her purse. “Think about it.”
I don’t wait for her to agree. There’s no need to be aggressive. We’re not going to shoot anything tonight, and I know she can’t or won’t turn down that much money.
She’ll call soon, and I’ll be ready.
Every morning after a show, I wake up thinking about theater companies from generations past, who would party until dawn after opening night, waiting for tomorrow’s papers to arrive with the show’s reviews. Forget the audience — what did the critics think? Validation from the audience was nice, but you hadn’t truly made it until the professional appreciators gave their stamp of approval.
It’s easy to romanticize that night of wait, full of wine and camaraderie. Wouldn’t it be scary if the audience departed after a round of polite applause and dissatisfied murmuring, knowing that the guillotine blade was about to fall? What if you were the star, about to possibly get singled out for ruining what may have otherwise been a competent production?
So when I reach for my phone at nearly noon after a long night’s rest, I’ve had neither the fun nor the terror that comes with the wait. Instead, it hits me all at once while the pages load.
What if they don’t get it?
What if they get it, but disregard sex as a medium of expression?
What if they are so dismissive, they decline to acknowledge my work altogether?
I know I shouldn’t care what they think, that I’m not doing this for them. Easy to say, but I’ve never not believed it. I know I attract admirers, but have any of the art scene cognoscenti staked their reputations to openly laud my efforts? Not so much.
“Sibel may relish in inviting controversy, but she gets her point across with aplomb.”
Nice, but this is from an art blogger I’ve never heard of.
“Is Sibel’s concupiscent pageantry an act of convincing simulation, or miraculously potent eroticism? Who can say for sure?”
Oh, I can say for sure, you pretentious dweeb. Yes, I can come on command. I’ve said so in dozens of interviews. No, I’m not lying.
“Ms. Isaacs’ blunt portrayal of the commodification of women and sex was a visceral reminder that though the problem may be identifiable in the twenty-first century, addressing the issue falls woefully short in most instances.”
Hey, all right! Thank you!
“If that’s how she gets off on her own, imagine if she got some dick for once?”
Yeah, that’s why you don’t read the comments section.
To my disgust, I’m reminded of Pierce Williams and his goonish associate. Pornographers have approached me before, but never literally, in person, at a fucking art gallery. That was new.
The way he smiled at me… he’s handsome, I admit. From just looking at him, you’d never know he’s such an exploitative shitheel.
Unable to escape my curiosity, I pull up the site for Pierce Williams Productions and browse through it a while. It’s clearly doing well: regular updates, tons of fan interaction, a massive back catalog available for purchase…
Fuck me.
The material is kinda hot.
Like a gambling addict pulling the slot machine lever, I load up one preview clip after another. Teases of torment and abuse send shivers through my core, eliciting the fantasies I’ve pretended aren’t mine: being rendered powerless, confined or restrained, incapable of escape.
Submitting to a man strong enough to take me and sick enough to use me.
It’s wrong, but as I’ve long known, I’m a bit of a freak. At least I try to keep it to myself, unlike Pierce.
Forget about him, I think, willing my mind back into my reading.
After a couple hours of scouring the web, I’ve read all I care to. I try to shake from my mind the dismissals and focus on the raves, of which I read several. Unable to hold off my curiosity any longer, I load up my laptop and locate the video files created last night.
I open a box of chocolates that had been left for me as a gift at the gallery. Dark and rich, the deluxe candy melts on my tongue as I slowly savor each one to the sights and sounds of my performance.
Licked fingers make their way down my body, slipping into my panties. With all six videos playing at once, I see what the world saw yesterday, except I can fill in the sensory blanks. I remember how the money felt underneath me, the aromas of perfume, cologne and wine — the spectators constantly watching, reacting.
Oh, fuck.
Throbbing for release, I rub faster. Screams echo through my empty apartment until I hit my peak and ride a wave of bliss that leaves me swimming in dizziness and warmth.
You’re such a freak, I think to myself as I stumble across the room and collapse into bed. Yeah, so what?
—
Waking from a nap after an hour, still feeling a mild ache of desire, I force myself to shower and dress. I’ve got dinner plans with Steph later.
Now that I’ve enjoyed the fun half of a post-performance Saturday, I get to the shitty one: blocking Facebook users that sent condemnations and blatant hookup requests, and reporting those who send threats. Rinse and repeat for Twitter, for all the good it does.
Then comes the adult video pirate sites, where my performances inevitably end up until I send a takedown request. I’m happy to share footage of my work online, but only through authorized channels. Being an artist doesn’t exclude me from having to make a living.
This leads to my “reward” for attacking the unpleasant jobs: checking my e-mail for my so-called company, which helps keep a layer of separation between my private life and the outside world. For a while I sift through solicitations from photographers in need of a model. I’d rather be preparing for my next gallery appearance, but modeling isn’t so bad. Good pay, good exposure.
I’ve had worse jobs.
I reply to the requests from contacts I recognize first, checking my calendar and arranging dates. Then I research the newcomers, visiting their sites and browsing their portfolios. Most are serious requests from established professionals, but a few amateurs sneak in every time. They may very well be
genuine, but I don’t even consider them: they can’t pay well enough, and it’s too much risk for someone like me.
Finishing the last letter, I realize time has gotten away from me and I’m on the edge of being late for dinner if I don’t move. Rain softly taps my windows, so I throw an oatmeal hoodie on over my St. Vincent shirt, grab my purse and head out.
Nine times out of ten, Steph and I meet at A La Pizza in Alphabet City. It’s always been a dive, but when we started going in high school, it wasn’t so full of hipsters. Then again, the pizza’s better now, so I’m not complaining.
Despite my hood drawn tight to my skull, or perhaps because of it, Steph spots me right away and waves me to our booth. “Sorry I’m late,” I say as I drop onto the hard bench. My stomach rumbles from the overwhelming smell of sweet sauce and oregano.
“It’s fine. Been busy today?”
I smirk. “The usual. You?”
“Reading, mostly. I skipped lunch. You hungry?”
“Absolutely.”
We get up so we can place our orders: two plain slices for her, two mushroom slices for me. It’s my turn to pay, so I do. While eating, Steph grumbles about having to study for the bar exam, which she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
“Like, it makes me think I’d rather just not be a lawyer. I mean, I’ve already decided I don’t want to be a trial lawyer. Speaking before all those people… I can’t imagine. I’d be terrified.”
“You don’t think you’d get used to it?”
Steph’s nose crinkles as she shakes more red pepper flakes onto her slice. “Maybe. Is that what happened with you?”
“Not really. Stage fright… wasn’t really a problem for me.” It turns out, it’s easy to conquer your fears if you don’t give a shit about anything.
Tires squealed as he slammed the brakes and angled his Jaguar toward the curb.
This is it, I thought as the passenger side window rolled down. Go say hello.
But I didn’t move. My feet felt glued to the sidewalk and I swallowed down acid. Through the window I could see the outline of his face turned toward me.
“Hey, have I got the wrong idea or something?” he asks.
What’s with the hesitation, Sibel? I asked myself. Isn’t this who you are? Isn’t it what you are?
